One setting in the story was inspired by my own experience, and that’s the cemetery. I had firmly in mind the Sauk City, Wisconsin, cemetery where Arkham House founder August Derleth is buried. I believe it’s the St. Aloysius Cemetery. I had visited it with my then-girlfriend, on a sort of pilgrimage. I was struck by the wrought-iron arch and by the hair-raising “holy and wholesome” sign (which is a quote from 2 Maccabees 12:46, by the way).

I love tropes as a starting point for stories—you can twist them, subvert them, play them for laughs. I poke fun at artificial gravity in this story, but I can see why it’s so common. It’s easier and cheaper to make a movie where the space station has artificial gravity. In short stories, you have to choose what you want to spend your words on. Science fiction often has a lot of weird stuff going on.

Sensory details help anchor the reader in the story. I try to be very specific when it comes to detail, particularly if there are weird things going on. The stranger things I want the reader to believe in, the more specific I get; I don’t want the reader to be busy orienting themselves or losing their suspension of disbelief. I also find stories without sensory detail flat and uninteresting.

We’re a species that has a deep history of massive transitions caused by technology. From stone axes to agriculture, gunpowder to the internet. We’re never quite in control of the things we create. And biotech doubles down on that sense of loss of control, which is why it is hedged around with so many regulations, and is regarded by the public with extreme wariness.

When I came across depictions of rural life in a lot of stories, I felt like they were either overly reverent and pastoral, in the old tradition, or else incredibly exaggerated in a way that made rural people more into caricatures than real people. I felt like, in the character of Tommy, I had an opportunity to explore the complexities of all of this in one story, though I still think I have lots to say about the subject.

Writing dialogue for characters who are different is way more fun than writing characters with more similar voices. You don’t have to worry as much about the voices getting confused. If I stripped all the dialogue tags away, you could still tell who was who in this story, I’m pretty sure. That’s an interesting way to test whether the characters you’re writing are distinct.

I try to write people the way I see them in the real world and hope for the best. Louisa reminds me of so many amazing women I know. And if I can’t relate to the characters, I can’t expect the reader to, but I’ve always found it’s a bit of a leap of faith to think that just because I’m relating to a character, that means a reader will, too. Sometimes what I’m struggling to convey comes through, and sometimes it doesn’t.

Hereafter” was my first sojourn into fiction, after a long, exclusive love affair with poetry. I was writing a piece for Synchronic—an anthology of speculative fiction put together by David Gatewood—when I first met Cpl. Caitlyn McAdams.
She was a character in the story I’d outlined, about a platoon fighting a war in another place, another time.

This story started with a voice. Almost literally—I was living in Iowa at the time, in this nice apartment with hardwood floors and lots of light, and at some point the opening sentence just came to mind: “I am ugliness in body and bone, breath and heartbeat.” The voice was very distinct, very compulsive, very easy to write because of how much drive it had. Looking at the piece a number of years after I wrote it, I think the parts where ugliness narrates her experience as ugliness were what came first

If you were only your brain, what about having a body would you look forward to the most? What if your hypothetical body was modular, and you could pick the exact variations you wanted? What if you had to buy everything separately? Would you bother with duplicate kidneys if one would do? What if you could only afford eyes or ears, but not both?