The Starloom Song

I wanted to love The Starloom Song more than I did. The premise is promising — a community ruined by the theft of a sacred spindle, a young mechanic who scrapes and steals to fix it — but the execution leans too heavily on familiar tropes. The "living filament" idea sounds intriguing, yet feels handled like a convenient plot device: Iris grabs it and suddenly she's propelled into the hero-quest without enough exploration of why this filament is morally or literally different from any other. That deus-ex-machina energy undercuts the urgency the Loom's silence should have created. Pacing was another problem. The first act's atmospheric worldbuilding (the bone-white ring, the lullaby, the greasy details) is great, but the middle slows into exposition about corporate traps and vague stakes instead of tightening character motivation. The found-family beats are heartfelt but predictable — I could map out who would stand with Iris before they did. Even some dialogue felt like shorthand rather than lived speech. Still, there are sparks here. When the Loom sings and when Iris works the spool you can feel the author's care. With sharper plotting and fewer familiar plot turns, this could be a standout. As it stands, it's an enjoyable read with missed potential.

Okay, so I did not expect to cry over an engineering metaphor, but here we are. The Starloom Song is witty, rough-edged, and weirdly musical in all the right ways. Iris's grin like "a small defiant flare" is such a mic-drop line — it tells you everything without spelling it out. I laughed at Bren's line about the rusted bolt (relatable energy), winced when the Loom went quiet, and cheered when Iris literally steals a living filament. That act — brazen, borderline mad, perfectly Iris — sets the tone. The book mixes spaceship politics with neighborhood-level care; it never forgets how much people depend on the Loom beyond cargo manifests. There's also a good dose of found family dynamics that feel earned, not tossed in as a trope. If you're into scrappy protagonists, clever worldbuilding, and adventures that smell faintly of frying algae, this is your jam. ✨

Short and sweet: I loved this. Iris is believable as a twenty-one-year-old with real skills and a ridiculous amount of nerve. The theft and the living filament hook you immediately, and the scene of her coaxing a kink out of the spool felt intimate and tactile — you can almost smell the oil and algae. The found-family energy (Bren, the kid at the slit, the technicians) is warm without being saccharine. Hope the rest of Iris's voyage into corporate traps keeps the same heart.

As someone who reads a lot of space opera, The Starloom Song stands out for its craft-first worldbuilding and its musical metaphor threaded through every scene. The Loom isn't just set dressing; it's practically a character — the "particular interval that lifted a hull," the "soft, satisfied rumble," and the bone-white ring at dusk give the civic infrastructure emotional weight. The theft of the tuning spindle is an elegant inciting incident: it’s small enough to be personal and large enough to shatter trade, which drives believable social stakes. The prose deftly balances technical touches (filament kinks, maintenance wells, ticker messages from Lagrange) with sensory life (frying algae, ship foam). Bren's practical bluntness grounds Iris's more impulsive choices — the scene where he delivers the freight report and Iris listens to a slack filament encapsulates the tension between routine and rupture. I particularly appreciated how the plot promises a communal repair rather than a single-hero fix: the idea of Iris needing to "weave a chorus of voices" to remake the Loom gives the story a political and emotional heartbeat. Pacing nudges here and there, but the book’s atmosphere, character dynamics, and thematic clarity make it a strong, memorable debut in the space opera shelf.

I finished The Starloom Song with a stupid grin and a small lump in my throat. Iris is exactly the kind of stubborn, tender hero I want to read about — the little details (grease under her nails, hair clipped to one side) make her feel lived-in. That opening scene where the Loom hums and the child under the blanket hums the lullaby made me want to stand in Helix Harbor and listen. I loved the living filament revelation and how Iris literally steals one and sails off — the audacity! The market square urgency, Bren's "you look like you swallowed a rusted bolt," and the image of the Loom glowing bone-white at dusk are stuck in my head. What really sold it for me was the found-family vibe: ragtag mechanics, a weary pilot with old-coffee breath, people who argue but will pull a line together. The book balances big-space-opera stakes with small human moments so well. Can’t wait for the next part of Iris's chorus — this felt like only the first, thrilling verse. 🌌