The Spark Behind It All—A Review of Suzanne Collins’ Sunrise on the Reaping

“…for every trivial fault in Sunrise on the Reaping, the novel’s ability to mobilize a new generation toward skepticism of systems, figures, and media—and away from implicit submission—redeems it tenfold.”

Long-awaited, Suzanne Collins’ 2025 release, Sunrise on the Reaping, is the latest installment in her acclaimed trilogy. A prequel to her first novel, Sunrise on the Reaping is set approximately twenty-five years before the events of the original Hunger Games. Divulging the reality of the series’ coveted second Quarter Quell, the novel zeroes in on District Twelve’s sixteen-year-old tribute, Haymitch Abernathy, during the 50th annual Hunger Games. With double the standard number of tributes, all the expected cruelty of life under Panem's tyrannical government, and enough tragedy to haunt whoever reads through it, the novel situates itself quite nicely among Collins’ other texts.

While the novel has been available to the public since March—and I finished it the very day I obtained my copy—it has taken me quite some time to fully process and organize my thoughts. Reconciling my literary and social expectations with my long-standing investment in the series required careful reflection. I needed distance from my own biases to engage with what Collins delivered, and to evaluate it against the standards I hold for both art and political commentary.

That said, it could be argued that Sunrise on the Reaping is the weakest installment when measured against Collins’ earlier works in the series. The Hunger Games trilogy and The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes were full-bodied texts—self-serving and self-sustaining—whereas Sunrise on the Reaping needed more room to breathe individually. Its most significant flaw was its rigid confinement to the canon and its overreliance on nostalgia. The novel held too many character references and parallels to the Hunger Games trilogy for it to truly feel like its own.

Some might find its originality a strength, particularly through the introduction of new characters like Maysilee, Wyatt, Louella, and Lou Lou—all of whom felt authentic, substantial, and deeply endearing. Even established figures, such as Plutarch Heavensbee, and the expanded exploration of the Covey people, proved compelling. These elements underscore how literary quality is often elevated when a narrative isn’t constrained by preconceptions or the pressure to meet plot-driven expectations.

For comparison’s sake, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes—the first text released after The Hunger Games trilogy and the predecessor to Sunrise on the Reaping—is the stronger of the two in preserving the tone and standard of the original trilogy. While it includes references and specific cameos from the original trilogy, it maintains enough distance and individuality to stand on its own as a compelling, self-contained narrative.

Further, I found the portrayal of several beloved and long-anticipated characters disappointing. Many felt misaligned with the people we encounter twenty-five years later in the original series, reduced instead to martyred caricatures lacking the complexity and personality Collins so skillfully crafts. Most detrimental to Sunrise on the Reaping’s literary quality is Collins’ infantilization of her audience through the heavy-handed delivery of the novel’s progression. Many times, I felt as though I was being told what to make of things, rather than allowed to let the events within the novel speak for themselves—a contrast in Collins’s work that is incredibly noticeable when compared to the subtlety of her previous works. 

For the most part, the novel felt like it relied heavily on the audience's fondness to overlook the more perfunctory nature of the piece. All of the most compelling aspects of the story were those that were given freedom and validity by their own volition. Had the entirety of the book been given the chance to exist within itself, separate from the shadow of the original, I believe it could have matched the quality of its predecessors.

Still, Sunrise on the Reaping has proven to be an excellent bridge between what the audience has already been shown in relation to oppressive systems and the process of resistance. The novel’s emphasis on propaganda and media control is not only a necessary conversation for such a digitally connected generation, but a fresh perspective on the instruments used to foster totalitarian governments.

While it may not be a stand-alone piece, the novel, as a unifier, adds significantly to the overall message of Collins’ work. It speaks to the idea of generational commitments to survival—something that feels especially urgent today. Amidst the terror of our government’s corruption, the rise in fascist leadership and political violence, and the widespread embrace of far-right extremism within our nation, it has become necessary to reflect on the struggle, sacrifice, and endurance of those who came before us.

So much of my life as a Mexican-American, queer woman has been made possible because someone before me held on to their stubborn belief that the world could be better—and went on to make it so. In these past few months, as we’ve witnessed the persistence of the Los Angeles ICE raids, nation-wide policy changes meant to disempower and harm not only my community but many others, and watched communities across the globe face genocide, starvation, grand-scale oppression, and active war—simply for asking to be seen as human—I find myself believing that, for every trivial fault in Sunrise on the Reaping, the novel’s ability to mobilize a new generation toward skepticism of systems, figures, and media—and away from implicit submission—redeems it tenfold.

By recognizing the inherited collective responsibility we have to build a better future, and by promoting such indignant hopefulness among readers, I am struck once again by not only the renowned timeliness of Collins’ work, but the necessity of it.

As I’ve watched communities locally and globally band together to survive the current presidency, I feel the weight of Collins’ words more heavily than I could have imagined. Sunrise on the Reaping reminds us not to accept the way things are as the way things must be. As I look to the communities around me, filling the streets with such undeniable love of life, I feel a deep faith in the generations that will carry our ancestors’ promises forward. Collins’ novel affirms that faith—and that alone earns it my recommendation. Because we all deserve a little more hope and affirmation as we, too, attempt to stop the sun from rising.