On any given weekday, my alarm clock goes off at 4:00 a.m. so that I can get up and write before going to my day job. I don’t actually get up at 4:00. I usually hit snooze for a couple of hours until I have to get up, shower, and go to work for nine to twelve hours, then come home too tired to do anything but have dinner and fall asleep on the couch with my dinner plate on my chest and contact lenses still stuck to my eyes. So, my typical writing day doesn’t involve any writing at all, unfortunately. An atypical writing day would be me actually writing.

I saw a news article going around Facebook about a young black woman who was fighting to be named valedictorian of her graduating class. She had the highest GPA—but a group of parents and school administrators was pulling shenanigans to deny her the honor, changing the rules and so forth. She was enduring some harassment from her classmates and even death threats, but she was still fighting—and thing was, she already had a standing early-admission acceptance to a very good college on scholarship.

I wrote this story for the Datlow/Windling anthology SIRENS. They wanted an erotic story and, though I always do what Ellen and Terri tell me to, I’m not exactly a writer of erotic stories. To be honest, they make me blush. Bawdy stories, in an Elizabethan vein, were another pair of shoes. A PhD in Non-Shakespearean Renaissance Drama had left me (among other things) with a copy of Shakespeare’s BAWDY, a facsimile of Robert Greene’s THE ART OF CONNY-CATCHING, and a knack for writing Elizabethan prose. I figured I might as well get some use out of them.

Last year, my sister fell victim to a ransomware virus that caused her to lose a lot of important files, including irreplaceable photos. Some of my recent stories have involved brain implant technology, so I started thinking about what ransomware would look like in a future in which such technology is a part of everyday life. You could look at it as a cautionary tale, but I didn’t write it with that intention.

I spent my first twenty-five years as a musician in a family of musicians. The funny thing is, none of them were into rock’n’roll. Classical, Dixieland, Chicago jazz, early polyphonic choral music, even screech’n’fart, as we fondly called stuff like Charles Ives and Arnold Schoenberg. As a child I was told that rock’n’roll is a gateway drug to heroin, so I didn’t discover it until I went to college. But music is music, eh? Kind of my point in this story

Istanbul and Budapest are two cities that I love, with rich histories of political resistance—but also imperial power, too. Both have been at the centers of empires that lasted centuries. And Turpan, in western China, has occupied a place of strategic importance for over 1,500 years. Enormously important historical events took place in these areas, so it makes sense that important future events would happen there too. I like thinking about how history continues to affect us, even in a world of sentient drones.

In this setting, the terms “magic” and “scientific” could only combine in an oxymoron. Magic is about the power of will, but for that power to be applied it has to be controlled and focused. There are techniques for that, many of them very difficult, which have to be learned and practiced. So it’s definitely more of an art than a science; talent comes into it, but so does study and practice

I’d been working on a big space-opera called “The Lacing.” The editor who was interested in it—Richard Evans—died and I was more and more involved in political activism; I also ceased to believe that I was, or could be, a writer of SF rather than fantasy. So I bundled up every single good SF idea I had ever had—except for the ones which were allocated to “The Lacing,” in case I ever went back to it—and thought of a story in which I could use them all.

Societies have their rituals for grief. We have wakes and we have funerals and we have our lists of expected—and acceptable—behaviors. We have unofficial rituals as well—when someone famous dies, we go back and we read their stories or watch their movies or listen to their music. Grief is a big thing.

“Spidersong” by Susan C. Petrey first appeared in THE MAGAZINE OF FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION in September of 1980, just two months before the author’s death. Of Susan’s stories published in that magazine, it is the only one which does not take place in the universe of her gentle healing vampires, the Varkela. It is also the most reprinted of her stories, though it has not been in print for decades.