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Writing Wendl - attrition...

Status report on the current novel project, Wendl the Fallen : At around 60,000 words, I've killed off a couple of characters, which is usually an early sign that the story is finding me. The target is a rough draft of about 100,000 words in twelve chapters, which will trim down in re-write and editing to something like 70,000 words in ten chapters. I've never written a novel this dark before - or this funny. To be honest, I'm not at all sure I'll ever be able to finish it. Meanwhile, The Winged Child will be out in February. That is my best one so far.   Henry's books . If you would like to deliver Drovers Gap blog directly to your email inbox, click here .  

And we're off...

 ...and we're off again on another novel. In Wendl the Fallen, intrepid Wendl VonTrier ventures among the Fallen one more time to dispense his mysterious and severe mercies. The author hasn't the slightest idea where this one is going, but this is where it starts-




Wendl was reading the story aloud. It was an old story. He knew it by heart. After awhile, lost in the flow of his remembrance, he no longer even looked at the ReadPad in his hand. When he felt something wet and warm and viscous in his palm, Wendl opened his eyes and stared down at the ReadPad. A thick red liquid oozed out of it, dripping off his fingers. He raised his hand to his face and inhaled. Wendl had been in the War. It was a long time ago when he was still young, before he was Púca. There was no mistaking, though. He had never forgotten the smell of blood.

“Are you alright, Grampa?” said the child who sat beside him. There were two of them, a boy and a girl. The boy had spoken.

“I’m sorry, children,” Wendl smiled down at them, “I must have dozed off.”

“You were talking funny,” said the girl.

“It was the Old Tongue,” Wendl said. “as we spoke it among the Fallen.”

“But the Old Tongue is not allowed,” said the boy. His voice tremored with fright.

“We should report you, Grampa,” admonished the girl, looking suddenly very serious and grown-up.

“Are you going to report me, children?” asked Wendl, chuckling, as if they were sharing a joke.

“Oh, no, Grampa,” said the boy, shaking his head, vigorously, “They would cut out your tongue.”

“Then how would you tell us stories?” asked the girl, wild-eyed and giggling.

Wendl laughed himself awake. “What a strange dream,” he mused aloud. There were no grandchildren of course. Never had been. There were no ReadPads at the Abbey, either. The Trier had seerbowls. They felt no need of the screens and devices ubiquitous among the Fallen.

Wendl suspected this, like most of his dreams, was a Summons, albeit not a clear one. He would tell his dream to Mother Wandalena when he saw her at Lauds. Perhaps his Superior would know what to make of it.

-Well, it's a start. I'll show you the rest when it's finished. That may take awhile, but meantime, you can read these.


Henry's books.

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