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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 only...


 Writing fiction is not all there is to my life, but writing is a big part of it. When there isn't a tale in progress, the house seems a little too big and overly quiet. The voices in my head for months or years suddenly are silent and absent from that inner space as vast and empty as a desert. There is nothing to do then but wait for something to come along and fill it.

But even the desert has it's own peculiar lives. While I wait, other unplanned and unsought things begin to happen. Be still and wordless for a long enough time in any place and your life comes to meet you. We don't find ourselves in the end, only discover that we were found all along.

Henry's books.

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