You'll Never Be as Frustrated With George R.R. Martin as He Is With Himself
In April 2011, in conjuction with the premiere of HBO's then-risky-seeming series Game of Thrones, the New Yorker did a New Yorker–sized profile on George R.R. Martin called "Just Write It!" The author's New Jersey origins and latter-day habitat—Westeros and the lands of A Song of Ice and Fire—were discussed, but a noteworthy portion of the piece went to the GRRM haters.
A well-trafficked forum called Is Winter Coming? exists to disparage and denounce Martin for his long gaps between series installments; it's a popular, hyper-demanding complaint. At its core is the fear that Martin, 67, will die or quit before finishing a tale that's already taken readers on a 4,000-page journey.
The interim since Book Five, A Dance with Dragons, hits the five-year mark this July. That will equal the furthest stretch between novels, the 2000-2005 gap from A Storm of Swords to A Feast for Crows. Dance came at the end of Game of Thrones' first season; since then, four seasons have come and gone, barreling all the way to the brink of several key cliffhangers at the last book's end.
On the second day of 2016, Martin took to his LiveJournal to officially announce that The Winds of Winter will not be published before the show's sixth arc starts up this April. The show born from a saga that started 15 years beforehand will now eclipse the source material, forging its own ending and terrifying spoiler-phobic readers everywhere. Publishing Winds this spring was almost certainly Martin's final chance to keep up, and it's been extinguished.
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