Okay, you really didn't expect me to start with the bottom line, did you?

The set up...
I've been dying to see the TOLKIEN movie for a while now. Since it wasn't released widely, I missed the opportunity to see it in a theater anywhere near my hometown, so I have to wait until it is released as a rental. I've got a couple of friends who are eager to see it too, so I'll probably do a viewing party at my house and make a celebration of it.
(Don't share any reviews of it. I want to see it through my own eyes, thanks.)

The interesting part...
The other day I was exhausted, absolutely drained physically and mentally, from moving out of the house we've spent the past 23 years in, the nest out of which we kicked four of our children and welcomed our first 6 grandchildren into. And that stress had me grasping for some distraction, something I could look forward to. I needed a light, any light, at the end of the tunnel.
And I remembered the TOLKIEN movie.
I thought about how it was going to make me feel, how completely it would make me forget my present stresses (if only for an hour or two), and I was instantly cheered. It was almost as exciting as hearing there would be another Harry Potter movie!

The "ahah" moment...
I suddenly realized that my humble contribution to the world of fiction is providing the same service for some readers!
Some terribly kind folks have told me they enjoy my work and it lifts their spirits, but I never really believed it until now. Rather, I imagined myself sitting on a stoop somewhere, holding out a tin cup and cardboard sign that reads, "Will tell silly stories for Pepsi and/or chocolate."
Believe me, I've appreciated every little coin dropped in my cup. But I doubted it would make much difference if I stopped writing and went back to arranging flowers for a living...
Until now.

Bottom line...
Now I have a bigger job to do. I have happiness to spread. No longer will I write just to expel stories from my brain in order to make room for new ones. Telling tales isn't simply a reason to have a sit-down job after decades of working on my feet. Or for bragging rights, to prove to a now-late brother that I wasn't so stupid after all, that I was smart enough to write a book, to finish it, to publish it. And do it dozens of times over.

Although many of those reasons got me here, especially the last one, I'm shooting for something bigger than vindication. My goal now is to inspire that TOLKIEN FEELING. I plan to stir up giant cauldrons of hope and happiness and ladle it out generously. I want your chest to expand when you hear L.L. Muir has a new release, a new series, a new audiobook. And I want to make sure my stories give you all the feels you were hoping for.

Hold on.
~L.L.R.R. Muir
*snort*

P.S. Here is the link to the movie trailer that has me so excited. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Girzu81oS8Q

As it turns out, having a publishing schedule is actually helpful. I've avoided them before because I wasn't good--okay, I was horrible--at getting the books written when planned.

Part if that was due to the fact that I simply flaked. A few times, real life interrupted. But the main reason, besides procrastination, why I didn't get the work done on time was this: I have a rebellious side.

Okay, so it's not really a side so much as a majority of my body.
Who am I kidding? It's all but a few toes.

I rebel against all authority figures, I rebel against the people I love most in the world. They are understanding if only because they know my sister/brother/mother. They know it's not entirely by choice.

The worst consequences, however, come from the fact that I rebel against myself. No matter what I plan, I self-sabotage. The bright side is I think I've discovered some mind games that will help. In addition, I've decided to put books up for pre-order with Amazon--and the gods at Amazon don't look kindly upon anyone missing publication dates.*
Amazon, my current paycheck distributor, is someone I really really really don't want to piss off. So, chances are excellent that you will see my books released when promised, especially if they are up for pre-order.

(*The only time I missed a pub-date was when I had my accident, but Amazon was very understanding and has re-instated my pre-order privileges.)

If you want to cut to the chase, see my COMING SOON page and get the details. Lots of things going on. Lots of things in various stages of completion, and I've got covers, editors, and release dates all lined up. There are far too many people to disappoint, including and especially, you.

If I've forgotten something, you let me know, will you?
I'll be sending out newsletters every week for a while, to make sure everyone knows what's going on and what has just gone live. Watch for them!

