Meet Leith MacQuill . . .

Awoke this morning with new ideas for the set-up for THE KNIGHT OF CUPS, so have been working today to align the stuff I've already written. The hero's Leith MacQuill, a blood-drinking dark faery and brilliant author with a serious case of writer's block. She's Anna Morland, an aspiring screenwriter who wants the rights to his brilliant first novel--only she doesn't know he's a he because he writes under a female pen name and is a recluse nobody's ever seen. In life, he was a Knight of the Thistle and Jacobite Baron who fought at Culloden. He was shot while retreating and saved by a scout for the Queen of Avalon, who made him her drone and later cursed him for straying. Now, any woman he gives his heart to will die.

I just reached the point where I needed to cast the role of Leith. I chose Scottish actor Hans Matheson--who'd be absolutely perfect if he were just a wee bit taller! But still, he'll do for the purposes of inspiration. And Anna's a tiny little thing, so maybe I could make Leith a wee bit shorter than my usual heroes, who are all over six feet . . . because I prefer tall men, being tall myself. 

Back to the Knight of Cups . . .

Social media is both mesmerizing and daunting. Taking a breath between books, I spent the weekend befriending fellow writers on FB, trying to figure out Triberr, and other audience and brand-building experiments. Today, I started back in on book two of THE KNIGHTS OF AVALON series, THE KNIGHT OF CUPS. The rewrite on QUEEN OF SWORDS derailed me a bit, but now that's done until I hear back from my beta readers (and thanks again to my kind volunteers!). Here's a wee taste from the rough first draft. Still got a lot to work out. Sigh.

Leith MacQuill stilled his fingers on the keyboard and squeezed shut his eyes, which burned with the strain of too many fruitless hours spent staring at the screen. Sighing, he reviewed the few lines—a pathetically paltry output. Smoldering with self-disgust, he plucked his cigarette from the ashtray, rose from the desk, and strode to the library’s diamond-leaded window.

            Taking a long pull on his cigarette, he surveyed the expansive grounds of the castle he called home. The formal gardens looked scruffy, the conservatory cried for paint, and the corner turrets were in dire need of repointing. But upkeep took money, which he had in short supply. And, try as he might, he could think of no new way to acquire more. He’d already sold off most of his horses and opened some of the rooms for tour groups and special events. The former was a painful sacrifice, the latter an insufferable intrusion. But what else could he do? Let the castle he’d spent a fortune restoring fall into ruin?