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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

What Annie did...


She wrote about an old man

Who throughout his long life

Had been trying trying trying

To teach a stone to speak.


She extolled the man’s patience,

Noted his blind unreasoned faith

That by virtue of persistence

He might move stone to words.


She said little about the stone

Apart from its obdurance,

Nothing about its long striving

To teach one old man to hear.


Henry's books.


  1. I love this poem and it hits very close to home, as I have a stone that has taught me both to speak and hear.

    1. Sharon, I know the feeling, having been stoned now and then myself.


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