I’ve already introduced you to the seeds, sprouts, and seedlings of my writings—now it’s time to dig into the roots.

Gnome Roots, that is. Book three of the Gnomeward Bound series—officially titled Gnome Tree: Gnome Roots.

My fiancé and I trade puns daily. Humor’s our compost—it helps things grow, especially when life feels overgrown with weeds. This time, even our cat got in on the fun. She narrated books one and two, so of course she’s back behind the whiskers again.

Naturally, the next step was to branch out (yes, pun intended) and let a whole forest of wordplay take root—starting with the title itself. Gnome Tree… Gnome Three… see what I did there?

As for the story, it’s rooted in—sorry, can’t help myself—something more serious. I wrote it in the summer of 2025, when wildfire smoke rolled in and gave us the worst air on Earth for a while. It was a long, unbearable season. They always say, “People with existing health conditions should avoid exposure.” Right. And how exactly do you do that? Stop breathing?

The air made me ill—truly ill—despite running air purifiers 24/7. So I figured: if I could turn skunk smell into something creative, why not do the same with wildfire smoke?

And that’s how Gnome Tree: Gnome Roots was born.

Wait—three books make a trilogy, not a series! I know. But book four is already rustling in the background. The cover’s halfway done, the title’s chosen, and the general plot idea is sprouting nicely.

For now, though, since I’m already juggling three other books, the gnomes will have to pull up a rocking chair… and practice patience.

So, before I let the gnomes get too comfortable in their rocking chairs, here’s a little peek beneath the moss — a glimpse of where Gnome Tree: Gnome Roots grows.

Then I heard it. Not with my ears. Not exactly.

A voice.

Old. Gentle. Slow as root growth.

“We all share the earth,” it said.

“Stone, fur, feather, bark. All of us.”

The mist swirled through the branches. The trees leaned in just enough to feel like they were circling me — not menacing, but expectant.

“Long ago, we spoke through the soil. Through the threads beneath.

The roots carried stories. The fungi carried whispers.

Together, we remembered.”

I blinked.

“Most humans have forgotten,” the voice continued.

“They pave. They sever. They forget what holds the world together.”

“And I’m not human,” I said aloud. Just in case there was confusion.

The branches rustled. I could’ve sworn one bent closer.

“No. But you are near those who still feel it.

The small ones in felt. The ones who rescue plants.

And the tree who listens beside you.”

I said nothing.

But I thought of the planter. The soil. The mushrooms that sprung up randomly. The spruce who never moved, but somehow always knew.