Sunday, August 5, 2012
The joy in writing what you could never have known to be true until afterwards is both spellbinding and uplifting. During the ten years of Azimuth’s emergence from my unconscious I learned to leave control over the destiny of the narrative to my imagination. What transpired was occasionally quite spooky. Characters with strange lineage, implements that they used, landscapes and cataclysmic events, the stuff of fantastical fiction, later proved to have more than a grounding in fact. Checking it later was at times like a history programme searching for evidence of solid events which might have given rise to what we have always regarded as mere myth: Atlantis, Ulysses or astronomy of the Ancients.
Writing has this capacity to transcend mundane reality, to travel across time, to make miraculous connections so that, in a sense, nothing need ever be lost from the human experience. It makes a writer feel like a medium, a little bit of a shaman not a sham.