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True lies and spilled ink...

There is a reason I keep writing stories. In fact, there are as many reasons as there are stories. Picasso said, “Art is a lie that makes us see the truth.” He could have said just as well, “Art is the truth that makes us see a lie.” I write fiction because in a story you can tell a truth that would get you shot at or run out of town if you dared say it for a fact. The truth is, facts can lie. In the mouths of politicians, they usually do. That something must be true because it is factual is a common misconception. That all myths are fantasy is another. A good story sheds more light in the world than a bad sermon. We need to read the Bible like we read the newspaper and read the newspaper like we read the Bible. In both, we see God at work between the lines. A short story is harder to write than a novel. Humans are never content to say only what is necessary. The trouble with happy endings is that they don’t convince us. Somehow, we don’t think we quite deserve them. If lif


It's been a few days now since the Main Muse and I traipsed down the hill to the Wild Leek Pub where we met our overmountain friends Marianne and Richard for lunch, but their conversation is still fresh in mind. They had come all this way south from Madison. We talked gardening and canine familiars and pharmaphobia and interstate relocation and, of course, books. Thanks for the lunch, and thanks for signing up as advance readers for Among the Fallen. Send me that story of yours, please, Marianne. I need to read it again.

Only a fool would write a novel for money, although one might keep on writing for the friendships found along the way.


  1. Henry, thank you so much for this post about Rich and me, your overmountain friends. I am honored and humbled and was so happy to read this last night. Can't wait for our next visit.

    1. Thank you, Marianne and Rich, for being so postable. We'll be making several forays in your direction over the winter, and will do our best to make a connection. Meanwhile, remember the road runs both ways. I did enjoy reading your story again. Henry's a winner.


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