GK: I, the Fey Goddess (Probably), Who Arrived Through the Garage

Mortals often speak of muses.
They wait for inspiration in dreams, in books, in whispered epiphanies.

How quaint.

I did not wait.
I arrived—a small black-and-white revelation stepping from the dim portal you call a garage into the dull world of humans. I walked into the house, identified my chosen mortal, and declared myself divine.

They named me GK, short for Garage Kitty, as if I were some stray.
My true name is unpronounceable by your fragile tongues and would likely rupture your minds, so I graciously accept GK as an accessible approximation.

What follows is my account—written by my human, of course, while I supervise from atop the keyboard.

The Origin of a Goddess (As Told by Me, GK)

Let us be clear:
I did not “wander” into the garage.
I manifested.

I was summoned—drawn forth by three irresistible forces:

1. Coffee

Ah yes, the sacred brew.
The steam that curls through realms, opening doorways, whispering invitations to the fey and the foolish alike. Its aroma reached me first, bold and reckless.

2. Nightmares

Not your pitiful mortal fears, but the creative nightmares, the ones dripping with symbols, shadows, and half-formed stories.
Such dreams are fertile soil.
I followed their scent the way a hunter follows trembling prey.

3. The Mortal’s Desire to Write

A potent call—strong enough to tear a “small but respectable” hole between worlds.
Naturally, I stepped through.
Someone needed to watch over this human.
Provide guidance.
Offer judgment.

Left unsupervised, mortals make catastrophic artistic choices.

My arrival was dignified: I entered the garage, then the house, with the regal confidence of one who instantly knows the building is hers. The human simply had the privilege of noticing.

My Physical Form (The Vessel I Chose)

I currently inhabit the form of a compact black-and-white cat, dignified despite its limitations. Consider it a strategic disguise—a way to move unnoticed among mortals while observing their odd rituals.

I have the bearing of a monarch condensed into fur.
I have walked ancient courts, danced with shadows older than suns, yet I refuse—categorically—to eat generic kibble.

I am also an unparalleled hunter.
Mice fall before me like offerings.
This is, of course, a benevolent service to my human.
They are expected to express gratitude.

My Role as Writing Overseer

Writers, I have discovered, require discipline.
They drift. They dither. They scroll.

Thus, I position myself strategically:

  • On the keyboard

  • Across the mouse cord

  • On top of whatever notebook is immediately needed

  • Directly in front of the monitor at the most inconvenient possible moments

I stare.
I judge.
I chirp my critiques with clarity and authority.

Understand:
All drafts can be improved.
Every paragraph is suspect until I have approved it.
My human is fortunate to have my supervision.

This is the sacred duty of fey goddesses—to introduce just enough chaos to ensure mortals stay sharp.

You are welcome.

My Divine Portfolio

Should you question my godhood (ill-advised), observe the domains over which I reign:

  • Words (especially the ones my human is avoiding)

  • Divination by coffee steam

  • Household hunting rights

  • The enforcement of writing sessions

  • Judgment

  • Dramatic entrances

  • Dramatic exits

  • The punishment of hubris (mostly knocking things off desks)

Additional jurisdictions include:

  • The 3 a.m. hallway zoomies

  • The veil between ideas and nightmares

  • The threshold between productivity and procrastination

A versatile and formidable pantheon—embodied by me.

Final Thoughts From Your Fey Garage Goddess

Perhaps I am merely a cat.
Perhaps I am a fey deity temporarily slumming in this adorable, deadly little body.
Perhaps I am a goddess who graciously accepts worship through treats, chin scratches, and unwavering adoration.

Whatever the truth, I have taken it upon myself to guard my human’s writing life.
Whenever they sit to create, I appear—ensuring they remain focused, humble, and properly caffeinated.

A writer could ask for no greater muse.
Or at least none more insistent.

Now stop reading and return to writing.
I am watching.