In my prior posts, I explained how my writing journey began — and how it started, somewhat unwillingly, with skunks.

So, around that same time, I was looking for something to take my mind off things. Yes, including the pesky skunks. Neuroplasticity teaches new ways of reacting to old triggers, after all. Sure, normal people might just jump in their cars and do stuff. I don’t drive — and it was winter in Chicago. Enough said. Oh, and my budget? Roughly the size of a gnome’s lunchbox.

My eyes happened to land on a bare little gnome that had been sitting on my shelf for years, hiding behind a tired clock and collecting dust. Mr. Gnome came pre-painted with a shiny golden hat but was stark white everywhere else. He’d been a gift from my adult son years earlier (brought back from New Zealand), and I was supposed to have painted him “sometime soon.”

Apparently, sometime soon had finally arrived.

So, I ordered a fresh set of cheap acrylic markers and waited like a kid at Christmas. The day they arrived, I cleared a tiny workspace — one determined gnome, one slightly wrinkled paper towel, and one creative brain about to discover that maybe this wasn’t just craft time. Maybe this was something else — the first brushstroke of a new kind of story.

I looked at my cat, curled up comfortably next to me on the couch, watching me with ever-judgmental eyes, and then it hit me: why not write about this?

The gnome. The cat. The odd, cozy absurdity of it all. Somewhere between the smell of acrylic markers and the sound of soft purring, a story started to form. Not a grand, save-the-world epic — just a gentle tale about small beings with big personalities and a knack for showing up when life needs a dash of magic.

And, naturally, my cat became the narrator. Because let’s be honest — she’d been narrating my life the entire time anyway. Every gnome, every brushstroke, every questionable creative decision was already being silently judged and chronicled in her mind. It only made sense to make it official.

Before I knew it, I had notes scattered everywhere — scraps of dialogue, character sketches, even a few pun ideas that no reasonable editor would approve of. The gnome wasn’t just decoration anymore; he’d become The Gnome with the Golden Hat, the first of what would eventually grow into the Gnomeward Bound series.

Looking back, I think that moment — a cat, a gnome, and an acrylic marker — was my real gateway to whimsy. What began as a distraction became a direction. The gnomes arrived quietly, with humor and heart, and reminded me that imagination is still the best form of resilience. These days, when life feels too loud, I don’t look for escape. I look for the next story, the next spark, or the next tiny creature with something to say.

Stay tuned… the gnomes have opinions, and apparently, I’m their stenographer.