On Facing West

I am finishing up The Auto Motive tonight and tomorrow, and as I write, I face west.
Whenever possible, I always write facing West. Facing the sunset. Looking out at the sun dipping behind the ocean, behind the horizon.
Literature, stories, fiction, they’re the business illusion. Like the sunset. The view of the sun sinking into the sea is looking off the back of a thousand-mile-an-hour railway coach.
Looking at the past–and at the future. My sunset here is the sunrise in Asia. A new morning for another part of the world. It’s a glimpse into the future I will see tomorrow in full force.
Looking East? It may be looking forward, but it’s looking forward into the past. Into days already bent low with decay. Into blinding lights that illuminate the land but do little to shed light on tomorrow.
Science Fiction, Mystery, Gothic fantasy, suspense–all the genres I write in–have one thing in common: They are about unfolding. They’re a peek behind the curtain, over the horizon.
It’s a personal affectation.
And it’s why, whenever I have a choice, I write facing west.

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