I sometimes say fiction (especially romances, regardless of your or their orientation) is about escapism - fleeing your life into someone else's. But I don't think that's quite right, either in the sense of flight from your own life or how we interact with – at least, the best – fiction.

Instead, it feels like ... not borrowing someone's life, exactly, but more akin to one of those sci-fi contrivances where you can relive the memories of others. The feelings, emotions and thoughts are still theirs to keep, but you can still slip into them and wear them like a suit (of armor?), feel them as they stretch over your limbs, always comporting to exactly the right size.

So I get why some people don't like YA. It can feel too tight, too restricted, not big enough to encompass the vastness of reality to the reader who feels older, more lived-in, more stretched-out.

And maybe it's just the case that some books fit us individually better than others. My feelings suit probably closely resembles the shape of Phoebe, the plus-sized teen who suffers from feeling simultaneously like everyone's laughing at her and also ignoring her because of her weight.

But I would argue that tailored fit is also a sign of good writing, because it's not a generic off-the-rack pantsuit that doesn't really fit anyone (but isn't so far off that you can't use it in a pinch). It means some care went into the measurements and the precise stitching that holds the whole thing together.

Time and Time Again was a delight to borrow, even if the story took the expected ups and downs of teen romance. It delivered with its light sci-fi time-loop that serves as the spine of the plot, but it really shone in the emotions and feelings from both characters. Blameless heroines and heroens (new portmanteau for "nonbinary hero") they are not, but there's a trueness that shines through their flaws. 

It's a) a romance and b) YA, so of course there's a happy ending. It's a little unsatisfying to me, and the resolution came about a touch too quickly, but those are minor nits amid a much larger, complex and utterly real story.

Even if you're not into YA much, I still say this book is worth your time.

I will admit that I only made it about a chapter into this book before I felt compelled to put it down for a couple days. It opens on a courtroom scene, and nothing is more exciting than boring court dialogue.

Except the witness, Charlotte Illes, isn't giving the normal boring court dialogue. She's being a little sassy, clearly desperate to do the right thing but not willing to compromise on her integrity (and, if we're being honest, isn't great at dealing with people in general. Her people know how she is, but in any other context, it's more an acquired taste). 

And one chapter was enough to make me realize, OK, I want to know more about this character. And I knew this was the second book in a series, and you only get one chance at a first impression. So I set this book down in order to read the first book and get introduced properly.

I was so glad I did.

The Charlotte Illes books are not romance, which is sort of a first on here. This site was never intended to be explicitly romance-centric, that just tends to be how non-straight books are marketed: How would we know they're queer if we didn't see them making out with queer people? Even in books where the relationship is sort of ancillary to the genre plot (Annie LeBlanc Is Not Dead Yet), it's still a major part.

Charlotte, by contrast, though she is queer, does not define herself (or her story) by that. Actually, she's more defined by her fame as a female Encyclopedia Brown meets Harriet the Spy, and she's constantly wrestling with whether to lean into it or pretend it never happened.

I cannot describe how much I enjoy the character of Lottie (Charlotte). She's written with at least a neurospicy overtone, if not explicit definition to her character, so many of her tribulations and conundrums seem 1000% real to me. But she's also got a sweetness and a protectiveness that I recognize in many of my favorite introverts, who would absolutely ride-or-die for you even if they're not particularly comfortable behind the wheel.

And yeah, the plot is a little zany, as most small-town mysteries tend to be (at least no one gets murdered for barely any reason; looking at you, every weird mystery thriller ever). But it's fun, well-paced, and splashes among the emotional palette with the deftness of a watercolor artist, feathering from humor to anxiety to dread to joy, all in a sensible wave. 

This is not, as the kids my age say, a kissing book. But it's got the love and intrigue that adults who are looking for something a little less smarmy (but no less heartfelt) will enjoy. Though I also highly recommend first reading Charlotte Illes Is Not A Detective – after all, a lady this fine deserves your time and effort.

