Yes. I hate you, George R.R. Martin.
You write the longest damn novels I have ever seen. Novels that are filled with more death, destruction, and despair than I have ever cared to expose myself to. There is no hope to be found. Anywhere. You kill off my favorite characters with wild abandon like it’s your most favorite thing in the world to do. Your writing is borderline pornographic in places; and if I have to read one more sentence about a glistening manhood, I am going to have to gouge my eyes out with a comb just like Oedipus Rex.
But I don’t hate you for any of those reasons.
I hate you because I am masochistically addicted to your porn-filled-despairing-death novels. And because you have somehow brainwashed half the country into encouraging me to read and finish your terribly long book series.
Tell me something. How does one write a seven-volume series comprised of 1000+ page novels? Moreover, how does one publish three 1000+ novels in four years?* Your dedication, it is crazy.
Reading your novels is like climbing Mt. Everest barefoot, wearing a swimsuit, and carrying a rabid squirrel: impossibly long, difficult, torturous, and frustrating.
But I will continue to do so until this series ends. Because sometimes I finish what I start. And because I enjoy commiserating with my literary-minded friends who have also read the books.
That’s your legacy, Mr. Martin. You’ve made a series that brings people together to talk about how frustrated they are with you. You’ve taken the phrase “rock bottom” to new lows. It’s nearly admirable how you lavish your characters with misfortune.
Are you brilliant? Absolutely. You’ve weaving a complicated story with a ton of characters. Dedicated? Yes. Hardworking? Obviously.
But I just cannot like your books. Which is a problem because I am honor bound to finish them. And I have to find out what happens to Arya Stark.
Probably death at the jaws of her own direwolf. That seems like something that would happen.
*Martin published the first three novels of the A Song of Ice and Fire series in 1996, 1999, and 2000. I don’t even know how he published two of them in two years. He must have lived off of coffee beans and distilled caffeine to have the time to write that much.