Q&A with Robert H. Cloake

Don’t miss out on Robert H. Cloake’s, “Fear of Missing Out” [in our January/February issue, on sale now!], or on our chat with him, in which he reveals the three separate ideas that became this story, the particulars of his writing process, and what he’s learned from his various careers.


Asimov’s Editor: How did this story germinate?

RHC: In “The Fear of Missing Out,” three things I’d been toying with separately came together in a spontaneous and happy fusion.

First was the idea of a technology for generating an automatic personality that could maintain social activity while the user does other things. I’ve had this speculation on a list of story ideas for a long time, and I like to collect instances from newspapers and history that pertain to or preview it—for example, when someone’s social media account, partially automated, continues to post after they die. Recently I enjoyed what Kelly Robson—as a bit of background world-building in her richly imagined novella, Gods, Monsters and the Lucky Peach—did with a similar idea. Her story made me feel ready to write my own automatic personality story.

After I sat down to do something with the auto-personality idea, I asked myself what sort of character would plausibly get themselves tangled up with such a technology. And I thought of a second idea—Robert Louis Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It’s on another list I have, this one full of myths and narratives I’ve enjoyed and would like to riff on. So in “The Fear of Missing Out” I ended up creating a reverse Jekyll/Hyde character: one to whom his “natural” personality seems monstrous, while the personality that technology allows him to adopt, and which circumstances increasingly force him to rely on, is the one he and others prefer.

Having these first two ideas, I was immediately reminded of another—of something that’s interested me since I came across it in my graduate school philosophy reading: ego-identity. Ego-identity is the perception most people have of internal continuity and coherence, the identification with themselves that allows them, for example, to recognize their own memories. It seems to me that any story of the type I was dreaming up would necessarily involve a confrontation with the fragility of ego-identity. Many of my favorite bits in “The Fear of Missing Out” explore what the technology under consideration would do to a person’s ego-identity.

Once these three ideas had accumulated, the story practically wrote itself.

AE: Do you particularly relate to any of the characters in this story?

RHC: Not really. For the most part, my stories are attempts to imagine my way into minds and personalities unlike my own.


I work best if I frontload structural considerations, writing down questions and answers to myself about the plot and characters of a story idea until I have a general sense of its outcome, major turns, and central themes. I formulate that conception in a small paragraph of instructions to myself, and sometimes in a scene list or a brief outline, and then I draft straight through the story, secure in the knowledge that I can focus on language because the larger patterns have been sorted.


AE: How did the title for this piece come to you?

RHC: “The Fear of Missing Out” is an allusion to the expression “FOMO.” I won’t belabor the irony, which should be apparent to anyone who reads the story.

AE: What is your process?

RHC: I work best if I frontload structural considerations, writing down questions and answers to myself about the plot and characters of a story idea until I have a general sense of its outcome, major turns, and central themes. I formulate that conception in a small paragraph of instructions to myself, and sometimes in a scene list or a brief outline, and then I draft straight through the story, secure in the knowledge that I can focus on language because the larger patterns have been sorted. When I make myself take the time to go through this process, generally the stories come out pretty well and don’t need a huge amount of editing. Unfortunately, I often dive impatiently into drafting without having thought through my story, in which case it takes many drafts, and sometimes many years, to arrive at something good. “The Fear of Missing Out” was a smooth experience, because I took my time thinking it through before I started writing.

AE: What other projects are you working on?

RHC: I always have half a dozen stories underway, and I’m also working on a novel—since it looks like we’ll be mostly stuck avoiding social interactions for reasons of public health throughout 2021, I hope to get a lot of writing done.

AE: What are you reading right now?

RHC: For a book club with some fellow speculative fiction writers, I’m reading Tana French’s latest mystery novel, The Searcher. For my own education, I’m reading The Age of Surveillance Capitalism by Shoshana Zuboff. And for pleasure, I’ve been reading C.J. Cherryh’s Cyteen, as well as a wonderful anthology of Italian short stories edited by Jhumpa Lahiri, and the notebooks and travel journals of the Swiss poet Philippe Jaccottet.

AE: What other careers have you had, and how have they affected your writing?

