The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman by Robin Gregory Book Tour and Giveaway :)

The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman

by Robin Gregory

Genre: Fantasy, Magical Realism

Early 1900s, Western America. A lonely, disabled boy with a nasty temper and uncontrolled mystical powers, Moojie is taken by his father to his grandfather's wilderness farm. There, Moojie meets an otherworldly clan of outcasts that he wants to join. Following a series of misadventures--magical and mystical--he is summoned by the call to a great destiny ... if only he can survive one last terrifying trial.

Having won a number of awards, Robin Gregory's The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman is being lauded as a classic. A haunting, visionary tale spun in the magical realist tradition of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude and Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, the profoundly unique voice and heart-stirring narrative recall great works of fiction that explore the universal desire to belong.

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He arrived on the heels of an earthquake. A minor hiccup as disasters go, the murmur rippling undersea, causing dories in the bay to bob and spider crabs to flood the beach like a ghostly pink tide. It was the sort of earthquake that hushes everything for an instant before nesting birds and sleeping butterflies burst out of trees. It makes your heart jump for joy because you realize the earth is flying through space at one thousand miles per hour and you have been spared the dreadful experience of the whole world falling apart and having to put it back together. It was the sort of earthquake that the nuns of San Miguel de las Gaviotas would call a mystical grumble. Really, there was nothing about it to suggest the terrible wonders looming on the horizon. At a quarter past seven, the candelabras in the chapel stopped swaying. The nuns crossed themselves, went outside and found a wooden fishing bucket on the porch. Expecting the catch of the day, they were nothing short of horrified to see a baby boy bundled in fur and tucked inside it. He had bright black eyes, enormous ears, and his hair was the texture of caterpillar fuzz. “He’s a Hostile, if I ever saw one,” said Mother Teagardin. The word Moojie had been smudged across his forehead. And that was what they called him—a peculiar name for a peculiar boy, who wasn’t particularly welcome. Against her better judgment, Mother Teagardin, who always said the natives were ill-suited for local society, hadn’t the heart to surrender him to the local Bureau of Questionable Peoples. She appealed to the local families to adopt him. But the villagers were a superstitious lot. They believed the mysterious child to be, well, too mysterious. It didn’t help that before he cut his first teeth, Moojie amused himself by magically snuffing out candles with the blink of an eye, and by sending objects into flight with the power of his mind. When he didn’t get his way, he caused the wind to rip off the nuns’ veils and flash their knickers. Like Odysseus, he was quick to act and slow to regret. Meanwhile, the sisters clicked their clickers, and swatted his bottom, and continued looking for a family for him. Except for one early chapter of his childhood, Moojie was a virtuosic flop when it came to the only thing he cared about: finding and keeping a family. This golden parenthesis began just before he was one year old, when Henry and Kate Littleman, a childless couple who had moved from the East Coast to San Miguel—along with hundreds of recent immigrants from Europe and the Far East, since America had opened her doors to the world—took him home to raise as their own. Mamma immediately left her post as a science and French teacher at the Charles Darwin Free School to look after him. Mornings, she tucked him into a knapsack

suspended from a tripod, and went about her housekeeping. He grinned and giggled as she baked bread, smoked little cigars, knitted hats and booties, and arranged his wet flannel diapers on a drying rack near the fireplace. She wheeled him to the beach in a wicker pram, where they collected spider crabs and napped in the salty sand; she rocked him before a glowing wood stove; she bathed and coddled him. He watched Papa, a mapmaker, spin his curta and level his transit, slurp scalding tea, and leap out the door every morning in a pocketed vest. Sometimes, in the afternoon, Papa played piano for him or showed off his soccer moves in the backyard. In those days, Moojie was a model child, the ambassador of lovability. He delighted at being the center of attention, always looking intently into people’s eyes, always smiling, as if he were in on some cosmic joke. In those days—before San Miguel de las Gaviotas had gone the way of Atlantis, that is to say, before it fell out of favor with the gods—Moojie was passed around at church like a peace pipe. Warmed by his charm, suspicious villagers now lined up after the service to take turns holding him. Once Mrs. Littleman contrived a plot to put the smiling Moojie into

