I love details you can’t quite put your finger on. Those little nuances that others pick up on which leave you coveting their gift for observation.
Counting Crows by Terri Wallace is full of such subtle elements, each nook and cranny of a house which is otherwise invisible to our mind, becomes painted in an obscure light, dusty cobweb and chattering crow.
This particular story is a marvelously twitchy look at adolescence. The growing pains of teenage rebellion often become complicated, but when mixed with the rigid convictions of religion, it can be a down right catastrophe. Those brought up in the south may actually relate to the inflexible tone of belief, leaving Yankees tantalized by an incredible taste of something so impossibly true.
Wallace sensationalizes what should be a simple idea, with the complexity and awkwardness that any taboo subject deserves. Her mindful approach to each character is full of a sophisticated charm which is unparalleled.
As with anything I have read by Terri Wallace my only complaint is endurance. I look forward to reading more from Wallace and hope her stamina increases to give her imagination the longevity it deserves.