I love giving voice to characters who aren’t typically seen in SF, or fiction in general. That’s part of the beauty of all the projects in the last few years like LONG HIDDEN and FIERCE FAMILY and Women Destroy Science Fiction!: They show that these characters and these stories are wanted and needed. Characters and relationships that reflect the diversity and complexity of real people, even if they’re in fictional settings.

I am very focused on mortality in my fiction. My first novel, The Between, was about a man who escaped death and had to face the consequences as death chased him. My African Immortals series that began with MY SOUL TO KEEP is about people who never age or die. I have been very aware of death since I was a child, and living with that awareness has been an important part of my life and growth.

The very first spark that turned into Quentin’s gift came, like so many good things, from Twitter. I believe it was the excellent writer Elizabeth Bear whose biography used to read, “I tell lies to people for money.” And it’s such a great description of part of the writer’s job (the other part, of course, being that we tell truths to people for money) that it stuck in my head, and made my want to do something with it.

I first encountered “Traveller’s Rest” on reading the Wollheim/Carr anthology WORLD’S BEST SCIENCE FICTION: 1966. (It also appeared in Judith Merril’s The 11th ANNUAL OF THE YEAR’S BEST SF, making it one of only two stories Wollheim/Carr and Merril agreed on in the two years their books overlapped.) But I confess I don’t remember it from that reading. Several years ago, I came back to it.

Grass is ordinary and relentless, like the domination of the family and the rules of everyday life. It ties things (and princesses) down, with countless tiny, tough threads, a mass of them, almost impossible to sever, and even if you break free, these tiny threads leave scars.

The unreliable narrator, for me, tied into the idea of being a teenager on summer break, and everyone always asking what you did during those weeks. Would anyone ever believe you if you had a fantastic adventure—would you believe you, or was it just something you made up to pass the time while you mourned your aunt in your endless summer backyard?