Akron Beacon Journal Review's "South of Charm" ;)

...courtesy of Barbara McIntyre, Special Correspondence to The Akron Beacon Journal. Enjoy:)

"South of Charm" Family Splinters

..."South of Charm," the debut novel by Holmes County native Elliot Grace, is an affecting drama about a marital breakdown and its effects on children. Set in the early 1980's in the small Holmes County village of Charm, it is especially convincing in its portrayal of its main character, the narrator for most of the book.

Danny Kaufman is a 9-year old boy who lives in a small apartment in Charm with his parents, Wayne and Sheryl, and his 4-year old sister Katie. They're not well off, but content enough, and things start looking up when Danny becomes friends with the boy who was last year's class bully.

The trouble begins when Sheryl believes she has found evidence of Wayne's infidelity and makes an angry accusation. Wayne retaliates with violence, and the couple begins an ongoing battle that terrifies the children.

Sheryl, a devout churchgoer, becomes convinced that she is being advised by a spiritual guide and that she is being spied on by her neighbors. Wayne is away often because of his job as a long-distance truck driver, and as the marriage continues to degrade, Danny finds refuge in sports while he tries to protect his sister.

Many will relate to the book's themes of faith and loyalty, and Danny's frustration that no matter how good he is at baseball, it won't help him save his family.

"South of Charm" (404 pages, softcover) Wooster Book Company

http://www.woosterbook.com/additional/southcharm.html

http://www.amazon.com/South-Charm-Novel-Elliot-Grace/dp/1590983637/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_2

Thanks for reading...EL

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tp://www.amazon.com/South-Charm-Novel-Elliot-Grace/dp/1590983637/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_2

A Day With Donna...

...the request was far too tempting to resist:) Fellow writer Donna Hole, whose short story can soon be read in the upcoming, "An Honest Lie" Volume 3, "Justifiable Hipocrisy," has cordially invited me over for a chat.

She'll be reviewing my recent release, "South of Charm," and trading war stories regarding the book biz, fun times in foster care, and whatever else we can dig up for a laugh.

Just a couple of storytellers kicking around the dirt and seeing what lies beneath.

Hop on over and check it out!

EL

http://donnahole.blogspot.com/2011/06/author-elliot-grace-south-of-charm.html

"Interview With Suzy Turner"

...will be spending the day with Suzy Turner, author of "Raven," sharing a little Q & A, talking baseball, books and "South of Charm."

Suzy, this was a blast! You've been a wonderful host, thanks so much!

Hop on over and check it out :)

http://suzyturner.blogspot.com/2011/06/q-with-author-elliot-grace.html

EL

The Kid From My Cover ;)

...following a solid month of gray and gloom, of chilly temps and infinite rainfall, the sun found a crease in the sky, and within a day, Summer had returned.

Bottom of the last inning. No outs. Bases loaded. Winning run at the plate.

Unable to remain in the dugout, I inched my way through the dust and lowered to a kneeling position under what little shade was provided from the nearby bleachers.

As the opposing fans rose in anticipation, I studied my pitcher with gathering dread. A lanky ten year old kicking up a cloud of dust, the brim of his cap shadowing fear etched into his brow. His throwing arm was misbehaving. Trying to protect our three run lead, he'd walked the first two batters to start the inning, and plunked another in the rib cage.

I turned to my assistant coach. "What do you think?"

"Gotta pull him. Kid's tired."

"Yeah, geez. But for who? Bases are loaded. No outs. Can't ask any of them to dig us outta this mess."

I listened to the rattling of phlegm, the wheeze of a smoker's cough, then, "Put in The Heater."

Standing at the shortstop position was our best pitcher. A lefty, feared throughout the league. He boasted a fastball that screamed.

I exhaled a breath, lifted a hand toward the home plate umpire, stopping play, and rose to my feet. "But he's already got too many pitches under his belt," I said over my shoulder.

"What choice do we have?"

A pair of wiry shoulders sagged with my approach. I stood before the boy, held out my hand for the ball. "You did well, son," I said. "But I think that arm of yours has had enough."

"Okay," the boy mumbled.

I glanced over his shoulder, making eye contact with The Heater, who'd already started toward the pitcher's mound.

Then I caught sight of the kid standing alone in the outfield. A thin silhouette rising under a skyline set ablaze. He noticed and straightened, as if fearing he'd done something wrong.

