When I lived in Savannah, there were tour trolleys cruising around the historic district all day long, basically all saying the same things about the same historic sites. I once commented to a friend that if I had a tour trolley business, I’d do something totally different. When she asked me what that something totally different would be, I came up with the idea for a Liar’s Tour.

This was an unusual story for me because it began with physics, and then I had to go back and add characters and stuff to that. I had the idea for a story in which time travel also involved spatial displacement, and that was the original engine for the story. And I had a lot of fun imagining how that would work out—but that wasn’t a story, in itself. I needed characters and an emotional hook and something to carry the story forward.

I don’t paint, but I’ve dabbled enough to have some concept of what painting entails. […] I will admit to drawing, but ninety-eight percent of the time, this takes the form of detailed contour maps, invented landscapes meant to either mimic or outdo existing physiography. I recycle most of these, but once in a while, I come up with a piece that sucks me in, demands my attention, and somehow renders in two dimensions what really ought to exist in three.

The process that works best for me is to think of an interesting character and start the story when they are in trouble. Then give them a difficult decision to make. Readers have such different reactions, but for most people, characters are the key to a story. If the reader doesn’t care about the characters, it’s that much harder to interest them in the conflict. It helps to make the story more memorable if a reader can identify with the choices the character faces.

As a kid, I always loved collecting different versions of the same stories. Considering all the retellings I write, I guess I never got over it. We had VHS copies of various productions of Alice in Wonderland, which I’d watch over and over.

This is a story about desolation. About emptiness. And the way to highlight that is to make every little sound and every nagging thought as loud as thunder. Absolute silence isn’t that interesting; anyone can plug their ears. What’s interesting is a world where your full senses are alert, but there is very little there to tickle them. It’s also the challenge as a writer to make a very constrained set come alive. You don’t have weather and traffic and wildlife to paint your world with. This means highlighting what little you do have.