"Perhaps you are one of those horribly condescending garbage-people who assume that if something is very, very popular, it must logically be very, very terrible. God, shut up."
Well, yes, but there's a problem. The problem is that Mr. Martin isn't going to finish the series before he dies, so at best it will be wrapped up by whichever hollywood shitbird has backstabbed his or her way into the show-runner slot at the end.
That problem wouldn't be any fault of the fans, if Mr. Martin's writer's block were of the typical lonely self-doubting variety, but that's not what he's got at all.
The reason Mr. Martin isn't writing the rest of the books is that it's much more rewarding for him to jet about from one small city to the next, sending his most ardent admirers out to buy him sandwiches, and generally behaving for months on end like a rock star at an afterparty without ever having to go to the trouble of getting up on stage.
And that, I'm afraid, is very much the fault of his fans.
You mean Paul Constant, right?
That problem wouldn't be any fault of the fans, if Mr. Martin's writer's block were of the typical lonely self-doubting variety, but that's not what he's got at all.
The reason Mr. Martin isn't writing the rest of the books is that it's much more rewarding for him to jet about from one small city to the next, sending his most ardent admirers out to buy him sandwiches, and generally behaving for months on end like a rock star at an afterparty without ever having to go to the trouble of getting up on stage.
And that, I'm afraid, is very much the fault of his fans.