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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

Finding fault...

The Faulting Angel flew in today.

"What important thing have you done,"

He said, "To make the world better

Than it was?" I thought about my day.

"I shoveled my walk clear of snow,"

I said, "And then I wrote a poem."

The Faulting Angel fluttered her wings,

"You think that's the most important

Thing the world needs now?" it roared.

I closed my eyes and whispered softly, 

"No, it's only the most important thing

I could do today." There came a sound

windywild. When I opened my eyes,

The Faulting Angel had fled away.

Henry's books.



  1. To your credit: You took a photo, you appreciated beauty, you told the truth.


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