RHC: I have been a hospital orderly, which convinced me I would prefer a job where I could sometimes sit down. I have been a college lecturer in philosophy, which informs my choice of topics and tendency to push my stories in the direction of thought experiments. And I have been a journalist, which taught me to ignore my literary vapors and get on with the writing.


AE:
How can our readers follow you and your writing?

RHC: Come visit me at www.rhcloake.com


Robert H. Cloake is a writer living in Pittsburgh. With a background in academic philosophy, he uses his fiction to explore the ethical and ontological problems of truth, human personhood, and aesthetic value. As a longtime reader of speculative fiction, he believes that the most significant thought experiments take the form of stories. His work has also appeared in Interzone and Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

Q&A with Avra Margariti

Avra Margariti makes her Asimov’s debut in our January/February issue with the poem “When I’m Thirty I Receive a Box Full of Your Steel Bones” [on sale now]! She took the time to chat with us about the poem’s origins, her projects in progress, defeating writers’ block, and the link between her writing and her future social work career.

Asimov’s Editor: What is the story behind this piece?

AM: I’m a big fan of stories that examine the emotional depths robots can reach. Whether those depths are genuine or perceived and interpreted through manmade lenses, I think the humans’ reactions and behavior toward robots are very telling. In my poem, the way my characters treat robots is only an extension of the way they treat each other. 

AE: Is this story part of a larger universe, or is it stand-alone?

AM: Although a stand-alone, I suppose my poem could be described as a spiritual successor. In the past, I’ve written poems and stories about robots going grape-stomping, engaging with art, experiencing conflicting emotions about their creators, etc.

AE: How did the title for this piece come to you?

AM: My poem is a study of childhood, and the heartfelt naivety that often comes with it. The title, on the other hand, is the adult’s reality, a painful understanding, a second act hinted at but left unexplored.

AE: What is your history with Asimov’s?

AM: My poem “When I’m Thirty I Receive a Box Full of Your Steel Bones” is my first ever piece published with Asimov’s.

AE: How much or little do current events impact your writing?

AM: I don’t directly name current events most of the time, but I am definitely influenced by them when coming up with plots and characters. I like to fictionalize historic events as well, change the details while still keeping said events recognizable.


The two cornerstones of my future profession are social justice and social change. I want my fictional work to promote and embody those ideals.


AE: How do you deal with writers’ block?

AM: I usually choose a different medium of expression. Unfortunately, I’m not an artist, but I like to photo-edit mock covers for my stories, make moodboards for my characters, or create playlists. Watching a movie or TV show also helps me get out of a writing slump.

AE: What other projects are you currently working on?

AM: I’m editing a collection of speculative love poems inspired by several patchwork aesthetics. My collection is an homage to curiosity cabinets, medieval bestiaries, circus sideshows, anatomical theaters, haunted houses, and black holes. I’m also in the process of revising my magical realism/alternate queer history novella-in-flash, about a troupe of nomadic clowns and their physics-defying king.

AE: What SFnal prediction would you like to see come true?

AM: Is reversing climate change and making the Earth greener too much to ask for?

AE: What are you reading right now?

AM: I’m mostly catching up on all those amazing SFFH short stories released in 2020. Sadly, I haven’t read as much as I would have liked this year, so I’ve missed a lot of creative and innovative work published by my fellow speculative authors.

AE: What other careers have you had, and how have they affected your writing?

AM: I’m currently studying to become a social worker. The two cornerstones of my future profession are social justice and social change. I want my fictional work to promote and embody those ideals.

AE: How can our readers follow you and your writing?

AM: I sometimes tweet @avramargariti.


Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vastarien, Glittership, Liminality, Arsenika, and other venues. You can find her on twitter @avramargariti.

A Conversation in Progress: Professor Earl Jackson, Jr. and Ray Nayler on “A Rocket for Dimitrios”

Ray Nayler’s “A Rocket for Dimitrios” [in our Jan/Feb issue, on sale now!] follows up on “The Disintegration Loops,” from November/December 2019. Below, Ray offers us a look at the story behind the stories, as he sits down with Professor Earl Jackson, Jr. to discuss the metaphor of the Mojave Desert creosote bush, the human connectome, the importance of curiosity, the constraining and defining factor of “place-time,” and much more.


