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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

A world of its own...

Every garden is its own world. The most interesting lives in my garden are not the ones I planted. We crave the mysterious, seek ever after the unmapped country, the creatures not yet named, uncharted waters, woods where we must make our own path.

You needn't go far to be found by Mystery but you must look deeply. If we do our weeding properly, among all those we will pull, we'll find the ones to keep.


Henry's books.


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