How did “The Letters They Left Behind” originate? What inspirations did you draw on?

I no longer know why the nugget which became this story popped into my head, so whatever the original inspiration was is lost somewhere in my subconscious. I only know that one day, I scribbled in my journal it had somehow coalesced (and how odd to use the word “somehow,” considering I try never to use it in my fiction, as it seems a cheat word), and this is how I recorded it.

(Those who’ve yet to read the story and are spoiler-phobic should probably skip over this.)

“A story told in the form of letters written by a parent to a child, to be read at important moments in the kid’s life after Mom or Dad is gone. The contrast between the imagined future and the real future will be immense.”

That’s all I had. I had no idea who the characters were. I had no plot, no setting, no clue whether this was meant to be a science fiction, fantasy, or horror story.

So how did I get from those two sentences to a story? By interrogating the concept, and asking myself endless questions. I often write more words about any story than I write in the process of creating the story itself. I allow myself to blue-sky possibilities regardless of how foolish they might be, and shoot down nothing.

Here, a few days after that first entry, is the first note which bears a resemblance to the story which would eventually come into being.

“A mother, going off on a deep-space mission which will last many years, leaves behind letters for her daughter to mark milestones. But then a disaster strikes Earth and the contrast between what the letters depict and what the world is really like becomes extreme.”

All I knew at this point was that I’ve always loved epistolary stories (so that was perhaps a partial inspiration), plus I was intrigued by the concept of tension between a predicted future described by letters written in the past and the actual future which eventually occurred.

Note I had no idea at this point there’d be aliens involved. But that aspect would come.

What is your writing process like? Did this story fit the pattern?

Yes. Because I create stories by poking and prodding at the concept in my journal, asking myself endless questions. Some of the questions I scribbled during the week after those earlier entries above were—

“Why did the mother go into space?

“Was she a scientist?

“Or was it one of those cases where aliens come and take some people away, either as a volunteer or by lottery?

“How exactly did the world fall apart?

“How many letters does the mother leave behind, and what milestones are they for which never happen?

“Does the mother come back?

“If she does, should there be a reunion, or should the daughter predecease?

“Should the collapse of Earth be tied to the aliens? (Probably.)”

It might seem strange a devout pantser like me would do this much questioning before diving in and doing actual writing, but believe me, none of these questions are about creating a plot. When I begin, I still have no idea where I’m going. What occurs is that eventually, after asking a lengthy string of questions such as these, I know enough about character and setting that an opening sentence pops into my head. In this case, that was the actual start of the story. Once I had that, everything which followed began to flow.

Did you get stuck at any point while writing this? How did you get past that?

Once again trying not to spoil the ending to this story for those who prefer reading these Q&A features before they read the story to which they correspond (and I’ll try to be as oblique here as I can), my original construction of this story did not point to an upbeat ending. The reunion which occurs at the end did not exist in my original conception. That reunion was going to be dashed either because one of the characters did not survive to achieve it, or else headed off on their own wanderings so the paths of the two main characters never intersect.

But as I was nearing that end, I realized I did not want to deliver such a heartbreaking message. For a time I thought the solution was to write the story in reverse chronological order, beginning with the despair of my initial perceived ending, and ending with the hope of beginning. I even wrote in my journal—

“I think I need to create an inside out/upside down file and see where that leaves me.”

But as I scribbled later on after having experimented with that construction—

“That’s not an emotion I or the world needs right now.”

For to tell the story that way was still too much of a downer.

How did I arrive at the true ending—or the ending I chose to write anyway, whether or not it’s true? By asking the next question.

Whenever I’m uncertain of the next scene, the next sentence, I pull out my journal and begin writing down every possible forking possibility I can imagine, trying each on for size until one sings to me. And then I return to the text and continue. Which is how this pantser inches forward.

Where are you in this story?

I’m Mom, I guess. Sacrificing for my child, searching for my child, filled with a righteous anger against those who would harm my child.

Is there anything you want to make sure readers noticed?

A week before scribbling down the idea for this story, I wrote the following in my journal as I sought the next piece worth writing—

“If I could only write one more story before I ended my time on this planet, what would I want it to say?

“Well, love is love is love is love, of course.”

“Be good to one another. Be kind.”

“Make others feel better for having known you.”

“Prop people up so they can be the best themselves they can be.”

“Make room for those who do not know how to make room for themselves.”