Some Background (Ray Nayler): In 1996, I entered the University of California, Santa Cruz. I was a transfer student, having spent two years of junior college at Foothill College in Los Altos Hills (a place clearly named by monolingual English-speakers), California. Junior college had been the only option for continuing my education: I graduated from high school with a GPA of 1.86, ranked 400in a class of 440.

I came to UC Santa Cruz from a spectacularly broken home, with parents whose divorce battle, in and out of the California courts, would last longer than their marriage had. They had been getting divorced since I was twelve; when I entered university, it still wasn’t over. When I graduated, it still wasn’t over.

The day before high school ended, the vice principal called me in to his office. “Congratulations,” he said. “You graduated from high school in three years. Quite an accomplishment. I just added up all of your sick days, truancies, and suspensions. You managed to miss a full year of high school over these four years.”

A lot of those missed days were suspensions: if you cut school, they gave you a day of Saturday school. But if you cut Saturday school, they suspended you. I never understood the logic: suspension wasn’t a punishment—it was a two-for-one deal. And if I didn’t want to go to school on a Tuesday, I certainly didn’t want to go on a Saturday.

I don’t remember what I said in response to the vice principal; I don’t remember much at all from that hazy last week of high school. I knew almost no one at my school, outside my small circle of disaffected friends.

When I couldn’t escape school, I sat in class thinking of escape. Luckily, I did have a few escapes: there was my skateboard, and there was my writing. I had started writing when I was a little kid, but for those last few years, as I staggered through high school waiting for it to end, I had begun to write more and more. I had two poems published in my high school journal, and carried a notebook with me everywhere.

By the time I got to UC Santa Cruz, I’d had a few stories published in small literary journals, and had started to think of myself as a writer—maybe. I had also been a Dean’s List student at Foothill College. Without the poisonous atmosphere of high school in my lungs, I actually enjoyed education. I was lucky enough to have a few very good teachers at Foothill, who—like my English teachers in high school, and a few others along the way—opened a small window for me into a different world.

But Professor Earl Jackson, Jr. was the one who would throw open the door. Over my three years at UC Santa Cruz, I would take classes from him in detective, suspense, and speculative fiction, as well as an independent study course on film noir and a senior seminar on Plato’s dialogues.

In my senior year I was Earl Jackson’s proxy, with professor-level access to the library, where I sometimes spent twelve to fourteen hours in a single day, leaving only for food. I was working full-time to support myself, and playing upright bass in a band; my life, which had been empty just a few years before, was crammed full. And much of it was filled with learning.

Earl’s extraordinary intellect was central to all of that: I felt, in his detective fictions class in the fall of 1996, when I first encountered semiotics and the work of Charles Sanders Peirce through Earl’s teaching, as if the fog of stupidity spread over my whole childhood had finally begun to clear. Mine was a childhood lived in a California cult of dumb, where shallowness was cool and using too big a word would get you punched in the mouth. Where reading was a dirty habit. Where the only things rewarded were popularity—just another word for dominance over others—and athletic accomplishment in the team uniform.

But here at UCSC was another world, where intelligence and study counted for something. Where the originality of ideas was rewarded. All around me were people who were respected for their thoughts and ideas. For the first time, I felt like I belonged.

It was such a strange feeling that it took me years to even recognize it.

I found Earl again, more than a decade after graduation. By then I was a Foreign Service Officer, posted to Vietnam, and Earl was a professor in Taiwan. I managed to contact him, and he came out to visit me in Ho Chi Minh City, and then in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. We have maintained, for years now, a correspondence and a friendship that I treasure.

Earl’s teaching literally changed my life. This is not an exaggeration. It is a straightforward evaluation of a fact. I cannot think of anyone I would rather have a conversation with about my work in science fiction than him. So here is that conversation—or rather, a part of a conversation in progress. Earl and I have been having a conversation for many years about many things, and I hope it will continue for decades to come.

Earl Jackson, Jr: Many years ago, you told me something that has always stayed with me, about the desert. It might have come from your research for your hardboiled detective novel American Graveyards. You told me there were ancient plants in the desert with very complex root systems. The plants died, became extinct, but the tunnels where their roots formed a system remained, like a memory the desert held. I’m sure I’ve gotten details wrong here, and please correct me. But this came back to me reading both “A Rocket for Dimitrios” and “The Disintegration Loops.” It seems when Sylvia engages the loops she is attempting to read a system similar to the one you describe in the desert, except complicated with the affect-effects of memories. Could you speak to this?

