Why George R R Martin Sucks

I’m not falling for your pinchable face anymore you evil bastard.

Hi George.  Can I call you George?  No?  Cool.  George it is.

I’m here to tell you why you suck.  Doubtless you’ve heard it before, but you’ve never heard it from me.  Because I’ve been a huge supporter and a fan.  Not as long as others, for sure.  Long enough.

Yes, I’ve read your books.  But I’m not here to tell you that you suck because I want the next books to come out immediately.  I want them to come out, of course.  Or rather, I did.  I wanted them to be good, not fast, though.  So I was more than happy to have you take your time.  Make it good, make it count, I always said.  Actually, I never said that.  And I’m not going to say it now.

I watched the first season of Game of Thrones on HBO.  It was fine.  I didn’t understand why so many people went bonkers over it given how much was cut out.  As difficult as the books could be to follow, they at least had the details to make actions seem understandable.  The series seemed to skip all that motivation and justification material and replace it with a lot of boobies.  Which probably kept people from asking too many questions.

Halfway through season 2 I stopped watching.  Because I knew what was going to happen and I could afford to wait.  No rush for me, I was years ahead by reading all five of your books.  Or so I thought.

But then you changed, George.  Your writing pace seemed to get slower.  “No book this year,” your editor proudly announced in January.  That was a dick move.  I don’t know what I’ll be doing for all of this year, but I also don’t know what I won’t be doing.  Couldn’t it be an option to, you know, finish a book that you’ve been working on for four years?  They put on an entire Olympic Games since then, George.  Summer and Winter.  And I know how much you like those Winter Games.

I get it, you’ve been busy.  Busy writing short stories about side characters or more side characters or oh my god even more friggin side characters?  You even wasted time working on a book of backstory and maps.  And normally that’d be all well and good.  Do what you want, I always say.  Well, rarely say.

Except you made a deal for a TV show, George.  And that TV show doesn’t take multi-year breaks.  You knew it could catch up and yet you continued to work on all these side projects.

And now it’s confirmed that the TV show is going to spoil the books.  Confirmed.

Hell no.  We had a deal, George.  I read your massive books, I kept characters names straight and looked them up when I needed.  I put up with your killing my favorites and bringing them back only to kill them again.  That was mean, George.

And I didn’t talk.  I spoiled nothing.  Nothing!  I kept my damn mouth shut so your new fangled TV fans, those fickle beasts, wouldn’t get upset and could still have their viewing parties and then I would tolerate their “OHMYGOD THE RED WEDDING!  NOBODY COULD HAVE PREDICTED THAT!” rants when we knew for years.  YEARS, GEORGE!  

We did that for you.  I did that for you.  And you repay me by favoring those fans over me?  You repay me by giving up and letting the TV show spoil the books?  THE TV SHOW IS GOING TO SPOIL THE BOOKS?!

And what’s the last straw?  The very last middle finger to the people who actually cared about your work before it had boobies in it?  You aren’t even working harder to finish the books.  You aren’t telling people that you’ll work hard, that you’re sorry, that you’ll finish as soon as you can or you’ll write a different ending for the books from the TV show or anything that would prove you care about your reading fans.

No.  You’re developing a brand new show for HBO.  An indulgent piece of crap about a science fiction writer.

Screw you, George.  Go climb the Wall and jump off.