The language of shipping and fandom is part of the lexicon, at least among me and my friends, so dropping a little reference doesn’t feel like a big deal to me. I have complicated feelings about fanfic in general, in that I think it is great tool, particularly for people who aren’t represented in mainstream media, to appropriate and contextualize mass culture in interesting and vital ways (plus it’s a fun, fulfilling thing to participate in in a world often lacking in pleasures), but I also sort of worry about how fanfic can function as free advertising for massive media conglomerates.

Being a publishing writer requires a certain amount of inherent arrogance—on at least some level, you believe your work is better than the rest of the slush pile and deserves to be read. But you’ll need that arrogance to sustain you through the years of rejection and apathy headed your way. I have a toddler, a marriage, and a menial full-time job, so my “creative process” mostly looks like carving out what writing time I can at erratic intervals, then feeling frustrated with myself for not having the energy to turn out anything good. Hopefully this situation will improve as my kid gets a little older and more independent!

When my grandmother passed away in 2016, I had to go through her belongings and choose which items to take away with me. It’s very strange looking through someone’s things without their permission like that, especially if it’s someone you think you know very well. There were items I came across—family oddments and photographs—that made me wish I’d known her a little better as a person, or asked more questions when I had the chance. That feeling of having to piece together someone you love after the fact, when they’re no longer around to provide context, was a major inspiration.

The best thing about my day job (I am a PhD student of medieval Turkish literature) is how my work constantly refills my creative well. While researching a paper back in 2017, I stumbled across an article that catalogued common narremes in medieval Persian fairy tales. Some of the tropes were familiar to me, such as evil stepmothers, Cinderella stories, and romances beginning with love at first sight. Others surprised me. Three in particular caught my imagination: a girl wandering into an abandoned castle in the desert, a crow with rubies for eyes, and a prince trapped in enchanted sleep, his body pierced with thousands of needles.

Space exploration conjures up awe and excitement, but it’s also about making hard choices, especially once we leave the solar system. Because of my human rights background, I was interested in knowing what our absolute red lines would be if we were trying to save our species from extinction. What would we agree never to do in deep space? What line would we never cross? So I told the story from the point of view of people who created the line, and those who were living on the other side of it. Here on Earth we decided that we would not tolerate certain acts. We had also agreed not to allow any one country to claim property in space.

I have always loved the obscure superheroes who exist at the fringes of the Marvel and DC Universes, taking care of their little corners of creation—and indeed I note that Marvel’s Luke Cage, Daredevil, and Spider-Man are very much within this tradition, despite forces that sometimes draw them to more universal concerns. I was a deep fan of Squirrel Girl before she hit the big time, and when writing Spider-Man I did my little bit—unappreciated—to expand the fame of Razorback, the hero whose helmet is a giant pig head.

My father woke me up on April 12, 1981 to watch the very first Space Shuttle launch. I remember how it affected me and filled me with such pride and awe that we as a species were able to do that, to send human beings into space on a plane atop a column of fire. Fast forward to today, when we’re making leaps and bounds in space technology, but the public has mostly lost interest in it, at least it seems that way from my limited vantage point. And I thought, what would be better to grab the public’s imagination than a pop star performing songs in space?

The experience of refugees the world over is sadly the same: Fleeing from conflict and persecution, all they want is safety for themselves and their children—a chance at a normal life, such as you and I might take for granted. As of 2018, there were over sixty-eight million displaced people in the world. A “zero-tolerance” policy essentially means damning them and their dreams of a safe home, far from violence. So many people the world over lack the most basic necessities: clean water, adequate food, a roof over their heads that won’t get blown up during the night.

This was written for a gorgeous illustration by Julie Dillon, but the sea turtles paired with the second moon took a while to work themselves out in my head, so it took a few months of worldbuilding to discover the story I wanted to write: One about a lesbian relationship wherein, during a separation, both partners wonder whether it might be better for the other if they weren’t dating. As with so many ideas that become finished pieces, that initial idea got the writing started, but another aspect of the story eventually took center stage.It took a while for me to find it though.

When you’re in America, trying to write fantasy in English, you’re so often referred to The Hero with a Thousand Faces as the source of everything good and perfect. But while reading it I, as a woman, felt almost deliberately pushed out into the cold. I wanted to write something that would illustrate just how dismissive it is of anyone who isn’t a straight cis man . . . and decided that I could do it as a 1000-word flash to make my life easier during week three of Clarion West. Uncountable months, four drafts, and a 150% increase in length later, I hear the universe laughing at me.