An Open Letter

To George R. R. Martin

Author of 'Song of Ice and Fire'

'Thappireth.'

Okay, I give you that, you can do very clever things in your saga…and then you proceed to sodomize women, kill off or ruin with sadistic glee every decent character, blatantly skullfuck—repeatedly—your readers with bait-and-switch storylines that become both wearying and openly pointless page-padding fluff; and worst of all, every time so much as an ant crosses someone's path you stop to go, "Oh, look at this fuckin' magnificent ant crossing these artsy bullshit hills I broadly described five pages ago. Cha-ching, cha-ching, fifty cents a word, bietches!"

Not to say I'm being critical. More like if I was your editor, which I doubt you have now, I'd hand you a hatchet with somber dutifulness about me, and tell you, "George, sometimes when you love something, there comes a time in a man's life he has to do hard things for its own good." I can imagine your sniffling now. "Now is one of those times, George." Pat, pat. "Go out back, George. Do your duty, my author. It'll be over before you know it." Head hung, you go out.

A tragedy of hours later, red-faced from tears, you come back, the journey of Arya Stark buried in the yard.

"I am proud of you, George," I would say. "Now, let's talk about Bran and Rickon." You blubber all over again. "George…pick up your hatchet…take your book…"