I have trouble with commas. I know, I know, but it’s true! I tend to view punctuation as a way to pace and space a sentence: When I put a comma in, it’s because I want the reader to take a breath before plunging onward. It’s almost like writing very long structured poetry. When I’m working in first person, I can get away with it, to a degree, but when I move to third, or even second, it can get awkward.

I’ve written a few Heaven and/or Hell stories over the years, including my first published horror story, “Clearance to Land,” and the Johnny Cash tribute “The Train Stops.” One of my many novels in progress is yet another visit to the inferno, which you may or may not see completed at some point. (I am not currently working on it, so don’t hold your breath; just saying that I’m not quite done with the questions.) Many folks attack the trope at one time or another, whether they’re believers or not.

sensory details come to me pretty organically when I’m writing first drafts. If I don’t feel grounded enough in the world to access that sort of thing mostly unconsciously, the story is probably not “baked” enough for me to start writing it. As a reader, I also totally live for these moments. I think they’re almost like cheat codes. If a writer can tell me super precisely about a sensation I’m familiar with, I’m much more likely to believe them.

What becomes “the love of your life” depends on individual character. I have a lawyer uncle for whom the law has been the great love of his love. It could be a person, a concept (God or country or duty), a goal like power, or even something frivolous like chess. Your greatest love, no matter what you say, is whatever you award the bulk of your energy, time, thought, and feeling. It is what you will sacrifice for.

The western as a genre has a rich and deep body of tropes to draw upon. That richness and depth does so much work for the writer—the scenery’s already in the reader’s mind, the sets, the atmosphere, the costumes. A reader brings all of that into the story with her, and that translates to, as you said, expectation. As the storyteller, I benefit from that immensely.

I’m an anxious person, and like most anxious people, I often spin through a hundred different “But what if I had just done this instead?” possibilities when I screw up. Sarah’s machine is a literal version of that. She has to run through all the possibilities before she can confront the idea that she has this one world. As Dahlia points out, their daughter is missing and possibly in trouble, and Sarah’s locked away in the basement.