I liked being Conan. You get a kind of rush, a heady feeling of power from being the guy. Every problem can be solved by a sword stroke and a mug of ale. Yet at the same time, I recognized that Conan was “that guy” in the locker room—the one who “never lost a fight” and “bagged a chick last weekend.” You have these constant moments, as a sixteen-year-old boy, wondering, “Is that manhood?”

I wanted to tell the story of two high school girls who meet at a summer camp and become collaborators on their science projects, and, by nature of their collaboration, their relationship develops and deepens in way that neither of them expects. Furthermore, I wanted their collaboration to be antithetical to the competitive spirit of the science fair at the end of camp. It is my hope that, in this way, readers understand that Fox and Scully’s relationship defies expectations due, in part, to the expectations placed upon them.

Principles and rules of writing are useful—essential—for beginners; they help you recognize the dynamics of what you’re doing, to analyze problems and see patterns. They provide a vocabulary and even a technology for composition. But once you get to a certain level, you need to treat them as tools and devices, not as commandments. You have to know when to jettison a rule that you would otherwise use 90% of the time.

For me, the main takeaway of the story was that the transient nature of existence isn’t always a bad thing. People have been pointing out for as long as we’ve had the written word that death and decay are both total bummers. And I agree, they absolutely are. But I think that’s been well documented at this point and it might be valuable to spend more time considering ways in which a lack of permanence could actually be a good thing.

Each choice in a story—who to include, who lives, who is happy—says something. If your story kills off the only queer people shown, what do you think that tells the young queer reader who’s turning the pages, hoping they don’t see themselves dead yet again? Please consider what you are saying when you write. Stories are powerful; they can change lives. I want so much for more stories to offer hope for us to live.

I like writing about the intersection of technology and consciousness. It’s a rich seam to mine because it touches upon so many different areas, and unfurls into so many different possible futures. You can pick your rabbit hole and jump. A lot of my stories tend to be thought experiments where I extrapolate from a premise and follow an idea through to a logical conclusion, but with this story I wanted to reverse that process.

Watching this group of men around the table woke up a mischievous spirit inside me. The image of men seated around a table absorbed in a game made me think of a number of instances where men sit down to discuss something they consider a man’s province. I thought of how surprised men get when a woman inserts herself into their space and how that insertion often leaves them somewhat discombobulated—and in particular when the insertion is in the form of a woman who engages and embraces her own power.

I’m fascinated by the ways in which personal technology asks so much of us. (There are more invasive examples, but for me, the idea that your FitBit tracks your sleep is the most bizarre; you can discuss quantifiers all you want, but there is a little corporate-data computer on your wrist watching you dream, and I don’t understand the appeal.) But as a function of story, it means Sofia and Grandmother have to navigate a world in which they only seem to be able to make space for each other.