Doorstop. Adored it. Wrists ruined.

A woman at work called Marnie put this in my hands in the pub and said "you'll be fine, just get past the prologue", and then didn't speak to me for three months while I got past the prologue. She was right. She's annoyingly always right.

I was frightened of it, not the content but the commitment. Ten books. Ten. I have a box beneath the bed that I'm not allowed to open in front of guests, and starting a series this size felt like adopting a dog when you can't keep a basil plant alive.

Anyway. Kaladin. That's the whole reason it's a nine. The bridge runs made me feel physically unwell in a way a fantasy novel had no business doing on a Sunday afternoon, and the bit at the end where he — no. You know the bit. If you don't yet, you will.

Losing a point for the interludes, which I treated as an opportunity to make tea, and which I'm reliably informed all pay off eventually, so possibly I am the problem here.