A Game of Thrones

Just finished re-reading Kathleen Woodiwiss's Shanna, a delightfully long book, rich in pre-American Revolution historical detail that convinces the reader she was born in the wrong era. Usually I get panicky when I finish a book, not sure where from where my next fix is coming, and if I do not have a stack of books waiting, I'm in danger of a panic attack. Hey, at least it is not heroin.

So after satisfying my need for all things colonial by dining at the Colonial Inn in Concord, which is less time consuming than delving into a Jeff Shaara novels or re-reading Diana Gabaldon for the millionth time, I finally picked up A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin.

Now, my husband has been reading this series for months on his journey to and from work. Usually, his reading time ends when the train stops, but with this series, he reads during his entire walk home. He walks through the door, swoops down to kiss our nine month old son, waves to me, muttering, "I just gotta finish this chapter," and disappears into the other room. While he cooks dinner (yes, I am a lucky woman), instead of relating tales of his day, I hear about Ned and Catelyn and the dwarf and some wedding that left him depressed for days. Luckily, my parents visit once a week and I disappear into another room while they bear the brunt of his enthusiasm for these damn books. "You gotta read them, D," he urges. "Uh-huh," I say.

Last night, I gave in. I read three pages and became intrigued. After fifty, I was hooked and when little Bran took his tumble before the first hundred pages was up, I cried. It may be months before I get back to my own writing. Poor Avery and her hero will be stck in that rainstorm until George finishes the series.