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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


Alone in my small warm place,

Windsong to feed the silence,

Hours slip past uncounted

December light herds swift

A multitude of cloudshadow

Across the mountain’s face,

At length, the downing sun,

Tangles in the naked trees,

Doused and drowned in nightrise,

Falls away toward another dawn

Behind some other mountain,

Last, the measure of this day

Is numbered by bound pages

Scarred with shreds and shards

Of story, tale out of order

But complete for finding out.

Too tired now to sort a plot,

I give these to the holy dark

And trust my soul to sleep

To hold my threads intact

Across one more frozen night

And weave me into morning.


Henry's books.




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