I am at a bookstore. There is a book. I held it in my hands, and gave the nice bookseller a credit card, and they let me walk away with it in my bag. It is real. And I'm only typing at you all instead of reading it right now because I have to go back to work soon and I'm afraid I might not be able to stop.

It's finally real.

Dear George R. R. Martin: I'm sorry I doubted... well, no, I'm not sorry I doubted you, because I think I had perfectly good reason to do so. But I am very, very happy to have been proven wrong.

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