Dear George R.R. Martin,
I will likely end up in the insane asylum because of you. I had to catch myself before calling my wife a wench. I hear “snow, snow” whenever a bird chirps. I’m very close to naming my labradobie “Ghost”. I’d like to cart in tons of ice into my backyard (in Texas) and create a massive wall instead of having fences. My dinner knife isn’t made of Valyrian steel, and it makes me sad. I go around calling myself Savak of Round Rock, lord protector of 3000 square feet. I mistake my son for an “Other” sometimes. I found an egg and hatched it hoping for a dragon (it was a bird that also chirped “snow, snow”). I look for secret passageways all over the place and am easily freaked out by shadows now. I’m collecting iron for a huge chain – not sure where I’ll put it yet though. My wife is going through roller-derby try-outs and the suggested names are:
- Cersei Slamister
- Yara GreyJAMMER
After the third book, I attempted to quit. I picked up a book about astronauts. It didn’t work. I didn’t understand why the astronauts weren’t poisoning each other.
Your Amazon ratings for book 4 are only 3 stars – so I was hoping, frankly, that you would disappoint me and I could quit easier. Not so. I’m 1/4 through the 4th book and hooked again.
I guess I have two asks of you:
- Please cover any bills associated with my incarceration at the insane asylum
- Please keep writing, faster. This habit cannot be stopped.
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