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.
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