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Writing Wendl...

I really did want to write a light-hearted tale in case this one turns out to be my last novel (assuming it yet becomes a novel), but it's headed currently toward the shadows. I thought I knew Wendl Von Trier pretty well, having trekked with him through my previous book, The Winged Child .   There, Wendl presents as an elusive solitary, moving above all worldly fray while at the same time nudging events and characters toward a satisfactory conclusion. Sharp and intimidating on the outside and tender and motherly on the inside. A friend to the world, something of a trickster, but in all things working for good outcomes.  That is how I saw Wendl VonTrier. A  púka, mischievous, but essentially harmless, even benevolent, capable of presenting in whatever form or gender the moment required. Wendl seemed the ideal candidate to carry readers off into the literary sunset in good spirits after an exhilarating romp through a fantastical fiction. But all along, it seems, there were depths to

Not now, not yet...

Over the summer, between editing the current novel manuscript, I've managed to pull together a manuscript for a full-length poetry collection, and now I'm going to chicken out and not submit it. The poems are ready but I'm not. Maybe after the current novel project finds a publisher. For now, I still have stories in my head. The poems will be here when I'm dead. Perhaps someone will find my stash of poems, consign them to the trash, or find an editor to sort 'em, and I'll be a poet then, post-mortem.

Henry's books.


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