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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

Knead and write...


Of all the skills I've picked up in my brief span, I'm most grateful that I've learned to knead and write. To read the texture of a strong flour, the hue and ring of a done loaf.

Bread is more than food for the belly. Its making is a patient meditation. Work and rest, the rhythm of life. There is healing in the dough. The aroma of baking blesses a whole house. 

There is spirit in the grain that tends all who share it toward love and harmony. Strangers become friends when they break a loaf together.

There are more stories in the bread I bake than in the books I write.


Henry's books.

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