SF is the only genre explicitly designed to explore the impact of scientific and technical change. The moment you posit a discovery that changes the way we understand Nature—human, biological, subatomic, what have you—you’re talking science fiction by definition. Those are the kinds of issues that interest me the most, and SF is the only genre big enough to explore them.

The Turnip is a re-telling of a fairy tale by the same name, which for my money is the single strangest story in the entire Grimm canon. The original Turnip has always been a source of fascination to me, because it is so clearly parts of two different stories cobbled together, and because one of those is clearly drawing on ancient Germanic mythology (the whole hanging-upside-down-from-a-tree-for-wisdom bit).

The initial aesthetic was inspired by Mad Max: Fury Road and Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, both colourful, post-apocalyptic dystopian stories. Ratter’s tattoo machine is based on the real-life prosthesis of tattoo artist JC Sheitan Tenet. The themes of gender and extinction come from my own anxieties about current events. I’m fascinated by the concept of human extinction.

Funnily enough this story started out as “Ariadne and Theseus in space”—at some point in the ideation stage it took a sharp left from its origin. I think if you squint you can still see bits of it, but Ihuet has a different fate and Tazenket is as different from Theseus as day is from night. But as my agent says, this is the ideal mechanic of inspiration. I never feel bound to where an idea comes from or what its first form is.

This story first came out of my interest in medical history—I was reading about the history of medical uses for molds and began thinking about how cheesemakers in pre-modern times probably would have been the experts in cultivating molds. I also really enjoy writing about people who are not trained in conflict and violence being thrust into situations that would usually be solved with violence.

This is a story that’s very much about its setting—and also about being a certain age in a certain place—and I know readers will read it differently based on how they relate to that experience. As a reader, I’ve been finding myself increasingly enjoying stories where authors don’t over-explain, and just let elements of the setting or characters’ experience be—providing enough context that the story works for everyone.

It grew inside of me for a very long time, built up by images of children picking through garbage dumps in developing world countries to try and eke out some kind of survival. At the same time, as a fan of space and travel, I kept looking at the private space launch activity with optimism and excitement. Somewhere deep inside, that tension between carrying both feelings inside broke and this image of space travelers coming back to a dump began to form in my head.

I was mulling over the concept of “retcon” or “retroactive continuity” as it applies to fictional works: when a new piece of information provides a complete reinterpretation of past events, and what is considered “canon” undergoes a metamorphosis. This is not dissimilar to how our interpretations of history can be manipulated. Although we may believe we are neutral observers, we can be indoctrinated to see events from a deeply biased perspective.

There’s a reason the Jovian fascists in the story named their ship after Charles Lindbergh. While he’s more remembered for his transatlantic flight and is memorialized by multiple airports, he was also a Nazi sympathizer and white supremacist. We have to be vigilant when it comes to people that societies champion and honour, because too often they represent the worst of us.

This story began with a writing prompt from Alexandra Manglis, who is the Undisputed Prompt Champion of the World. It was an image of a giant redwood washed up on a beach. From there, I pulled in other elements I’m obsessed with—queer relationships, non-hierarchical social structures, environmental collapse—and worked at weaving together those threads.