Junkies of ice and fire

Observe this photograph. What do you see in it? If you just see a "dear little old man", don't worry, you are safe. If you recognize a "dear kind of freak little old man" it's possible that you are in danger, because any day knowing more about him may pique your interest. If you know perfectly who he is and you identify him as a "dear kind of freak little old man" and you dare to qualify him, in addition, as "a genius of contemporary literature", know that you already overtook the non-returning point, you're on free fall, and only some reader speed comparable to a blind man's where Braille hasn't been invented yet can save you. If you are one of those whose throbbing shoot up on seeing the picture, whose blood boil and see a "dear kind of freak little old man", who you dare to qualify as a "genius of contemporary literature" and, in addition, as an "unrepentant slacker who you'd like to strangle with your own hands but, at the same time, you don't want to because that would mean that he's never writing again", welcome to the club: you are a junkie of ice and fire.

This dear little old man (we all agree with that, profane and junkie people) is George R. R. Martin, writer of fantastic novels. The good man wouldn't go past that category if one good day, in the nineties, he hadn't written Juego de Tronos, the first book of Canción de hielo y fuego, a work that is intended to be made up by seven installments. Positioned in an imaginary place, in an imaginary age (but with a lot of similarities with the Middle Ages) it's what it has been called a novel sequence; this is, where a lot of unrelated plots begin mixing together. Currently millions of fans around the world hooked. That, a priori, looks like something good for everyone: the author, because he gets some extraordinary sales; and the readers, because they read keenly a story that captivates them. The problem is that so far the good George has only written four out of seven books. Recently the publication of the fifth book was announced for the month of July of this year, but few believe it now. If this had happened twenty years ago, nobody would be excessively worried, because those who already devoured the fourth one would think that he's exhaustively reading up on for the fifth book and that, maybe, he's writing the three that are left at the same time. But the point is, nowadays, there is internet. And George R. R. Martin has a website himself, as well as a blog. And it's through that blog where the junkies of ice and fire, who already read the fourth book and wait eagerly the next installment to know how the story goes on, see that, instead of doing his writing, the dear little old man does things such as watching a football match, attending conventions, celebrating his own wedding (with a setting, of course, similar to his famous novel's), taking on the script of the adaptation of his first book on television (a TV show that was recently released, maybe the reader heard from it)... that's to say: any thing but writing. Then it's when troubling thoughts such as: "he's already too old...", "he's too fat...", "who knows how many years he has left..." come to those junkies' mind to end up concluding that, if he dies before he finishes writing the seven books, he'll be a bastard.

So, I'm asking you from this humble corner: George, we need our drug, don't be a bastard to us.