I finished reading the Game of Thrones series this weekend. So far, there are five books in the series: A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows, and A Dance with Dragons. Now that Dance with Dragons is done, I have to patiently wait until the author finishes the next book. I’ll pause while you stare at the screen, impressed.
If you are not impressed, it is because you don’t understand that reading the Game of Thrones series is a lengthy commitment that sucks up all of your time, consumes all of your thoughts, and makes all of your friends hate you. Well, not all of them. The friend(s) that have read the series appreciate that you are now available to discuss theories, reminisce about characters and try to rationalize deeply frustrating plot twists that suggest the author is really playing a game of minds with you …and that he hates you. Well game on, R.R. Martin, I hate you too.
I began reading the series in July. Every evening, I would read as much as I could. Each morning, in lieu of reading the news, I read the books. Any moment I could spare, I turned to the books. I was never in want of something to do, and when I was not reading the books, I was discussing them with David. Since he was further along, he had to wait for me before discussing, and even then we had to limit our conversations, lest he reveal something critical. So on Sunday, after I read the final page and discussed the ending with David, I started to feel confused. I didn’t just finish the chapter in the book, I had finished a chapter in my life. Granted, it was a brief chapter, the likes of which would make a reader think, “Why was that chapter in there?” but it’s a chapter that speaks to my ability to read thousands and thousands of pages, and that’s impressive.