The following is an attempt to explain why I write while borrowing the style of a favorite author … I had to pick Waugh, didn’t I? (sigh)
The image comes back to me slowly, as if my consciousness itself is carrying it, bearing it carefully across wispy shoulders; a pallbearer to an idea that should have been long dead. Still the illusion remains, when I thought I had discovered its origins and in so doing, had banished it. So the image creeps up to meet my thoughts, sidling along like a dog in disgrace. With it comes the recognition that what it tells me may yet be true, because I cannot keep up with the horizon as it receeds ever more softly into the distance. In this moment and just past the treeline, there is the ocean. Invisible it may be, but borne back to me is its treacherous evidence – the proof that is not yet proof. The wind in the trees is instead waves on a wind-tossed beach, the distant rush of traffic the crash of breakers upon a sand bar. In this moment, when I close my eyes sea-scent perfumes the air. Here, I know my meaning behind writing: to escape the very images imprinted on my mind.