In the months before drafting “SyncALife,” I experienced a loss that made me think about how easy it is to fondly remember a loved one, but miles more difficult to discuss the harm they might have caused in their lifetimes. This felt especially true of men—and paternal figures—who seem to receive more grace when it comes to their shortcomings. This story was a way of exploring the long-term effects of hypermasculinity.

I was playing Skyrim again and having fun reading all the books. It sort of clicked in my head that maybe what this story was lacking was the “in world” texts . . . so I started with one, and then it just expanded wildly from there and the connected narratives of identity and representation and connection all gelled in my head. Also, I have always wanted an excuse to write a video game cut scene.

Alas, this story originated with life and death. You can see that I am the viewpoint character, and that the drama taking place in the foreground is the events concurrent with the sudden illness and untimely death of my wife Judi. I wish the story hadn’t originated, but we can’t always get what we want. It is the second, and I hope final, story specifically driven by this loss.

When I was about thirteen, a group of us went camping in someone’s cow pasture. There was a murky pond where we swam and fished. I waded deep into the dark, fish-reeking water, up to my throat, when my feet touched something sharp in the mud. I stepped back, but I found more hard edges, coated in slime. Probing around with my feet, horror and disgust broke over me when I realized where I was.

I backed a Kickstarter with a reward level that included working with Maurice on a short story. We’d both written airships, and I had friends who had lots of great things to say about Maurice as a person, so I thought that would be a fun experience. I was a little nervous, because a previous attempt to co-write a story didn’t go well. But that was a novel, and this would be a short story. I hoped that I’d have a better experience.

I love stories where characters find their person(s) through adventure, magic, and hardship. Before writing this story, I was also daydreaming epilogues for my favorite Hayao Miyazaki films. I thought, “What happens when the main characters grow old? What happens when one of them loses their partner in life? How do you process that grief when you’re jaded by the world and have magical abilities?” I was still processing my own grief and anxieties while writing it, and for a time I wasn’t sure how it would end.

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.