This review is for an advanced reader copy of the book, provided by the publisher

Maybe this book came to me at just the right time. I can certainly identify with feeling slightly more than whelmed (though in my case, it was entirely self-inflicted). I set up this website at the tail end of an absolute torrent of romance novel reading, and once I got it ready I just sort of ... lost the ability to read for awhile. Burnout happens on any single or combination of topics, hobbies, or it can just slam into you generally.

Thus, it was nice to pick up a book where the two mains (Clover and Bee), for reasons of their own, needed a bit of a breather and just ... got it. Via a new app, Vacate (which sounds incredible in fiction but I would never trust in real life), the two essentially house-swap for a month (Clover to SF, Bee to Ohio) around the holidays, not realizing they're also a little bit Freaky Friday-ing into the other's life as well.

I loved all of the characters we actually got to meet in this book, even if the sheer number was at times slightly more than my tiny brain could handle (this is a known failing of mine, and again why I don't read high fantasy). Though I admit I first expected the two mains to wind up with each other, I actually more enjoyed following them on their separate paths. 

Even if Bee is depressingly straight, her whirlwind romance and general love blitzkrieg through the small Ohio town brought a gravitas without being too depressing, which can sometimes happen when a romance novelist tries to pile on the pathos.

I also want to especially note the active diversity of characters, which is still not super common even in gay fiction. I always love the feeling of effortless inclusion, and it comes through in the writing as well as the scene work (I desparately want to join the pack of SF queers that Clover falls in with).

And it's a Christmas(-adjacent) story to boot! I know it's the season, but I always like coming out of a Christmas book without feeling smothered by Santa's beard. 

A hearty highly recommended to anyone who could use a little break.

This review is for an advanced reader copy of the book, provided by the publisher

I really tried to come up with a good intro here. Something pulled from my life, that would seem authentic and genuine yet also relatable, generalizable perhaps, so that you, the reader, could see yourself in the anecdote. I tried but I failed. I couldn't come up with two things to jam together that might – on paper – seem good, but in reality just don't work for me and, if we're being honest, probably shouldn't be put together at all.

Ashley Herring Blake, by contrast, does not suffer from this problem.

I noted it in my perhaps slightly vitriolic review of Astrid Parker Doesn't Fail (my head-canon headline for which is "Astrid Parker is kind of a bitch"), where the titular character, Astrid, brings almost nothing positive to the relationship with the other main, Jordan, and is in fact actively detrimental in several ways. (I'm still so salty that Jordan settled I didn't even need to reread the review to remember her name.)

But then I picked up Make the Season Bright, got about halfway through (where we get the full, tragic backstory), and thought to myself, well, shit, she did it again.

It feels extremely weird for me to complain about happy endings. At this point in my senescence, I will barely tolerate any media that dares to end on any but an uplifting note. I am too old and too depressed on my own to need the issues of fictional people weighing me down, regardless of what screen size they dance into my life upon (movie, TV or phone).

And yet, here we are.

The book contains all the right bits. There's the improbable-verging-on-the-impossible reunion, the re-meet-cute that reminds them both of what they once had and what they're missing, and even a bordering-on-unbelievable number of queer side characters to round out the cast. But it just doesn't gel right, largely because the reason these two separated in the first place (and how) was ... correct? And nothing in the intervening years has changed their fundamental realities or the underpinnings of their issues.

So I was left just feeling off. I don't want to be rooting against the two romantic leads, but I also don't think any good can come of it, even if the book tries desperately to convince me otherwise. Sure, maybe one or both of the characters will have a total personality transplant and all their issues will be magically resolved, but that honestly just speaks even worse of the book?

To me, a good redemption romance arc marks itself not by the fact they wind up together at the end, but shows how they got there. Start with people with flaws (or flawed people), then show they grow and mature and overcome those flaws. Maybe I've just been ruined by On the Same Page, but that book shows how it can be done (and done very, very well). Bright, by contrast, settles for "well, they decided they'll be better about it so they are."

Is "reluctantly recommend" a thing? I'd definitely recommend it above Astrid, but only if you really need a Christmas story and don't have any other, better options.