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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

At the end of the beginning...


One more week of winter, according to the calendar, although the past week has felt more like spring. The season is almost done. Something to reflect upon.

Age encourages reflection. The change of seasons reminds me that my own brief season in the sun is nearing its far terminus. Most of the preceding males in my line of Mitchells went down to earth in their eighties. I'll be eighty in a few weeks. Genetics make it likely that I'm already well into my last decade.

Denouement. That's what the novelists call it. That point in the plot where all the conflicts and complications get resolved, when all the loose ends are tied up. That's where I am. A little peace and calm. A spell of gratitude and forgiveness toward all participating parties. A rest from striving to please and impress. Some quiet joy at what is before the Author types The End.

It's been a pretty good read. I wouldn't mind at all if there were a sequel.

Henry's books.

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