​Lesli

Reaching the sixth book in the Curse of Clan Ross series, I expected to make a few blunders, but this was a doozie.
All through the writing of The Lad That Time Forgot, I scoured the first five books trying to find important details that needed to be included. I swear I did. I even went looking specifically for mentions of the child or children Jillian was carrying in the Juliet book. I was almost sure she'd been expecting twin boys, but I couldn't find a word about them.
Obviously, I was blind.
Thanks to a fan of the series, who also happens to be a Muir, my big blunder was brought to my attention. I mentioned, in the new book, that Monty and Jillian had a daughter, Lucy, who was particularly close to Quinn and Jules' daughter, Emmie. But I failed to mention the twins--two more lads that Time/Lesli forgot.
So...
May I introduce Ewan and Seumas Ross, four-year-old twins who are just 11 months older than Lucy. Even at this age, they are finding their own paths. Unlike his sober brother Ewan, Seumas hates being indoors and prefers following the animals around all day. Even in church you can find something alive and furry in one pocket or another. It has gotten to the point that Jillian has to do a TSA-style search of his person before he's allowed to get into the car on Sunday mornings.
A week ago, when the pointed little nose of a hedgehog appeared above the top of Seumas' shirt pocket during a particularly long prayer, Ewan confessed he'd been used as a drug-mule and had smuggled the animal inside the church.
Both boys were given porridge for supper--Seamus, for using his brother to further his crimes, and Ewan, for even knowing the term drug-mule. Montgomery was speechless when he was served the same meal, albeit a larger portion.
He gasped. "And just what have I done?"
"Obviously," Jillian explained, "you aren't too careful about who's in the room when you're watching your crime dramas."
Seamus stopped glowering at his bowl to laugh at his father. Ewan cocked a brow and nodded. Montgomery scooped up his spoon and dug into his oatmeal without further argument, no doubt to set a good example for his wee tormentors.

Uncle Wickham has been the only one, thus far, to notice that Ewan always seems to know where his brother is and what's he's doing, even when Seumas is outside and out of sight. The picture below is of Ewan and Emmie who have been sent off to fetch Seamus from Morna's barn--on the far side of the Ross/Mackay Burn...
Obviously, their lives won't get seriously complicated for a long while yet...

Boy, it's been a while. 
But before you think less of me, please note that in the past 7 months I have published 13 novels or novellas. And thanks to a couple of other writers in the Culloden Moor series, we now have 17 books up=16 warriors removed from the moor, safely tucked away in their happily ever afters. Well, mostly.

It's quiet tonight. But I'm not in the waiting room. The creaks of tight rope and complaining planks of wood come from the ship I'm on--a late 18th century galleon. And those snores you hear are from the crew and passengers tucked away beneath the deck for the night. A week ago, it was decreed that only sailors are allowed to be out and about after dark.

Obviously, Captain Titus is sick of the passengers after five solid weeks at sea. You can see him watching the last orange bump of the sun settling into the water at our backs, and the second it's gone, he bellows to the steward, "Mister York! Put the children to bed!"

They're all bothersome children now, no longer invited to dine with him. They're careful to stay out of his line of sight for the most part. And those who do cross his path, he pretends not to notice. Eye contact is a thing of the past. Silence is golden.

And now that you know where I'm spending my time, it will come as no surprise that our next Highland warrior will soon be arriving on the scene. There is a great mystery afoot, you see. And, luckily for us, Soncerae is sending Watson to help us solve it. A tall, braw lad from the Isle of Mull, Tremayne Watson has a taste for mysteries even though he never met Sherlock Holmes in real life.

​But then again, none of us has...

Last night I crawled into bed at 4 a.m.
I'd just settled in, taken a deep breath, and prepared to slip into oblivion when I heard voices. The conversation was so clear it could have been taking place next to the bed. A ghost and a certain witch were talking about a scarf with little yellow owls on it.

To be polite, I would say I was frustrated. My mind needed to shut down. Didn't these characters know that I had worked until 4 and needed my sleep or NO ONE was going to get any page time the next day?

I was just about to scream at them to SHUT. UP. But I realized in that moment I would be stupid not to start taking notes. (I have a problem with regrets of omission. Can't stand them. Avoid them at all costs.)

So I reached for the notepad on the night stand. I'd jot down a few reminders, but that was all they were going to get. Unfortunately, I knocked everything on the floor searching for a pen that wasn't there.

With an angry growl my husband never noticed, I climbed out of bed and stomped to the office, turned on the light and powered up a still-warm computer.

So. This morning, when I crawled into bed at 5 a.m., I had a clear picture in my mind of a Highlander named Wyndham, why he is obsessed with a scarf covered in little yellow owls--and the young woman who wore that scarf--twice upon a time.

It's almost a battle, in and of itself, to stand my ground while so many ghostly characters come at me with their stories in their fists, or on their tongues, expecting me to type them up right this minute.

(I posted a list of the order in which the Highlander's stories will be told, but they don't even look at it! I mean, it's right there, stuck to the plaque on the memorial cairn where everyone can see it. And I know, after all these centuries, every last one of them has learned to read!)

And, on top of all this, I've just been waylaid in the shower and informed that one of the stories I planned to tell was just flat out wrong, and one handsome brunette named Ross would be happy to dictate the truth--if I promise to write it next.

