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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

Come and go...


They come and they go,

like those yellow butterflies

that flutter by on April

afternoons, then disappear

before there's ever a May,

day trippers, weekenders,

summer folk, just pretending

home's not some other place,

if we're lucky, they'll leave

a little of their money behind,

but down the graveled roads

between the creeks and steeps,

you'll find those fervent few

who came this way to stay.

 

Henry's books.




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