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The more things change...

Change is not so much what we make as it is what happens to us unawares. Not everything that changes is progress but it is inevitable that everything changes. The seasons flow on, all too quickly. We tighten our life-vests, and try to steer clear of the rocks. Along our way down the river, we are grateful for every resting place. Here's ours. Above, as it was in our first August here in 2016, and below, as it is now. We still miss the old cherry tree in the foreground of the first photo. It died the year after we moved here. We've carved a garden out of the hill and planted blueberries on the slope above. One thing hasn't changed. We're still here. It's still home. We'll hold to that reality as long as we can.

While I wait...

Some days, I spend a lot of time waiting for things to happen. While I wait, I write. Some of my best stuff is written in parking lots with the windows down. The current work-in-progress has so far been written in a lot of places I never planned to be. It is beginning to look like a forever project.

Looking back, though, this has happened with all my novels. About half-way through the first draft, there are more characters and loose ends than could possibly be resolved in one life-time. Some plot lines will have to be unwritten along the way. Some characters will need to die off. If they refuse to die, I'll have to kill them.

But by and by, the narrative gets lean enough to handle and winds up finished despite all expectations to the contrary. In the end, the story rules, and whatever doesn't serve the story gets jettisoned to keep the tale aloft. Like any good author, I must hang up my ego with my hat when I settle down to write.

The best stories are not invented. They hide. They stalk. They strike.

Henry's books.

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