Ray Nayler: I remember that conversation like it was yesterday. What I was referring to is the Mojave Desert creosote bush. The bush is not a single, continuous organism, but rather a clonal colony. The original stem crown splits and fragments over centuries into segments, genetically identical to the original, which produce new branches along their outer edge—like a tree trunk with the center rotted away and only the outer tissue producing branches. The oldest known plant among the creosote, nicknamed “King Clone,” may have started from a seed almost 12,000 years ago. Now it is a ring of living plant tissue about 50 feet in diameter, tapped into an extensive system of roots that are both its own, living roots and the pathways of its ancient roots carved out over millennia, which have since died.

But there is more to the story: in fact, when the seeds of the creosote initially grew, they sprouted in places where the root systems of Ice-Age trees had been. Those root systems led to deep water, and following them down into that soil made it easier to get to that moisture. So now, when you look at a creosote “forest” (it’s hard to use that term for something that would rarely be more than knee-high), you are looking not only at a series of creatures who may have begun their life cycles before the Mayan pyramids were built—you are also looking at a map of an even older forest, the forest which was there before the creosote came. That primeval forest’s root pathways still inform and nurture the present structure. It is, in a sense, a “ghost forest”—but it isn’t a ghost; it is a history. This scientific fact is fascinating in itself, but it is also a metaphor, to me, for how history “haunts” and shapes the present, which grows within the system that history long ago established. Even an extinct system influences the shape of the present system.

I think in some ways the key to science fiction (I mean science fiction as a subset of speculative fiction) is that it uses science both in its “factual” sense and in its metaphorical senses. The loops in “A Rocket for Dimitrios” function in this way. On the one hand, they are a technological concept, a “novum” which drives the story. On the other hand, they are a metaphor. As a metaphor, the loops address themes of memory, distortion, loss, and haunting.


“I see myself as a researcher whose primary task is to find out more about the world, and our existence on it, so that I can more richly communicate those discoveries to the reader and build them a better story.” -R.N.


EJ: Your work is far too complex and draws on far too many sources to be reduced to a single totalizing metaphor. But I think how you have operationalized the natural history of the creosote serves as a compelling transitional metaphor for your work. Not only does it resonate with both the neural systems visited in “Dimitrios”, the method you use regarding the creosote is very productive and I see it across your work. I’m trying to develop this as a question, but it keeps ending in admiration. But here’s one: you use science and biosemiotics to see the world both literally and metaphorically. Could you talk about the advantages of this dual perspective?

RN: I see writing as the building of complex rhetorical machines that change the way we see the world. A good piece of literature should alter the way we see our own world slightly, but forever. As a science fiction writer, I make machines for thinking about the world by demonstrating how it might be otherwise. My goal is to create a machine that offers a glimpse of a different world’s internal workings—the meshing of its gears, the pattern of its structure. That glimpse, I hope, will push the reader to ask questions about the machine of the world they live in, and its underlying structures.

I also don’t think the modernist line drawn between “science” and “philosophy” or “science” and the “humanities” is healthy or valid: like the scientific exploration of the creosote’s structure and the use of that structure as a metaphor for thinking about the world, I see science and philosophy and literature as firmly intertwined, and in fact, they are intertwined. The seed of science took root in an “enlightenment” system that continues to dictate, for better or worse, its shape. Science then informed, through its metaphors, other disciplines, including philosophy. Think of the way Darwin’s (much misinterpreted) scientific theories were rooted in capitalism but then also became a system in which other ideas took root: ideas of social structure, competition, efficiency, and adaptation that were borrowed by Darwin from capitalist, machine, and factory metaphors, and then became themselves “scientific” metaphors used to justify the worst excesses of industrial capitalism. Those “Darwinian” concepts still shape how we think about society today.

