Up Next: A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin

In 1996 while on a dinner break from my night job as a college newspaper copy editor, I discovered a new paperback with an interesting cover. It had some wolves and a young heroic looking fellow in the snow. I'd never heard of the book, nor the author. My friends, who also loved reading fantasy novels, had never mentioned it.

It turns out that heroic youth on the cover was a character named Jon Snow. The "unknown" author was George R. R. Martin, and the book was the first copy I ever saw of A Game of Thrones.

I remember clearly finishing the book. I had probably read it for a couple weeks, but I finished the thing in mad dash until 5 a.m., at which point I exclaimed to my then girlfriend, now wife, that it was the best book I ever read.

Ok, I may have exaggerated at that point. I have read better books. Not many. I loved Martin's characters, and cheered that for once I wasn't totally put off by clichéd, regurgitated fantasy. I became an A Song of Ice and Fire evangelist to all my friends, and I still smugly remind them who introduced them to the now famous series.

Oh, there are much more devoted fans of the series than me, I have no doubt. But, I love the books deeply.

But, I confess, I'm bitter. When news arrived about A Feast for Crows, I learned it was a riven text, and that A Dance With Dragons was its delayed twin that contained all my favorite characters' chapters. Those friends shared their slight disappointment after reading. And, life otherwise got busy.

So it was that this fan, discover of the Western Kingdoms, never read A Feast for Crows in some kind of self-inflicted protest. What a waste. I decided my next read would be a treat to myself. Bring on the disappointing saga! I can't wait.

Getting emotionally invested in narratives

My Kindle robotically tells me I'm 93% through Brave New Worlds. It's a depressing reminder how slow I am in reading this collection of short fiction. I was on a tear in December and January for reading, and now I see I'm back to my plodding pace.

So, instead of my usual whining, how about some silver lining?

I'm genuinely astounded at how I, and presumably other readers, approach narratives. When I read a novel, I enter a narrative, however complex, of compelling characters and events. This all feels natural. I'm eager to turn pages and discover the ups and downs of it all.

But, in truth, it requires effort. Let me call it interpretive effort. I get invested into the tale. It doesn't even mean I must "like" the characters; it holds true even when I find them fascinatingly abhorrent. The point remains; it takes effort to read and appreciate fiction, and certainly to consider its value and meaning as a story.

When I read short fiction in series, that seemingly natural feel fades away, and that interpretive effort becomes obvious. Each story takes that little bit of investment that adds up -- for me, at least -- to interpretive effort. This is true for me regardless of my fondness for the stories. Brave New Worlds is excellent overall, and yet I'm still plodding along, emotionally worn out, so to speak.

I should add that Brave New Worlds is a collection of dystopian fiction. It seethes with bleak themes and ugly, depressing resolutions. It takes more emotional verve than usual to kick off  reading a second story after just finishing one in which, say, work camp revolutionaries are literally obliterated.

That said, I think the point stands. Again, it's not complaining. I find it a fascinating thing for both readers and writers.