I first read this book some decades back, it and its sequels. When I was young, when the books were first coming out, I enjoyed the book for what the young-adult SF it was. Kids love books about ordinary people finding out that they're special, that they will be super important, that there's a future waiting for them in which people whisper their name in awe, and McCaffrey was absolutely the master (mistress?) of that kind of story.
Reading Crystal Singer again at the other end of my life hits differently. Now I'm reading the tale of McCaffrey herself. She moved to a new country, Ireland, with her two children after her marriage shattered. There she toiled alone, writing stories for a genre that didn't really value women writers at the time, for a market — young women — that was just then developing. Every so often she'd go to conventions or other gatherings where she'd be celebrated for her work, but then it would be back, alone, working on her craft.
From that standpoint, I liked the book well enough. As a musician, it bugged me that she casually tossed out "A Minor" and "G Minor" as notes. When they are chords. So, you know, book ruined. 🙂
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