The Darwin instance—the metastasis of his ideas about natural selection into a justification for exploitation—is a good example of how misunderstanding and misusing scientific theories, as well as failing to see the flawed systems in which those ideas are rooted, can stunt our discourse. But the creosote example is, for me, an illustration of how nuanced scientific understanding of the world can encourage more complex ways of thinking, and how we can then use the richer metaphors of science as tools for examining our human condition.

EJ: I’m glad you brought up the misuse of Darwin for aggression. It is such a terrible misreading, and unfortunately dovetails with the modern misuse of Descartes. His human exceptionalism, rooted in Renaissance superstition, centered on a cogito rationalized, wanton cruelty against “soulless” non-humans, and a false separation of the mind and body, with the mind depicted as a rational, coherent entity unattached to the physical world. Ironically that Renaissance superstition was actually supported by visual technologies—geometric perspective in painting abetted the idea of a centered disembodied self behind the eyes enjoying mastery of what it sees. Fortunately work like yours de-centers and dispels that false, Cartesian idea of “self.”

Another question for you: When Sylvia goes into Dimitrios, she knows that he was raised a Greek speaker, who then functioned in Russian, German, and Turkish at least. Where did the expectation that she would understand him come from? Since Dimitrios understood the conversations he had, would that understanding in his neural net (if that’s the proper term) be directly transferred as an understood speech to Sylvia independent of the language that had actually been spoken?

RN: One of the mysteries of the loops has to do with inhabiting the neural connectivity that constitutes memory itself. This novella, and the story “The Disintegration Loops,” which is its prequel, are inspired by present-day research into the human connectome: the neural network, which is a massively complex forest (to pick up a metaphor from the first question) of neurons. Being able to map this connectome would provide us with a sort of “wiring diagram” for the human mind, and would be the key, of course, to any sort of “uploading” or “downloading” of human consciousness, as well as having an untold number of other uses. But the hypercomplexity of the human connectome is a major challenge.

The idea is that in the loops, Sylvia inhabits that connectome, and has access to what the dead person had access to—so she expects to understand what the polyglot Dimitrios understands, including languages he understands.

There is a catch here, however: the loops are an alien technology. They don’t function in a way Sylvia or anyone else really comprehends, and certainly not exactly as the human expectations of them suggest. As we see in the story, Dimitrios speaks to Sylvia directly—something a dead man should not be able to do. There is some volition in the network, and suggestions that the sense of Sylvia “inhabiting” the network is not—exactly—accurate. So yes, she should “understand what Dimitrios understands”—but Dimitrios may also be controlling what Sylvia understands, and “narrating” memories to her. In several scenes he is speaking to her directly—“haunting” the root systems of his own connectome.

The loops are also “sticky,” in the sense that they pick up parts of Sylvia’s own fears and memories, and that they “stick” to her consciousness and tangle her experiences with those of the person she is trying to “read.” The loops also deform and decay with each replaying, the way magnetic tape is, over time, distorted and eventually destroyed by playback. So, the system Sylvia is navigating is not only hypercomplex, it is also a system accessed via a technology nobody fully understands. For me, these uncertainties the loops generate are metaphors for uncertainty about the edges of identity, about the wholeness and boundaries of the self.


Learning to communicate in another culture isn’t about “common ground” at all: it is an act of translation. It is seeing ourselves from another perspective, and shaping our signals to the grammar, vocabulary, and syntax of the new context. -R.N.


EJ: Sylvia’s encounter and its consequences suggest so many productive re-visions of first engagement with the unconscious, such as Freudian countertransference and also the re-reading of the ancients on new terms—in other words, honest communion with the dead. I know that when you’re not writing, you set yourself marathon reading tasks. You read all of Shakespeare. Another time you read all of Tolstoi’s War and Peace in Russian. How do your reading projects relate to your writing?

RN: Writing, for me, is a form of listening. I know that sounds strange, as the act of writing seems more related to speech, but for me it is primarily about listening and reading. The goal of writing a good story for my readers provides me with a structure for my exploration of the world—a reason to listen, to attend more closely to what others have said and are saying. I see myself as a researcher whose primary task is to find out more about the world, and our existence on it, so that I can more richly communicate those discoveries to the reader and build them a better story. Writing gives me the excuse I need to engage in massive research undertakings like reading all of Shakespeare, or War and Peace in the original, and gives me a use for that activity—a place in which to put it. An end goal of creation.

