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expatpanda 's review for:
The Healing Season of Pottery
by Yeon Somin
Ah, a novel that promises to be a "testament to the joy of slowing down." And slow down it does—so much so that I began to wonder if time itself had stopped. Yeon Somin’s debut is a delicate exploration of pottery, healing, and the art of making every character indistinguishable by giving them names that all start with "J." Was it Jungmin? Johee? Jihye? Or perhaps Jun? Who knows! By the end, I was convinced they were all the same person in different outfits.
The plot unfolds at the pace of wet clay drying in a cold room. Jungmin, our protagonist, spends months rediscovering herself through pottery. Sounds therapeutic, right? Except reading about it felt more like sitting through a five-hour documentary on the history of beige paint. The narrative meanders through her pottery lessons and emotional growth with all the excitement of watching someone glaze a bowl—meticulous, repetitive, and oddly devoid of any real tension.
As for the characters, they’re less people and more placeholders for vague archetypes. There’s the wise teacher, the quirky fellow students, and a friendly cat thrown in for good measure. But none of them ever truly come alive; they’re as flat as an unbaked slab of clay.
To be fair, there are moments when Yeon’s prose shines with sensory detail: the smell of clay, the warmth of coffee cups, the snow piling on windowsills. But even these glimpses of beauty can’t save a story that feels like it’s perpetually stuck in first gear.
In short, if you’re looking for a novel that moves at glacial speed and features characters who blend together like shades of grey, The Healing Season of Pottery might just be your cup of (lukewarm) tea. For me? Two stars—for the cat and the coffee.
The plot unfolds at the pace of wet clay drying in a cold room. Jungmin, our protagonist, spends months rediscovering herself through pottery. Sounds therapeutic, right? Except reading about it felt more like sitting through a five-hour documentary on the history of beige paint. The narrative meanders through her pottery lessons and emotional growth with all the excitement of watching someone glaze a bowl—meticulous, repetitive, and oddly devoid of any real tension.
As for the characters, they’re less people and more placeholders for vague archetypes. There’s the wise teacher, the quirky fellow students, and a friendly cat thrown in for good measure. But none of them ever truly come alive; they’re as flat as an unbaked slab of clay.
To be fair, there are moments when Yeon’s prose shines with sensory detail: the smell of clay, the warmth of coffee cups, the snow piling on windowsills. But even these glimpses of beauty can’t save a story that feels like it’s perpetually stuck in first gear.
In short, if you’re looking for a novel that moves at glacial speed and features characters who blend together like shades of grey, The Healing Season of Pottery might just be your cup of (lukewarm) tea. For me? Two stars—for the cat and the coffee.