Writing is meditation. The page is a mirror. Khayyam’s moving finger traces our changing features as we age. We write ourselves into knowledge. All of our history comes into play. Not only what we think we remember but also what we don’t know we remember.
In Azimuth the assassin comes from east of Samarkand along the Silk Road. The place is an explicit (and exquisite) memory as I visited there just after the Russians pulled out but there are many elements of his sudden, mysterious eruption on to my pages that came from beyond my knowing. The same with the African mercenaries. Bits come from my time in Ghana regarding their values, much from somewhere else.

We are what we write – but we are also written by our writing.

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