Solstice Wood, revisited.

Okay, okay, I was wrong!

I’m firmly moving Patricia McKillip’s writing up there there with Catherynne M. Valente’s and China Meiville’s. Writing that I enjoy, writing that touches places I don’t know need touching until after it is done, but writing that I have to be in the mood for.

Her story telling is very rambly, very slow, and very ‘let’s talk about it without talking about it,’ which, in theory I dislike but in practice, if it is done well enough that I’m carried along, I don’t mind and have been known to love.

This was a haunting, lovely, heart-breaking story about love and trust and decades of being taught the wrong thing and our need for darkness and uncertainty. Because it’s me, the ending felt rushed in comparison to the rest of the novel, but I never know if that’s my fault or the author’s fault. It’s a novel about the fey, about doorways and crossroads and gateways, about belonging to both worlds and neither of them. It is decidedly *not* an “every girl is a faery princess waiting to be reclaimed by her faery worlds” novel (I say that like I don’t read and enjoy those, too). I was wrong about not liking it. I liked it a lot!

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