The Economics of Inspiration

Today, October 20, is National Day on Writing in the USA, and I almost missed it!
That’s why I’d like to take this opportunity to give you a quick sneak peek of one of my (currently) three works in progress — and show you the real world behind it.

“Before your kind counted years, before the first footprint marked the dust, the continents sang. They rose from the deep in the Gem-Mother’s palm — seven shining stones, each tuned to its own note in the song of the world. When she breathed upon them, her breath did not vanish into the air. It clung. It shimmered. It became the purple veil you see above, the veil that holds our days together.”

Her voice slid into the telling like warm shadow, carrying the slow prowl of something that could outrun the wind if it chose. The light bent differently around her — not because she wished to hide, but because she enjoyed deciding who saw her at all. Eyes like molten gold flickered in the space between heartbeats. Her tail curled and uncurled with feline punctuation.

“The Breath is not dust. It is promise. The gems hum still, their light rising to wrap the world in a crown you can see even from the black between the stars. It shields the rivers, quiets the storms, and carries whispers between the continents. Those who breathe it too deeply are changed — sometimes blessed, sometimes lost. The veil is not uniform. It drifts, and as it drifts, it reveals.

Once it thinned enough to show the white stillness of a southern land, where the air slows the heart. Elsewhere it parted over waters so blue-green they seemed to inhale purity itself. Over far horizons, deserts blushed in pale gold and pink while deep forests glowed in a darker rose. A western land shone with violet and gold, the way a candle glows through silk. And somewhere — unseen by those not meant to see — were the sunlit plains, the storm-marked cliffs, the jeweled valleys, and the coasts where the tide moves like a ghost. Seven colors. Seven songs.

It was the first dawn that set the veil aglow — when the Gem-Mother opened her eyes and saw her own heart mirrored in the world. That day’s light has never gone out. Even in the deepest night, the haze remembers. No ship born beyond our sky had ever pierced that veil… until now. And they are coming because they saw the glow.” (work in progress, and the picture above is from that world)

That paragraph came to me one night while I was sitting at my desk — the one tucked inside a trailer park home almost as old as I am (with its original wiring), beside a printer that still needs a cable and refuses to admit it’s the year 2025.

This is my creative space:

My desk sits where our dining space is supposed to be. Instead, it gives birth to galaxies which take shape between the scent of the neighbor’s dryer sheets. Said aroma drifts endlessly through thin, “vintage” walls — and it’s where the occasional skunk offers its own unsolicited (and impressively smelly) feedback.

It’s basically one room, and I work to a constant background drone of airplanes and “performance” mufflers.

People often imagine writers tucked away in serene studios with soft lighting and endless quiet. My creative space hums with the sound of a fridge, the creak of old floors, and the tap of a gifted laptop that somehow believes in me more than most algorithms ever will.

So, I made a small Amazon wishlist for the practical magic that keeps A Heep of Words alive — a few assorted supplies, and maybe one day, a printer that connects without a séance.

If you’d like to help keep the words flowing (and the dryer sheet fumes from winning), you can peek at it here:
👉 [Amazon Wishlist Link]

Because even from small, noisy corners, new worlds are born.