But the fact is that I am the kind of person who wants to know everything I can about everything. I always have been. From the earliest age, I was exploring and finding out everything I could about the world—from insects to dinosaurs to Shakespeare’s plays to Buddhism to the ancient Greeks to octopuses to space. I have always followed threads: I was the kind of kid who opened a history book and saw the picture of Robert Falcon Scott’s doomed expedition at the South Pole, and then went to the library and found his entire polar journal and read it, thousands of pages, cover to cover. And then read Amundsen’s accounts, and then read about Erebus and Terror, and so on. I was the kind of kid who read a poem by Wilfred Owen in my literature textbook and then ended up studying World War I and the poetry of the trenches for years. I have always been a researcher, communing with the dead and the living, with the honest desire to understand. I want to know how, and why, and how it felt, and where it happened, and how those things fit together into the worlds that others lived in. Writing allows me to then use all of that energy for something productive, but it also just gives me an excuse to carry out the kinds of research projects I would be engaged in anyway.

EJ: Your active and roving curiosity energizes your prose; your prose is curiosity in action, while your curiosity as a general attitude toward the world is also a kind of ethics.

RN: I think curiosity is a kind of ethics, in fact. C.S. Peirce said it best: “In order to learn you must desire to learn, and in so desiring not be satisfied with what you already incline to think. There follows one corollary which itself deserves to be inscribed upon every wall of the city of philosophy: Do not block the way of inquiry.” I think “Do not block the way of inquiry” is a moral imperative. Inquiry is movement toward truth, no matter how far off that truth may be. Reactionary forces have always been, and always will be, blockers of the way of inquiry, who seek to stop the progress of thinking and lock us in an end-state, a state of error that suits their purposes.

EJ: I really admire the alternative history the story is set in. It’s as if you’ve distilled a ’40s nostalgia and superimposed it onto several decades into an accelerated future (thanks to the alien technology) but then turned around and made that a critical nostalgia. Could you talk about that decision and how it imagines domestic and global politics?

RN: There are so many alternate histories in which the Nazis won World War II, for one reason or another. When I was in high school, I loved The Man in the High Castle, a prime example of this genre. The “alternate history” subgenre of science fiction fascinates me, and that mid-century moment around World War II of massive destruction and societal change is also fascinating, as well as being a rich mine of “might-have-beens.”

One of the things I wanted to explore in “A Rocket for Dimitrios” is the idea of power. The question asked in “Rocket” is a reversal of the typical World War II alternate history. Instead of “What if the Nazis had won World War II,” I wanted to ask a more subtle question: “What would have happened if the United States, rather than winning World War II in the way that actually happened, and having to share global power with the Soviet Union, had won it completely, and ended up with the vast share of the world’s technological power (through happenstance, in this case) and become completely geopolitically dominant? What kind of world would that unilateral dominance have created? And what kind of influence would unilateral dominance following World War II have had on the nation, its leaders, and the international system?”

Another question I wanted to ask is something I have always thought about: At some point, people have lived in the “declining” period of an empire—the point at which the empire has passed its peak and has begun its decay. This point is identified retrospectively by historians, often with some (likely spurious) sense of exactitude. But would it have been possible for people living, say, in the declining period of the Roman Empire or the late Ottoman Empire, to have identified that the world they were living in had entered a state of collapse? How would they have known? And how would that knowledge inform their lives and behavior? Where are those “tipping points” and how would we see them from inside history? How can we know when a system has slid into corruption, and how long is a society able to sustain a myth of itself as the “good guys” when there has been a tilt toward authoritarianism?


I can cease to believe in the values of capitalism, but it remains the driving force of our present economic realities. I can fail to recognize that my host family in Turkmenistan cannot understand my actions, but that won’t make my actions intelligible to them. I can deny the importance of nation-states, but they will continue to exert influence on the fate of billions. I can claim that racism doesn’t exist in the United States, or that I am not a racist, but racism will still be a powerful, structuring force in our history and present society—a force that has shaped me and every other person who lives in that place-time. -R.N.


EJ: Your life in so many different countries and cultures certainly inform your worldview (if that’s a cogent term) beyond superficial “cosmopolitanism.” Could you give an example of an experience in one of the places you’ve lived that has affected your writing dramatically?

