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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

Sins of the father...

The current novel project may turn out to be my never-ending story. Every day a new character emerges begging their own tale. Last night, Lewis Morgan had a fight with his son, the book thief, and threw him out of the house. I left Lewis sitting in the floor with his head in his hands, counting his own sins.

If Lewis and young Neil (who is too much like his father to get along with him) don't make the final cut for Wendl the Fallen, they deserve at least a short story of their own.


Henry's books.

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