So George R. R. Martin, pathological liar and fellow blog boy, wrote this in a blog last May in his blog that he consistently writes in complaining about the Jets and providing non-updates instead of doing the one goddamn thing people want him to do. It's been nine years since his last book was released. I was 16 years old. Season TWO of Game of Thrones had just released.
Yes, writing a book is difficult obviously, especially an in-depth otherworldly tale like the A Song of Ice and Fire series, but you know what makes it a lot easier? A couple things:
1. A goddamn global pandemic where you can't leave your house for months. Seems like prime writing time, right George? When you literally can't do anything else?
2. When the incredibly popular television show based on your original book series absolutely butchers the final season, leading a perfect blueprint for you to come in blazing like a hero and frame a story that will please everyone. Don't put the creepy ass Bran on the throne. Problem solved. He has a chance here to even pull in people who otherwise probably wouldn't read the books who are curious if things will be changed or mixed up. Maybe not a ton, but definitely some.
Mind you, the next book Winds of Winter is not even the final book. He has already talked about A Dream of Spring which will come next. I'd place the odds of that book being written at about 0 percent if he is not actually locked up in some sort of dungeon with no access to Jets news or access to various nerd conventions.
I am starting to think George is really just a sicko who enjoys torturing us. He wrote some of the most devastating scenes I've ever read, which turned into the most devastating scenes I ever watched. Maybe this was just his plan all along. The ultimate torture. Just riding off into the sunset pretending like he would have wrapped things up better when in reality he has no idea.
Sorry pal, you brought this upon yourself. Lock yourself up, write the fucking book and at least let us find out if you have it in you, George.