The kid from my cover. A shy thing, too short for the coasters at an amusement park.

I entertained a thought, released a giggle, and motioned him in.

"You're using him?" The Heater asked, jaw hanging open.

I nodded. "You've thrown too many innings. Head back to short. Stop every ball in your path."

The Kid From My Cover stood atop the mound, a wiry set of fingers reaching for the ball.

I dropped it into his hand, lowered myself to his eye level and asked, "Are you okay with this?"

He squared his chest, offered me a nod. "I'm good."

"Good enough for me," I said. "Keep it low in the zone. 1-2-3 and we go home."

"Okay."

I returned to the dugout, studied my assistant's shocked expression. "Call it a hunch."

"Hmmph."

The Kid From My Cover can throw a nifty fastball, but had been knocked around a bit during his last stint on the mound. That thought in mind, I figured maybe he was due.

He struck out his first batter in three pitches. Low fastballs. I offered my assistant a wink. He answered with a grunt.

The second batter knocked two foul balls into the stands, then swung at a low change up, missing badly.

Two outs.

My assistant rose to his feet. Joined me at the dugout fencing. "No way he strikes out the side," he mumbled. "Ain't got it in him."

The Kid From My Cover tossed a lazy fastball that managed to stay in the strike zone just long enough to get the call. "Strike!"

His second pitch was swung at, ripped down the first base line, foul by inches. "Strike two!"

"One more, Kid!" I encouraged. "Blow one by him!"

The Kid From My Cover dug himself a foothold in the dust. Gritting his teeth, he reared back, an arm thin like spaghetti, searching for an ounce of added strength.

He launched forward, released a baseball set aflame, and followed its trajectory over home plate. The batter swung, missed by an inch, and left his bat at the plate.

Game over.

The Kid From My Cover pumped his fist, offered the crowd a sheepish grin. That smile of his...this would be a night he'd remember for quite some time.

Come to think of it, I think I will too ;)

The Kid From My Cover, "South of Charm," is available through my publisher's website...

http://www.woosterbook.com/additional/southcharm.html

...and through Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/South-Charm-Novel-Elliot-Grace/dp/1590983637/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_2

"South of Charm" is currently featured on the book review site, "Reading at Dawn," available on the link below. Check it out :)

http://readingatdawn.blogspot.com/

EL

My First Review

...my to do list recently bared a set of fangs and made short work of my backside. It appears that my calendar in the month of June is full, which of course isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Coaching my son's baseball team will eat up several days a week. (We're pretty darn good ;)

My first book signing is tentatively scheduled for mid-June, preferably a Friday evening.

While not delving into the matter with too much vigor during this post, there are now seven children living under my roof. (For those who don't know, my wife and I are licensed foster parents.) And for those of you who've kept up on the story of a certain young lady who occasionally pays us a visit...well, I'll be saving that surprise for another day :)

I've been informed that copies of "South of Charm" have been sent out to a handful of reviewers, and am nervously awaiting my lashes.

David has recently hinted that my name's been tossed into conversation to perhaps be invited to this year's Buckeye Book Fair, now the largest author event in the state. Black Sharpie is ready. Fingers are crossed.

In the meantime, Jennifer from "Serendipity's Library," spent this past weekend in "Charm," and has posted her review. She somehow managed to get her thoughts typed up before even the local paper. Jennifer, I'm forever grateful! Please link over and check it out ;)

Lastly, I leave you with an excerpt most will agree as something a bit less than "Charming..."

...I discovered a box of Wheaties, misplaced in one of the cupboards above the stove. Nearly hidden and shoved back to that place in every kitchen where long-forgotten edibles are stored for proper spoilage. Too much left to throw away, too little to waste time on.

I studied the team photo on the front of the box. The NCAA champion Tar Heels, with Michael Jordan's gaping smile front and center. Growing concerned, I tried to remember how long ago North Carolina had beaten Georgetown for the title. But I was hungry, so I rinsed out a bowl from the sink and took my chances.

With the bowl on the kitchen counter, half full of cereal, I was preparing to drain the last swallow of milk from the plastic jug in my hand, when I stopped, eyes focused on the wheat-colored flakes, thinking I'd seen something move.

