Yes, fat man, you. You want some coffee? Fuck off and write a book, coffee’s for closers. What was A Song of Ice and Fire supposed to be, a trilogy? And what is it now, 16 years since you published the first book? And how many books are there, five is it? And are you finished yet? Have you closed? No you have far from fucking closed, you have drawn this deal out into the longest session of beard-stroking wankery since Gandalf discovered porn. Yes I am bringing Tolkien into this because that was a guy who could close. No I don’t give a fuck that The Silmarillion had to be edited and published by his son, the guy earned some fucking credit inventing your entire genre, you gutless sack of sorry excuses. And don’t start preaching about your vision for the series and how all the fucking storylines have to be worked out and shite like that. It’s a bit too fucking obvious by now that you’re spinning this thing out as far as it’ll stretch, maybe because you’re worried you’re never gonna wring another good idea out of that fat skull of yours so you better pad out the one you’ve got with another few hundred feasts and suits of armour and magic fucking fiery priests. You put more story (and let’s not get story confused with fucking plot twists, OK, we all know you’re very fucking good at them) in the first book than in the next five combined. No coffee. Next.