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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

The Poet at Eighty...


A tree thrives in the life of leaves.

In leaves, deepest roots are justified.

As trees tend toward tomorrow's green,

so I bend to the will of these words to be,

bearing to light the uncertain fruit

of deep probings into my dark.

Roots and leaves grow each to each,

marked and plotted by the same seed.


Henry's books. 


  1. I wish for you the loveliest of birthdays today, dear Henry, and many beautiful years still to come! May all your most precious wishes come true and may the years ahead be happy, healthy, and holy. I'm so glad you're my friend.

    1. Thanks for the birthday wishes, Sharon. I promise to make the most of them.


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