Having polished off my last batch of reading (a foray into urban fantasy to satisfy my curiosity with some Charles de Lint, some old-fashioned fun with a Falco novel, and some nostalgic Pratchett), I toddled back to the library to find something else to help pass my long, internet-free days. I picked up a couple of YAFS (Yet Another Fantasy Series - thank you, gilmae) that I'd been eyeing in bookshops.

Currently reading: The Fifth Sorceress by Robert Newcombe. I was most excited about this one. I'd been speculatively picking it up for a while now. I'm very, very glad I didn't pay any money for it.

It's tripe. Complete codswallop. The author info-dumped unceremoniously all over the first few chapters, interspersing it with cliched characters contemplating their lives with all the narrative value usually found in daytime soaps. All the actual interesting bits seem to be being retold in condensed reminiscence, while dwelling on the sort of stupid extraneous prancing about I thought made for good story-telling when I was fifteen. I'm a quarter into it. The events so far have been trite, and the obvious course of the novel holds no appeal for further reading.

Did I miss anything? Oh yeah, there have been numerous blatant flaws in the editing. Such as the main character knowing perfectly well what "death enchantments" are on page 65, but being flabberghasted at the concept on page 66.

How do these festering puddles of bilge get published?

(Extinguishing the flame-thrower, now.)