Joshua Awesome
Google
Auntie’s is home.
Not just a bookstore, but a beating heart in the middle of Spokane—a rare and radiant space that still believes in magic, in paper, in story. In a time when most places like this have vanished into dust, when digital convenience has swallowed the tangible, Auntie’s holds firm. It endures—not because it’s easy, or profitable, but because it matters.
Over the course of my life, places like this have grown nearly extinct. And yet here it stands, defying the odds, held up by a community that believes in more than just commerce. Auntie’s invests in people. It holds space—for ideas, for imagination, for the beauty of human connection.
There was a time when Auntie’s filled most of the building—those days were something out of a dream. Endless shelves, winding corridors of books, stories stretching taller than your reach. It was a wonderland. And while the space has changed, the soul has not. They still host author readings and community events, still offer the gift of a room full of strangers leaning in to listen. In an age where so much has become virtual and fleeting, Auntie’s remains rooted. Real.
One of my favorite memories was the midnight release of The Deathly Hallows. The entire city seemed to come alive that night—kids and adults in costume, laughter spilling onto the sidewalk. Magic was real, if only for a few hours. I’ll never forget it.
And the authors—so many beloved voices I got to meet in real life. People whose words shaped me, whose stories held me through hard times. To see them in person, to shake the hands that wrote the worlds I loved—that kind of moment stays with you forever.
And now, somehow, impossibly, I find myself on the other side. A writer. A storyteller. For twenty years I wrote quietly, never imagining I’d one day be published, or that writing would become a defining part of my life. But here I am. And perhaps, someday soon, I’ll stand at that little podium at Auntie’s, reading aloud to a room just like the ones I once sat in. A few of my friends have already pictured it—and I’m starting to believe it too.
The high ceilings still make me pause, every time I look up. They’re wildly impractical, gloriously unnecessary, and absolutely perfect. Light pours in from the skylight, and for a moment, the world expands. Auntie’s isn’t just a building—it’s a monument to what we hold dear.
So thank you. Thank you to everyone who has kept this sacred space alive. For as long as Auntie’s stands, I’ll remain endlessly grateful. You’ve given so much to this city. To me. To countless others who’ve found a piece of themselves between your shelves.