I lowered my chin to within an inch of the bowl. Spotted an orange bug, or worm, I wasn't sure which, taking its time burrowing a path under the top layer of cereal. Then I spotted another, and that was enough.

I reared back, trying not to think about what I'd nearly swallowed, grabbed the bowl, emptied it into the over-flowing trash, and watched the flakes scatter and fall through crevices made by empty soup cans and crumpled packs of cigarettes.

Not thinking clearly, I returned the Wheaties to the cupboard, deciding I wasn't hungry after all...

"South of Charm"

http://www.woosterbook.com/additional/southcharm.html

Thanks for reading,

EL ;)

Shhh! Can you keep a secret?

...during the past week, best selling writer John Sandford released "Buried Prey," the next highly anticipated saga regarding the life of Minnesota Special Investigator Lucas Davenport.

Within the same cluster of days, one-time power agent turned writer, Nathan Bransford, released his YA grandslam, "Jacob Wonderbar," armed with a nationwide release, an upcoming book tour, and a blog posting of the first chapter to his five thousand loyal followers.

And despite the ache of salt being rubbed into an open wound, I managed to stumble across a handful of blog postings this week describing the do's and don'ts of our precarious world of publishing...and found myself guilty of breaking more laws than I'm willing to share.

All this during the one and only week that "South of Charm" was quietly placed onto the shelves of a select few Indie-Book stores scattered about locally, including my editor's shop, The Wooster Book Company.

It happened without the help of bullhorns or a guest appearance on Good Morning America. No ads were taken out on massive billboards foreshadowing the city limits. No articles in the Times. Just a few copies squeezed onto the "Local Writers" shelf, three rows back from Sandford, and hardly noticeable behind Bransford's cardboard display of a giddy eight year old dressed for a launch into space.

You won't yet find it on Amazon, and if Googled, the title appears as a blip, an accompanying photo or two, and nothing more.

And so by Thursday, I was glum, figuring my chances of making a sales splash had been thwarted on game day.

Then on Friday morning, having not heard a peep from my publisher, a twenty-something fellow named Bob from our warehouse, entered my office smelling of grit and mildew, and plopped into a nearby chair. I've often considered Bob out of sorts when not armed with an axe and covered in chips from a recently downed maple tree. He's overweight, foulmouthed, and troubled when unable to stir up a healthy fist fight during Happy Hour.

I prepared myself to be sprayed with obscenities for not inspecting the chemical ingredients in a length of pipe to be sent out for x-ray. Instead, he downs the remainder of his bottled water, pushes out a belch, and says, "Wanted you to know that I bought your book yesterday after work."

"Seriously?"

"What? Did ya think I couldn't read or somethin? The big dumb warehouse packer can't barely spell his name, much less read a damn book?"

I raised an open palm in defense. "No no...I mean...thanks Bob. I hope you like it."

Not sure how to respond, he hesitated, offered a nod, and stumbled out the door.

...it was later that evening when I received an email from David, my editor, whose short message lifted my spirits.

"Your book did well today."

I've been informed of an upcoming book signing or two, staying local. The review copies have been shipped out, and the results will coincide with the Kindle release, be them positive, or not so much.

Until then, "South of Charm" is available through Wooster Book's website in the link below. It's the story of a ten year old boy named Danny. He's got a bit of a problem. A secret that he's not wanting to share. And he's about to find out that he's got something a bit more inside of him. Something inspiring. A talent he never knew he had. Powerful enough to stir an entire community into a frenzy. But is that really what he wants? When you're ten years old, is that what anybody wants?

...A day in the sun had burned Mom's cheeks and forehead, the flesh above her brow stretched tight, causing her scowl to appear uncomfortable to maintain.

I followed her gaze to an unoccupied corner of the dining room, where a metal shelving unit was being used as a storage supply for extra menus and utensils bound together in napkins. My eyes darted from the hateful expression frozen upon my mother's face, to the cluttered shelving unit, searching the shadowy areas on either side for anything out of order.

While sitting next to her, I glanced down and noticed that she had backed out of the sandals she had worn while touring the battlegrounds at Gettysburg. She had balled up her toes, clenching them together like oddly shaped fists attached to her ankles.

Having lowered her arms to where they rested upon her thighs, she had joined her hands together, her knuckles trembling.

