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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

December grays...


It was one of those gray December days that hints it might end in a drizzle or a flurry. It felt good to have the walling done at last, and work to do in a sheltered place out of the wind. I spent the morning clearing the little space where the kitchen garden will be. Then, having enjoyed it so much, I went out again and worked through my normal afternoon writing hours. I can write when it's dark and raining.

Yesterday, I found the unruly little spruce that will reside out there somewhere. I'll maybe go fetch it home tomorrow. Two or three of these rocks might stay. If not, there's plenty more left around the place to choose from. The garden will need a bit of stone here and there to converse with the walls.

I'll keep you posted...


Henry's books.

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