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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


There are a lot of rocks in my garden-in-progress. A visitor asked, "Are these supposed to be stepping stones?"

Not really, but if they invite your feet, you are welcome to step on them. Their main purpose is to guide the eye, like the brushstrokes and shapes in a painting. Their placement may change as the garden evolves.

It is a very small garden, and there is not much place in it to walk to. It seems a lot bigger when you stay still and look deep.

Henry's books.


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