The writing is progressing nicely. I am at 44,586 words and counting. Sitting at my desk, staring out at the bleak winter morning, I find inspiration in the little things. A squirrel has decided to come visit, sit on my sill and stare at me. Somehow he has found his way into the story. I am petrified of these little creatures. I picture them wearing leather jackets and carrying chains. So it brings to mind a certain type of criminal. No, I won’t put in the obvious tattoed, unshaven, burly deliquent. This man’s refinement hides the danger he poses to my heroine. He is as unassuming as the squirrel who sits waiting patiently to see if I offer him a treat. Beneath his outer appearance of charm and looks, his soul is black, black as the fur on my morning visitor. I know that if I reach out the little devil will bite or scratch me. Elleanor better watch out. She has no idea who she is dealing with. The squirrel trots away, but my villain has no such compulsion. He is waiting, watching and soon he will strike.