Is any of that actually in the story? It would be hubris for me to say it is. That’s not for me to judge. But I hope some small sliver is there underneath the metaphor of story.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

I recently listened to a 25-year-old recording of me at a workshop giving advice to writers on how to construct their stories, and though it was true for me at the time, I’d no longer give the same advice now. I was very much a conscious and deliberate writer then at the first draft stage, and explained in great detail how to rub the two sticks of character and concept together to create a fire. But I no longer do that.

These days, at that stage, I rely more on my heart and my gut than my brain. Over the years, I’ve passed the baton from my conscious mind to my subconscious. Which explains how someone who was once a plotter has become pantser.

And that translates into the advice of—only hold on to your methods as long as they work for you. Do not be afraid when those methods change, and you begin to reject the creative principles you once embraced. Let each story teach you what that story needs from you in order to be born. Allow yourself to grow.

And may I quote David Bowie, who gave much better advice for creators than I ever could? He said:

“If you feel safe in the area that you’re working in, you’re not working in the right area. Always go a little further into the water than you feel you’re capable of being in, go a little bit out of your depth and when you don’t feel that your feet are quite touching the bottom, you’re just about in the right place to do something exciting.”

I’ve returned to those words often, and though I’m not always able to live up to them, they’ve helped me keep my focus on what matters.

What are you reading lately? What writers inspire you?

It should surprise no one that when asked what I’m reading, my usual answer is a short story collection. The short story is where I’ve chosen to live my life as a writer, and it’s where I find the most pleasure as a reader.

And so last month I read White Cat, Black Dog, the breathtaking new collection from Kelly Link. There’s not a false word anywhere in the book, and in fact, it only took a single word in the final paragraph of one of her stories—”perhaps”—to stab me in the heart. I froze when that “perhaps” came along, holding my breath, having to take a few beats before daring to read on. No wonder I mentioned Kelly Link on every one of my seven panels at a recent convention, several times calling her “one of our greatest living short fiction writers,” often correcting that to “one of our greatest short fiction writers living or dead.” If the MacArthur Committee hadn’t already officially dubbed her a genius, I’d do so myself.

Sarah Pinsker’s new collection Lost Places is also a wonder. All of the stories are remarkable, but the new piece in the book, titled “Science Fact!” does things with point of view which I still find astonishing she was able to pull off. It snuck up on me, and by story’s end had me going, “wow.” I don’t know I’d ever have dared attempting such a thing. The collection left me both exhilarated and a bit melancholy. Exhilarated because of the stories, obviously, and I hope they’ll leave you the same way once you track the book down. But also melancholy, because I have no doubt the day will come when SFWA names her a Grand Master, and as I look at the calendar, I doubt I’ll be around on that day, and so won’t get to witness that well-deserved acknowledgment.

So if you need to know who inspires me, I can think of no better place at the moment than these two brilliant writers, whose achievements reach heights to which I can only aspire.

But—surprise!—in addition to these two 2023 collections, I’m also reading the 1927 novel The Bridge of San Luis Rey. I adore Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, so I’m surprised it’s taken me this long to get around to reading his early Pulitzer Prize winner. It includes the line: “There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.” How could I not help but adore a book which includes a sentence such as that?

What trends in speculative fiction would you like to see gain popularity in the next few years?

The trend that matters most to me isn’t directly what appears on the page (though it does affect what eventually will appear on the page), but what’s going on behind the keyboard. In recent years, the field, our community, has bent toward diversity, toward allowing a wider range of voices, picking up speed as it does so, and as that continues, I can’t predict how it will play out in the stories we’ll get to read. And that, I think, is the point, and what makes it all so exciting—that the imaginations currently at work, as well as those yet to enter the field, will bring with them visions beyond my own imagination. I welcome them, whatever they might be. We are lucky to be living in such exciting times.

What are you working on lately? Where else can fans look for your work?

I’m in early discussions with a publisher to pull together a short story collection devoted solely to science fiction. My most recent collection, Things That Never Happened (2020), features only my spooky stuff, and I haven’t had one containing only core SF tropes such as robots, deep space, and time travel since What We Still Talk About in 2011. So it’s way past time. I’m hoping it will see print next year.

Short stories upcoming include “The Lessons Only a Jelly Bean Can Teach” in Pulphouse magazine and “An Invitation for the Uninvited” in the anthology Qualia Nous 2.

Plus anyone interested in hearing the voice of the person behind these stories should check out my podcast, Eating the Fantastic, which recently passed its 200th episode. Listeners can eavesdrop on my meals with writers, editors, and agents of science fiction, fantasy, horror, comics, and more as we discuss questions such as the ones I’ve just answered here.