“The Horror of Party Beach” is part of a longer series of stories I’ve been doing, in which I borrow the titles of cheesy SF/horror movies from the 1950s (and in this case the ’60s), and use them as the inspiration for a new piece. The original intent was to write emotionally serious stories around these ridiculous titles—to take the situations they suggested and treat them with the seriousness a mainstream literary writer might bring to his or her material.

This interview is apparently a course in writer-brain and the way writer brains transform entire histories into fiction! The lemon elements here came originally from a lemonade stand in Idaho, one that, when I was a teenager, was a huge draw, because of the girl who worked at it. The stand was lemon-shaped, and the girl was gorgeous, dressed in lemon yellow, and had lemon yellow hair. She somehow managed to be both voluptuously innocent and palpably good, and also, you know, a living lemon.

I have long used as a story generation tool the personal premise of “secret sequels,” tales that take place in the worlds of various stories by others, all important to me, but not belonging to me. I use the original as jumping-off point, then file off the serial numbers, secure that what I’ve brought to the canvas is sufficient to justify the tale as entirely mine, without being slavish carbon copy. It is a function of asking the question, “What would happen next?”

I love fiction that explores spatial, dimensional, and time travel. However, each has a different effect on a story. They explore different themes. Teleportation worked for these characters and this story because it is fleeting, over in an instant. Often writers will use it as a superpower, or an answer to long-distance travel, or to explore philosophical questions about who actually shows up on the other end, but I was more interested in the fleeting moment itself.

This is really the first Harry and Marlowe story that’s tackled colonialism head-on, and I hope I did the topic some justice. Really, I could only write Victorian-inspired adventure stories for so long without addressing colonialism. Many commentators have noted that steampunk offers a chance to deconstruct and subvert many of the received tropes of Victorian adventure stories.

The thing that seeded this story was a moment in Brent Watanabe’s San Andreas Deer Cam, which hacked a version of Grand Theft Auto to make the POV character a deer. I watched it for two hours straight the first time I saw it; when it walked into the ocean and I realized that I was trying to determine the exact moment it had died, I got unsettled enough to close the window. I never shook that experience and that image, though.

I’m a scientific pantheist. Science is awesome—literally. It inspires awe in me, much the way that I suspect many people are inspired by more traditional religious teachings. So for me, it only makes sense to craft the stories our ancestors might have, had they known more about the universe we live in.