I don’t write very many book reviews, for someone who reads so much. My kindle is littered with dozens of samples, and even more samples-that-became-purchases in the last year alone. In the past twelve months, I estimate I read about 20 new books, and probably re-read a dozen more. And yet my last book reviewed was (it’s embarrassing how long it took me to search this out): World of Shell and Bone, in 2013.
I’ve read some really great books in the past year, like Uprooted by Naomi Novik, of Temeraire fame. Seraphina and its sequel by Rachel Hartman. Some really clever fairy tale retellings by T.K. Kingfisher. I’ve read some books I wasn’t enthralled by, despite expecting to love it, like Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie. And I’ve read some truly mediocre stuff, like Virgina Boecker’s The Witch Hunter. I didn’t review any of them beyond perhaps a star rating, primarily because I was prompted to by Mother Amazon at the end of reading.
When I reviewed WOSAB in 2013, I did it because I was possessed with the need to dissect the failings of a post-apocalyptic/dystopian YA novel – probably borne out of a desire to avoid making any of those same mistakes in my own writing. Or to warn people that a pretty cover can hide a multitude of sins. I want to make explicit that is not the case here. The Fifth Season was a good read, with solid characters and world-building. Given my lukewarm reactions to both the Inheritance trilogy and the Dreamblood duology, I was far more invested in this book.
No explicit spoilers past the cut, but some minor ones.