the arms of a miserable scrooge, and everyone sighed with awe as the long-suffering soul wept and sang praises to God in heaven. “Have you noticed, my cupcake?” Mamma said to Papa as she pushed the pram home from church. “This is no ordinary child.” “He’ll make a fine field hand, lovey,” Papa said. At the time, San Miguel de las Gaviotas was a nick on the Pacific Coast of America, a clammy, cluttery mishmash of thatched rooftops, crumbling walls, and crooked towers surrounded by rugged mountains that rose out of fog like ancient pyramids. Moojie’s new home, Number 11 Wimbley Wood, a mildewy cottage with a drip line and assorted mushrooms growing in the basement, appealed to otherworldly visitors. Only Moojie could see the celestial bodies spinning and whirling all about him. And he sometimes heard voices beyond the range of normal hearing —gifts, of course, that he did not yet understand. In the witching hours, lights floated down through the ceiling over his crib. He giggled and tried to grasp them as they bobbed playfully into and out of his hands. Mamma came in and held him in the rocker, while moths and flower flies haunted the spirit lamp—like all that is born, seeking to return to light. Having landed in the nucleus of love, charming, handsome Moojie surpassed his parents’ every expectation, blessing them with unmitigated joy. But all of that was soon to change.

ROBIN GREGORY is a devoted wife and mother, and student of mystical teachings. Born in Pensacola, Florida, she grew up in California, accompanied by seven siblings, and surrounded by horses, real cowboys, and the occasional rattlesnake. She has always been drawn to helping others, a trait that began, to her mother’s horror, with bringing home swallow chicks stricken from their nests. She has worked as a journalist, lay minister, and infant massage instructor for mothers and babies at risk. Her studies include Literature and Creative Writing at University of California, Santa Cruz and Stanford University’s Writer’s Workshop. She lives with her husband and son in a Carmel cottage old enough to make you sneeze. “The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman” is her first published novel.

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What Saves Me From Discouragement

A few years back, I was feeling pretty discouraged about my writing career. There had been

weeks, months, and years when my best writing efforts went unrewarded. I could wallpaper my

living room with rejections from publishers and agents. The little critic inside kicked against my

visions, daring me to think I was worthy to be a writer. With every rejection, it hissed and snarled

and said, “I told you so.” And if that didn’t stop me, there was always J.K. Rowling, Diana

Galbadon, and Zadie White to remind me of my literary irrelevance. The great monument of

faith in my talent had crumbled and taken heaven with it.

Around that time, I visited the Sagrada Familia cathedral in Barcelona, Spain. The primary

architect, Antoni Gaudí, worked on it for 43 years, before passing on. Still under construction

today, it represents a century-long collaboration which is scheduled for completion in 2020.

What astounded me about the cathedral, beyond its mind-boggling beauty and crafting, was that

literally hundreds and hundreds of architects, artisans, masons, builders, and artists formed

links to its creation. “The creation continues incessantly through the media of man,” said Gaudí.

In that sense, Sagrada Familia represents how inspired visions get erected: they start in the

imagination. And the imagination needs the freedom to broadcast itself.

This realization was like a slap on the face. It woke me from a stupor. It made me remember

why I loved writing. I gathered myself up again, remembering that I once trusted the process like

a child. I used to enter so fully into writing that I would laugh and cry and growl as I went along.

With this recollection, the “cathedral” of inspiration reappeared, and I immediately resumed

writing.

Sadly, Gaudí didn’t live long enough to see the finished Sagrada. But I imagine it was complete

in his mind, a testimony to heaven on earth, a living thing. In the same way, we who build

cathedrals out of words may not see the results hoped for. But our efforts are not wasted. It’s the

process that unites us, a shared evolution. The best results are what happens to me while I am

writing for the pure joy of it, when I approach it as a kid playing in the sand. That kid never gets

bogged down with results or concerns for the future. She is fully present in the act of creation—

free and open. If we do not honor this part of ourselves, who will?

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