George R. R. Martin

Holy hell, talk about shameful hangovers. It’s been—my God, has it really been—no that cannot possibly be right… Chauncibell! Is this newspaper correct? Is it the twenty-sixth already? Jesus, George, you’ve gotta stop ordering double bellinis. Chauncibell, start whipping up a single. Maybe make two…

Yes, “Cabo-time” is a real phenomenon. Real as the sun on my face or the constant recurring image of a gnome dueling with a fairy in my head. It’s been thirteen days since I have had even one single moment away from officiating over the Cabo-wide limbo contest to read any of this book I’ve been scratching out. Now, granted, I’ve yet to proofread anything, but I feel fairly certain that all my concerns from the prologue about misremembering locations’ names or major plot points or even the names of the characters were unfounded. Character? Characters, right? I must have written in more than one person in this book, yeah? Doo doo doo, flip, flip, flip, let’s see here, yes, okay, good, characters. I think that I am veritably on a roll here, spinning out perhaps some of my best work yet. Maybe not my best work. That first book was pretty damn good. But that was before all the money, all the fame. That was a younger, wiser me. Bright-eyed and creative as a… oh boy, what the hell is a good simile for something creative? Creative as a… Creative like a… Fuck it. Oh, you’re too good to me, Chauncibell! You brought the peanuts I like too.

Based on Chauncibell’s feedback, it seems I’m halfway to another best seller. And that means I’m halfway to receiving my best paycheck yet, which in turn means I can afford eight more beautiful months in Cabo. Yes, Chauncibell. Eight months. Well, frankly I have no conception of what that could possibly be. Your son wants you to be there for his gradua-what? Well, then you can fly him out here to celebrate with both of us. No you can’t “at least have that day off.”

So, without too much delay, let’s get back to our story. Chauncibell informs me that we left off right before the battle of the living versus the dead. This is a chapter I have written a thousand times in my head. I have been ruminating over the specifics of the battle for years now. This is perhaps the most confident I have ever been before diving in and putting thoughts to the page, inklings to ink. This next chapter is going to be epic, a piece of pure literary gold, and best of all a breeze to write. And if I could just enter the correct password for my HBO login, I would be able to refresh my memory of how this battle is supposed to unfold. Okay, gotta guess my password. How about “DennysRRMartin”? Nope. “GeorgeOfTheRings”? Nope. “LordOfTheRings1”? “GeorgeAndLeBronnForever”? “Alcohol”? None of those, damn. “DeltaChiDelta4Lyfe”? “AceRRMartin”? “ScorpionRRMartin”? “CoolRRMartin”? “GeorgeRRMartin69”? Okay, hold on—this next one has to be it: “GeorgeRRMartin69Blowjob.” No?? Okay this next one is definitely it: “GeorgeRRMartin69BlowjobHandjob.” Negative. Okay this next one is 100 percent it: “GeorgeRRMartin69BlowjobHandjobSecks.” Whoops, I meant “GeorgeRRMartin69BlowjobHandjobSex.” What?! Still no?

No matter! I would never dare use the show to inform my writing of this book, anyway. No, I would never. Never. Unless, “GeorgeRRMartin69BlowjobHandjobSex1” is correct? Nope. So, then, let’s see. I can still do this the old-fashioned way—just gotta get my creative juices flowing. What time do we think it is there in Wintersmells? And what would it feel like there in the air? Let’s really set the scene. No, Chauncibell, I am not stalling because I don’t have any idea how to start the battle. Stop reading over my shoulder. Yes, you are paid by the task. No, bellinis do not count as a task. Making those is a favor you do for me in exchange for my company. Anyway, I am going to say that it is probably night in Wintersmells. And the air is crisp. Voluptuously crisp. But not too voluptuously crisp.