The story of Jami Sinclair

Frankly, the beginning is rather boring. I was born in the hospital, without wings, or horns, or secret powers of any kind. The only truly interesting thing about me is my cat, Lucky. (Ugh. I keep deleting this sentence, but he adds it back when I'm not looking.)

The next part of my story is full of middles. I grew up smack dab in the middle of America. I was a middle-child, and am now middle-aged. I live in a solar house in the middle-of-nowhere. I write adventures for middle-grade kids. I poke my nose into the middle of things.

And if I'm in the middle of writing, it's best not to interrupt. I may mumble something in response, perhaps "nonplussed", "bumbershoot", or even "kumquats", but my fingers will never leave the keyboard. I don't mean to be rude. It's just that my characters get restless if I let my attention waver from them for too long.

And my story's ending? I'm still in the process of writing it. But trust me, it'll be a happy one. There's nearly always a happy ending available. Sometimes you just have to look for it.

 

The book: Invisible Oakley

INVISIBLE OAKLEY is a middle grade suspense/adventure novel for both girls and boys, age 9 and older.

Twelve-year-old Dale Decker suspects something strange is going on inside a forbidden room at the discount store where his mom works.

Everything the store sells is either dented, dated, or just plain dumb. So, why does the stock room have a high security lock with a different access code for each employee? Why do strangers enter the “staff only” stock room with briefcases, but exit with their hands empty. And sometimes they don’t exit at all! Dale won’t rest until he discovers what’s really happening inside that room.

His best friends, Jasmine, Victor and even his cat, Tungsten, try to distract him from the odd events swirling around him. But Dale's determined to get to the bottom of things..

Too bad. Curiosity might not only kill his cat, but Dale as well.

 

The cat

The first draft of INVISIBLE OAKLEY did not include a cat.

After finishing that draft, I stepped away from my laptop for just a few moments. When I returned, our sneaky eighteen-year-old cat Lucky (aka The Evil Lodger, aka Herr Beastenhausen, aka Monkeypants, aka Snuffy Wumpkins when we really want to annoy him) was at my computer, paws on keyboard.

His spelling was atrocious, but he'd made his point. The story needed a cat. Not just any cat. The story needed him.

I could say I changed Lucky's name to Tungsten to protect the innocent. But I'm not convinced my furry friend is all that innocent. He's loyal. And impossibly cute. But innocent? We've had too much disappearing cheese around the house to believe that.

By day, Lucky seems to be a perfectly normal cat, sleeping for hours on end, eating a bit (of our food, if we're foolish enough to leave our plate unattended) before taking yet another nap. But while we sleep, I suspect he skulks around the house, taking notes and making contact with secret agencies before slipping out of the house to go on missions…

I can't prove any of this. And like any good agent he refuses to divulge one single bit of information about his nocturnal activities. Instead, he smirks at me, and purrs. What else can I do but pet him.

 

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