Well, I'm not going to fall for that. I have a plan, damn it. I've color coded things and made charts and schedules, and I'm not going to let a wisp of Scottish fog, or shower steam, turn it all into a waste of time!

Besides, if word got out to the others, I'd never be alone in the bathroom again. And that, my friends, is not an option.

So. As per the schedule, Fraser is next.

Probably.
(Just kidding. He is definitely next.)

"Mr. Ross, get back in line or I will sic a couple of Muir witches on you! And anyone stepping a ghost of a toe in my bathroom will become Number Zero. Are we clear?!"

The concept of a majority does not escape the average Scotsman. Nor did it escape the above average Scotsghosts. (Did I tell you there are 79 of them?)

Belying their patient posture, Culloden's 79 took note of their number and made a bold move. I looked up from my keyboard one day in June to discover Stanley missing along with all those lovely wing-backed, white leather chairs. 


They've brought in turf and moss and heather to make their beds while they wait in turn. For a while there, they were queued up and the line went out the door. And although they don't mind standing around for a hundred years or two--they've done it before--it was making me nervous.

Getting a lot of writing done.
The ghosts have settled down, content with the fact that their stories will be told.
The first episode of Pirate Trip is almost ready, and the plot for Viking Trip just dropped in my lap.
Stanley is happy. The Muir Twins are happy.
Everyone is content for the moment.

And I'm pretty sure I need a restroom break, a Diet Pepsi the size of a bucket of chicken...and while you're at it, a bucket of chicken!

A few times a year I have a meeting with a career coach. (Actually, she's my good friend, author Diane Darcy.) A few weeks ago, we met again.

Typically, we stick our noses into each other's careers and take a good critical look at our own. Then we analyze the hell out of it before we come up with a new career plan. We leave the restaurant--I mean, meeting--feeling focused and powerful even though we know our changes will be difficult. This last meeting was no exception.

*Don't worry, Linda, Stanley is still in progress.

But I was feeling a little overwhelmed with all the sequels and plans, so I thought it would be a smart thing to put some series on the back burner--or rather, in the deep freeze, to thaw out and cook at a much later date. Boy, did I feel liberated. The pressure was gone. I had a simple plan to follow. Life was going to get a whole lot easier.

And was I wrong.

I walked confidently into the waiting room, got everyone's attention, then announced the new plan. And while everyone gasped and clutched each other, trying to absorb it all, I got the hell out of there.

I have to pause here to tell you what I meant by "getting the hell out of there." After all, this waiting room is in my head and I can't just go on functioning if I leave my head behind...unless I really leave my head behind. Which is what I did. I thought it would be a wise thing to start taking some medication to help relieve my stress levels. I was going to test the waters and see if I could actually function while taking these meds, and if I couldn't, I would stop taking them. Turns out, I couldn't write a word--whether it was just an imagined block or not, I was dead in the water.

So I stopped taking the meds. It took a couple of weeks for the stuff to leave my system and the crazy dreams to go away--for the most part. Still having some wacky events in my head at night, but I'm back to writing, which is the important thing here.

My mind arrived as scheduled and I boldly returned to the waiting room. I had my new plan in hand and was ready to call all those malcontents to order. Opened the door...and was mobbed.

Characters both alive and dead surrounded me and dragged me into the center of the room. And despite Stanley firing his dueling pistols, the chaos continued. The ghosts of 79 Highland warriors threw chairs of mist against the walls. Ashmoore glared daggers at me while patting the shoulder of a loudly-weeping Sarah who wailed she was too young to die. I protested, since I hadn't planned to kill her off, but my voice was no match for the rest of the noise.

A couple of old women stood at my elbows and explained why I deserved whatever happened though they insisted that, personally, they didn't hold any grudges...even though I planned to close their little tea shop before it ever had a chance to prove itself. 

Monty was no help at all. He sat atop my desk watching the excitement while forcing Jillian and the rest of his clan to cower behind said desk. When I gave him a pointed look, he shrugged his shoulders and said the Muir sisters were right--I'd asked for it.

That was when I really started to worry. It was a dark day indeed if Monty was agreeing with The Sisters.

I gasped and pointed left, then ran to my right toward the exit.
The door disappeared.
I put my back against the wall where that exit had been and braced myself.
After a moment, the chairs stopped flying. The ghosts began righting their imagined furniture, but refused to sit.

Stanley suggested I make myself comfortable and pointed to the desk.
"Move your arse, Laird Ross," he said. "Apparently, no one is going anywhere."