When readers open the pages of The Spooky Sphynx Mysteries, they meet Boris Katloff, a clever, steady, and dignified Sphynx cat who always seems to know more than he lets on. For me, though, Boris is more than just a character. He was real.
Boris Katloff was my beloved Sphynx, a constant companion and a quiet adventurer who made every day brighter with his presence. Losing him left a silence in my life that felt impossible to fill. I miss him every single day. Writing these stories is my way of honoring his memory, sharing his spirit, and giving readers—especially young readers who never had the chance to meet him—a glimpse of the clever, curious soul who meant so much to me.
That’s why Boris Katloff and the Phantom of the Theater, the third book in the series, was such a joy to write. Every chapter felt like bringing him back to life again, watching him slink across moonlit rooftops, sit tall in the rafters of an abandoned stage, and listen with unshakable calm while chaos unfolded around him. Through the act of writing, I wasn’t just telling a story. I was spending time with my old friend.
Why Book Three Felt Different
By the time I reached Phantom of the Theater, Boris had already solved two strange mysteries alongside his excitable companion, Whiskers. Readers knew his calm voice, his green-eyed wisdom, and the way he always steadied Whiskers whenever her nerves got the better of her. But in this third adventure, I wanted to go deeper.
The theater setting felt perfect. The Bluebell Grand, with its dusty curtains and forgotten stage, was more than a backdrop. It was a place where ghosts and echoes of the past still lingered—just as Boris himself lingers in my heart. Writing about a phantom singer whose unfinished song needed one last performance was a way of exploring themes of memory, legacy, and the ways we live on in the people (and pets) who love us.
As Boris guided the animals of Bluebell Harbor and offered Lydia, the ghostly soprano, the courage to sing again, I felt like I was telling his story, too. Boris had always been a calm presence in my life, a reminder that even in silence, there is wisdom. On the page, he became that same anchor for others, teaching readers that bravery isn’t about being loud or flashy—it’s about staying steady, no matter the storm.
The Joys of Writing for Young Readers
Another joy of writing this book was shaping it for middle grade readers, ages 7–12. That age is a magical window. Kids are old enough to crave mystery, atmosphere, and adventure, but still young enough to believe wholeheartedly in the possibility of magic hiding just around the corner.
Writing for this audience meant focusing on clear, vivid language that sparks the imagination. I avoided overly complicated sentences, but I never talked down to readers either. Boris himself set the tone: calm, thoughtful, and always a little mysterious. Whiskers, on the other hand, brought humor and high energy, balancing out the suspense with laughs. Together, they made the story immersive while still being age-appropriate.
What I love most about writing for this age group is the chance to plant seeds of wonder. A story like Phantom of the Theater doesn’t just entertain; it encourages readers to think about the past, about what it means to be remembered, and about the small acts of courage that shape big changes.
Boris’s Spirit in Every Page
Of course, the greatest joy was knowing that Boris himself lived in every line. His calm intelligence, his patience, his quiet strength—those were not invented traits. They were who he was.
Every time I described Boris tilting his head in thought, or padding silently to the edge of a stage, I could see him so clearly. I remembered the way he would curl in the sunlight, dignified and self-contained, but always alert. I remembered the way he carried himself with an elegance that made everyone who met him pause and smile.
That’s why writing these mysteries is more than storytelling for me. It’s remembrance. It’s gratitude. It’s a way to share a little of Boris’s presence with a world that never got to know him personally.
A Curtain That Will Keep Rising
By the end of Phantom of the Theater, the Bluebell Grand is given new life. The curtain rises again, not just for the ghostly soprano, but for everyone who believes in the power of memory and music. That ending wasn’t just for Lydia. It was for Boris.
Because even though he is no longer here, his spirit is still performing through these stories. Readers laugh at Whiskers’s antics, hold their breath during tense midnight escapes, and find comfort in Boris’s steady wisdom. In that way, Boris continues to touch lives, just as he touched mine.
Why I’ll Keep Writing
People often ask me if writing about Boris makes me sad, since it reminds me of losing him. The truth is, it does bring some tears. But mostly, it brings joy.
Joy, because I get to keep spending time with him. Joy, because young readers write to me about how much they love Boris and Whiskers. Joy, because through these books, Boris’s memory will never fade.
That’s why I’ll keep writing the Spooky Sphynx Mysteries. There are more adventures waiting, more rooftops to sneak across, more riddles to solve, and perhaps even more ghosts who need a calm, green-eyed cat to remind them that they’re not alone.
Closing Thoughts
Writing Boris Katloff and the Phantom of the Theater was a journey of mystery, memory, and love. It let me explore an atmospheric setting, craft suspenseful adventures for young readers, and most importantly, bring Boris back to life on the page.
I miss him every day. But in these stories, he is never truly gone. His spirit continues to guide, to comfort, and to inspire. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.
So, if you find yourself turning the pages of Phantom of the Theater and feeling the hush of a forgotten stage, or the thrill of a song rising in the dark, know this: you’re not just meeting a fictional cat. You’re meeting Boris Katloff himself, the cat who lives on through every word.
And in that way, his song will never end.
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