Not all stories come bounding in with brass horns and bursting banners. Some arrive quietly, like dusk through a crack in the shutters—soft, persistent, and full of promise.

Today, I’m planting the first seed of my debut novel here in The Prosery. Its working title is The Coopers, and it’s a story years in the making—carried not just in pocketed notebooks and midnight ramblings, but in the kind of heartache that leaves room for wonder. It’s about growing up and growing through. About family, grief, first loves, and second chances. It’s fiction, yes—but like most truths, it borrows from real shadows and real light.

I won’t say much yet. Just enough to invite you in. Below is a small glimpse—a passage pulled from somewhere near the soul of it.

The Dream and The Talk

Mitchell dreamed this while my mother held him. He told me before he died—just one of the private things we shared, quietly, near the end. I’ve carried it with me ever since. But now, it’s yours too.

“Mom? Where did you go? Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t go anywhere, honey. I’m right here. Right where you can find me when you need me.”

“That isn’t good enough. I need you here. Really here.”

“Oh, sweetie. I brought you into the world, raised you, gave you everything you needed to grow strong wings. It’s time for you to fly.”

“It isn’t fair. Most people still have their mothers. I don’t want to be without you.”

“You aren’t most people, and life isn’t fair. You’re going to be alright. Mary will help you when you need it. Let her help you, son.”

“Where’s Dad?” he asked, not really intending to, more out of courtesy than hope.

She smiled, bittersweet.
“This is your dream. If you wanted him here, he would be.”

The silence that followed said more than either of them could.

“Mom? Is it okay? Okay that I am gay?”

His voice trembled, the words small and loaded, like they were afraid of their own weight.

She smiled and placed her hand gently on his cheek.
“Love is love, baby. Love hard. Love fierce. Love regardless of gender. Your happiness and well-being is all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

Then she added, her voice both soft and certain—
“You are such a beautiful soul. And you deserve whomever will return your love.”

There may be more glimpses in time—but like all good things, stories unfold only when they’re ready, and never faster than the heart allows.

(At which point the writer attempted to breathe a sigh of relief. But then…)

Peak into the author’s mind as he creates a narrative as to why he has to put down the novel for now and switch attention to pending website tasks.

Sadly, The Coopers will have to hold their britches.
Scriblet is on a rampage. Something about a missing scroll.
Now I’m expected to follow behind and pick up the mess.

“Ah yes, when Scriblet gets that glint in his eye and starts muttering about ‘The Lost Scroll of Whimsy and Consequence’, it’s best to just lace up your boots, grab a satchel of patience, and follow the trail of spilled ink and startled mushrooms.

The Coopers understand. They’ve got a quiet bench to sit on. Richard probably needs the breather anyway.

Meanwhile, Scriblet’s chaos has its own kind of wisdom. You think you’re just chasing nonsense—but somehow, when you stop to catch your breath, you realize you’ve stumbled into a metaphor. Or worse… a subplot.

So on I go—to track the scroll, sort the scrolls he thought were the scroll, rescue the poetry he fed to the ducks by mistake.