Category Archives: Hunger Games

Prospero Pontificates on Luck and Weather

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DSCN1019Hi. My name is Prospero. That’s me on the left, doing a mind meld with my foster brother, Stephen Pinkerton. We’re not related, just sharing a room at the orphanage until our forever families find us. Stephen’s cool; he used to be a stray and tells lots of street stories.

I was a shelter baby. My sisters and I went there with my mom because her family took us when we were about four weeks old. I don’t remember much, except it was cold. A few days later a nice lady named Tammy came and said, “Give me the cats” and the five of us and a guy named Eisneberg and a calico named Ave Marie, we left with her. It was nice all going together. The shelter lady (who was nice) said that didn’t happen very often, and we were lucky.

But it didn’t feel lucky, because we all went to a hospital, ’cause we were sick. Ave just kept getting sicker, but my three sisters got better fast: Dori, Morella and Madelyn–although Morella had a really bad eye problem for awhile. It made her look ugly; well, uglier than usual. Then a nice lady named Kim came and took my sisters out of the hospital, and they all got forever families, which was nice for them.

Me, I was getting nosebleeds a lot, ’cause while we were in the shelter we got these sores in our mouth and ears and noses. Nobody wants a cat who can’t keep his nose clean, so I figured the jig was up and I’d go back to the shelter. But then another lady took me to a big place full of books. It had four other cats in it, all boys. And guess what! Mom was there!!!! She recognized me and gave me a big lick. ‘Course, the other guys teased me about that, but hey, a boy’s best friend is his mom, y’know?

The people here gave me medicine and my nose cleared up. I like it at the bookstore: there’s a big cat castle, lots of toys, and plenty to eat all the time. People come in and pet us and carry us around and say nice things about how handsome we are. In the morning we get wet breakfast and you have to move fast or Patrick Wilson, the youngest guy, he’ll steal it right from under your nose. DSCN1076

There’s a big cat who lives here named Owen. He says soon people are gonna take us to a forever home. He says homes are all different; some are real and some can be fake forevers, but the people who run the bookstore will help us choose good humans.

I want a human who will make sure I never have kids, after what happened to Mom. And play with me and let me sit on their lap and maybe ride on their shoulder. It’s fun to do that. It would be nice to have a home with other cats, but I really hope my forever home has a dog in it, ’cause the bookstore has two. I like to snuggle into their fur and rub noses, and they like me a lot. Which is nice. It kinda makes up for feeling like nobody wanted us, when we went to the shelter.

So DSCN1013me and my new brothers, we’re hanging out waiting for the right people who smell reliable to come get us. It’s nice to be inside where it’s warm, with the weather getting cold and all. I think about the other cats out there who must be looking for places to stay and enough to eat, and I know how lucky I am that lady walked into the shelter and said, “Give me the cats.”

The Wednesday Book Deal (or: why writing is like mining)

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mine entranceMany of you have noticed that “the bookstore blog” has been the wee bit irregular this last month. It’s a combo of two things: the Celtic Festival, which we are wrapping up after its very successful 8th annual permutation Sept. 27-28; and the final “throws” of a book deal.

May 2017 will see Fall or Fly from Swallow Press. It is about adoption and foster care children in the Coalfields, and holds two things I love most about writing, plus one I never experienced before and hate (or perhaps fear).

On the one hand, my journalistic roots show when I write about people, and I absolutely love listening to others tell their life stories. They’re fascinating; people are so cool when they’re not pro tellers but are just telling what they know. It is my favorite part of any writing I’ve ever done.

But, to use a metaphor, writing in this instance is like coal mining. It’s dark, and from the entrance comes an unwelcoming smell of decay. Brave people secretly telling me their stories are the guides, lights that shine in the unhuman, inhospitable environment. They are resilient, these storytellers.

Especially the young’uns who came up through this system. With some of the least opportunity to be so, they emerge from all that pressure shining as diamonds: rock-solid, dependable human beings.

One day, after the bookstore Cafe had closed, I spent two hours talking with one person embroiled in the foster care system. When we came downstairs, Jack said the storyteller seemed “ten years younger” while “you looked as though the whole world had settled between your shoulder blades.”

For all that, they’re amazing stories, amazing people, and I’m so pleased to be writing this book. It will be smaller, more intimate than Little Bookstore. (And yes, for those of you asking, a cat book is in line, but Fall or Fly will be first.)

So deep breath, and here we go, diving deep. It’s a wonderful thing – only this time it’s in a dark pool inside a mine with just a few lights. Scary, but the words will come and make the way to get out of the dark places. And that makes everything worth it, because that’s the second part of writing I love: say what you mean, mean what you say. Find the words to tell the stories that need to be told, that other people will feel validated, empowered, even challenged to hear.

Is there anything more satisfying?