I really did spend most of my lunches in middle school by myself on the loner bench. Some days I had lunch in the library when even the loner bench didn’t seem safe. One day the vice principal really did try to reach out to me by complimenting my shoes.

Because I create stories by poking and prodding at the concept in my journal, asking myself endless questions. Some of the questions I scribbled during the week after those earlier entries above were: “Why did the mother go into space? Was she a scientist?”

I drew on Hawaiian history, specifically the story of Kamehameha and how he unified the islands with an armada of war canoes and soldiers. I haven’t read many stories that draw inspiration from my culture and wanted to try my hand at expanding it.

I loved the process of building Muna’s world: the social hierarchies and stereotypes that govern the lives of immigrants and othered folk in Barish; the world of writing, publishing, bookselling; the kind of story Muna would be driven to write, what obstacles she might face in pursuing her dreams; and also the intertextual bits i.e., the excerpt from Muna’s work in progress, and the references to the Halfborn series and the latest bestseller.

The Indian fig tree family is one of the most extraordinary species with whom we share this planet. Even today, in India you’ll find them growing almost anywhere—out of a wall, sprouting from a pavement, taking over entire compounds. To walk in a grove of bodhi or peepal trees is to experience the world in a way that is uniquely Indian. I’ve been in redwood forests, pine groves, and other stands but the fig trees of India have a wanton wildness that truly brings home the meaning of the word “jungle.”

As much as I love the conference, I discovered there’s no quicker way to become invisible than to walk around with a toddler at an academic conference. People I’ve known for years developed sudden blindness and a preference for taking the long way around rather than pass where we were sitting. Left alone with my son sleeping in his stroller, I started writing about COVID-19 and the strain of being a mom and having an unsure foundation (which is one of the very conditions of parenthood).

It’s a story in the format of a prompt. Of course, nothing like this would actually work or even be needed. But this is a short story so I did what I wanted.

There was an anthology call for stories that took inspiration from Greek and Roman mythology, but that used them for unexpected voices. Around the time of the anthology call, the US withdrew from Afghanistan. While many supported that decision, a great many soldiers were left feeling that they’d betrayed those to whom they’d made promises over there, and that they’d left a job undone.

With this story, I really wanted to tell a story about humanity’s relationship with plants, which have become/are becoming more and more important to me. Climate change and habitat destruction in the forms of logging, development, pollution, etc. are killing off entire species. Our planet is now in the process of being remade by the climate catastrophe. But what happens after the apocalypse comes and some people, some plants, go on living?

I love dogs! No, seriously, dogs are the absolute best. I wish I could have one (or five) but I don’t have the space they need, nor the time to give them the attention they deserve. I grew up with dogs—usually golden retrievers, always several in the household at a time—and I miss their silly slobbery faces. I’ve had to settle for cats, for the time being; they’re terrific in their own way, but the loyalty of a cat is a totally different thing.