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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

Seasons...


The seasons of the soul

all pass on, inexorable 

as time and weather.

Eventually, by good luck

or by Grace, from all

your striving or perhaps

 in spite of it,  you arrive 

at a place that fits your life,

and wish it had always been

this way and you hope

that it will ever so be,

only to awake one spring

morning when the light

whispers change, and know

that beyond this moment,

everything will be different.

Terrified and elated,

you step through the door.


Henry's books.

 

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