Five fucking years. Five fucking years. Five fucking years.
A Dance with Dragons was supposed to be half written at the time of the publication of A Feast for Crows. Where the fuck is it?
In those five years, you’ve reached 1311 pages, so you’re writing 130 pages a year, and have reached the point where the next book will be cut in half, a-fucking-gain!
When A Feast for Crows was published, I’d already thrown away the first three books in the anticipation that it would never come out. So I repurchased them, and so now I have the first four books, still, and I guarantee you, Mr. Martin, if they go in the garbage, you will never get another fucking dime of my fucking money, and if that means cancelling HBO, so be it, and if that means never reading another Wild Cards book, so be it, and if that means not arguing with the library when they want to discard the collection that contains Sandkings, well, obviously, so be it.
Pull your fucking typewriter out of your ass and start fucking typing.