Troubled, I turned my attention back to the far corner of the dining room, scanning the area in question. When we first entered the restaurant, I spotted a six-by-eight bronze sign fastened to the wall next the hostess station which stated that due to safety requirements, the dining room's full capacity under state law was one hundred eighty-five people. With nearly every table being used at that moment, I was confident that the restaurant was full. However, while everyone else in the bustling eatery was able to see one hundred eighty-five people enjoying their meals, I was convinced that somehow, Mom was seeing one hundred eighty-six...

"South of Charm"

http://www.woosterbook.com/additional/southcharm.html

Thanks for reading ;)

EL

Cars, Guitars, and Children from Mars...

So here's the week that was...

...received a phone call at work. Recognized my wife's cell phone number, thought it odd of her to call the office before my lunch break, and picked it up.

"What's up?"

"The car's dead. I'm at your sister's place, stuck in the driveway."

I grimaced. "Well...I'm at work."

"Considering how I called you there..."

"Okay, well try and start it with me listening."

I heard a clickety-clickety-bzzzz, and nothing more. Then my wife said, "Any ideas?"

"Sounds like a dead battery. Gonna have to call your step dad and have him replace it. I'll pay him back after work."

"Well...I don't have time for this!"

"Would you rather walk?"

"Very funny." Click. I dropped the phone onto its base, tried to refocus on the doldrums of Quality Control. Tried not to think about my book release.

At that moment, in a section of town considered precarious by many, three young kids, the oldest being a day or two shy of four years old, the youngest, a little girl hobbling on knees barely mature enough to support her weight, were spotted walking hand in hand along the sidewalk. Three soggy diapers clinging to their waists and nothing more, they were stumbling barefoot under rainy skies in the direction of a busy intersection. And Children's Services were called...

A few minutes passed, the phone rang again. My wife's number. I released sigh, considered my options, picked it up on the third ring.

"Wait till lunch and I'll see what I can do."

"Shut up and listen! Our social worker called. ...there's three of them! She's not even sure where they live yet! I asked her and she said Mars for all she knew! ...the oldest is still in diapers!"

I held the phone out from ear. "I'm not following and you're giving me a headache. Is the car running yet or not?"

I listened as she caught her breath, no doubt silently counting to ten in order to explain the situation without shouting. Telling herself to be patient, she was speaking to a male after all. Then, "I got a call a minute ago. They picked up three kids walking through town in nothing but diapers. They have no idea where they come from, but they're wanting us to take them in until they figure out what's going on."

My turn for a breath. "Did you say three?"

"Three."

"Are you kidding me? There is no way..."

"Look, I know. But I really want to do this. The little girl's only like, a year old."

I grew quiet. Turned and looked out my office window. Watched the rain falling like a plague. Imagined walking through it with nothing on. Wondered what the temperature was. Then closed my eyes, cursing under my breath while offering my computer a nod.

"Okay..."

Later that evening I watched from the kitchen table as three little people quickly took over my home. Already caring for our own three kids, we'd just added three more. A little boy who they guessed to be four. His younger brother, a possible two year old hiding under a head of bobbing curls the color of straw. And a little girl, one-ish, who'd maybe taken her first steps a week earlier. All of them, now bathed and clothed in hand-me-downs from the basement, screaming and playing and running in circles around the family room.

My wife joined me at the table, a fatigued grin on her face.

"Do we know where they're from yet?" I asked.

"They tracked down the mother. She was passed out on the couch. These guys made it downstairs from a third floor apartment. Decided to go to the store to get some food."

I huffed. "So I take it we can't give 'em back for a while."

Her gaze met mine from across the table. "Thank you for saying yes."

"The oldest one is still pooping in his pants."

"I can fix that."

"It'll be tougher than a car battery."

"It'll be fine."

And it was then, amidst the mayhem of vagabond toddlers from another planet, when my oldest son entered the family room, his acoustic guitar cradled under an arm.

Without a word, he sat down on the floor and began playing. The chorus from "Stairway to Heaven." Nearly the entire scale to Dave Matthews's "Crash," followed by something called Five Finger Death Punch, a name I found disturbing, but a tune worthy of tapping a foot to.

And as he played, the kids quieted down. They stopped running. Stopped screaming. Sat down next to my son. And listened.

The house became a home once again. I offered my son a wink. And my wife, looking ever more like the cat who snagged the canary, leaned toward me and said once again, "It'll be fine."

Thanks for reading...

EL