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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

Location. Location. Location...


A real writer can write anywhere, so I've heard said, and I reckon that is likely true, although I've found I can write better in some places than others. 

The Main Muse and I have spent a good part of our lives in cities. A lot happens there. So much happens that it takes a few years to realize that most of it pretty much makes the same sort of noise.

My writing got better when we left the urban desert six years ago and headed for the hills. The best writing, I think, happens on the edges. We live in a little mountain town now, some would call it a village, where we know most of our neighbors by name. People tend to treat one another right here because by tomorrow, the whole town will know all about what went on. Everything is close up here. Nobody is ever far from the edge. We can stand on our front porch and look across town and see the woods on the other side. 

We like our life on the edge. Not city-dwellers, by any measure, but not exactly wilderness sojourners, either. Most of our neighbors are human, but we have met deer on the street, and bears have sorted our garbage on occasion. We can hear fox and coyotes at night, and on summer evenings, jazz drifting up the hill from Main Street. We have some basic comforts and diversions of town, people to talk to, electricity, running water, and we can see the wild from our dooryard. It's easier to write about anything when there's a little distance between, but not too much.




Henry's books.

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