RN: At this point, I’ve spent nearly half my life outside of the United States. I’ve lived in Russia, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, Vietnam, Azerbaijan, and now Kosovo. I won’t generalize about any of these places, as I think there is an unhealthy tendency for Westerners in general to use the rest of the world, when they travel through it, as an “other space” in which they go out and learn things, and then bring those things back to the West like trinkets to display. But maybe part of my experience in Turkmenistan, where I was a Peace Corps volunteer, can provide a good example of something I learned.

In Turkmenistan, I lived with a host family for several months. I have always been a person who enjoys spending time with people, but also needs to spend a good deal of time by myself—reading, processing my thoughts, just being alone. I had my own room in my host family; it was a rule of Peace Corps that volunteers have their own room. I was the only one in the family, in fact, who had my own bedroom; most of them just slept on a dushek, a traditional mattress, wherever they wanted to sleep that night. Quite often they rolled their dushek out in the common area, or if it was hot, outside on the tapjan, a low wooden platform in the courtyard.

Because I had my own room, I would retreat into it in the evening to read, after dinner. The days were long, full of language-learning and new experiences, so it felt good to get away for a bit. Inevitably, though, I would be there for only five minutes or so before there was a knock at the door. I would open the door, and there would be my host brother or sister, asking me if anything was wrong. Was I feeling well? Did I need anything? I would say no, and go back to reading. Five minutes later, a knock. The same questions. Was I all right? Did I feel ill?

Soon, I came to realize what the problem was: my host family never spent time alone. Their existence was entirely collective: they ate, worked, talked, watched television, read the paper, drank tea—always together. At night they didn’t lay their dushek down in a place where they could sleep in privacy: they laid it down next to someone else in the family and chatted until they fell asleep. They saw my retreat into my room and my shutting of the door as a sign of illness. To them, it was the behavior of someone who must be sad, or ill, or offended.

When I understood this, I had a sort of revelation. I realized that my behavior was sending out signals that I did not understand or intend. I had grown up in North America and I knew what my behavior signaled there, but here in Turkmenistan I realized that, if I wanted to communicate properly, I would have to alter my behavior. My host family wasn’t going to suddenly “understand” why I wanted to be in my room by myself. In their culture, this was the behavior of a person in distress. I was going to have to change the signals.

So I did: I started reading in the living room, near them, next to my host brother while he did his homework. And the other members of the family left us alone, and let us go about our tasks without interruption, content that we were with the group. I hadn’t found a “common language” with them—I had altered my own behavior. I had learned how to communicate properly within their system.

What did I learn from that experience? I learned that individualism, in the firmest Western sense, is a sham. We aren’t individuals; our ability to communicate is collective: it relies on a system of common traditions, values, and background knowledge underpinning all communication. We are totally embedded in that system. When we move to other systems, we must shift our own behaviors to adapt to those systems, if we want to be understood. Learning to communicate in another culture isn’t about “common ground” at all: it is an act of translation. It is seeing ourselves from another perspective, and shaping our signals to the grammar, vocabulary, and syntax of the new context. That sense of communication across cultural divides as an act of translation and of self-alteration has stayed with me ever since, and certainly informs my writing.

EJ: Absolutely (to everything you just said). Learning languages—especially non-Indo-European languages is really a complex of windows not only opening onto the world but traveling into them. And I love how you never characterize your facility with any of these languages as a “mastery”—in fact it’s just the opposite; you demonstrate a multi-plex humility through letting them inform your ways of being in the world.

Another question: Delany contends that science fiction is informed by a priority of the object, and that the subject is conditioned by the object or the object-world. The loops really are a rich and intricate demonstration of this premise. Could you talk about your conception of subjectivity that you illustrate in the story?

RN: I completely agree with Delany, and I would add to that idea: This is a story about how the subject is conditioned by the object world, in the Delanian sense: technology, and who possesses it, alters the historical facts of the world, and we look through that altered lens into a past that is both like ours and changed. But what I am also exploring is the way in which the individual is embedded in history, and how historical positionality conditions us: how our choices are shaped and limited by the opportunities and happenstances of the world-moment in which we live, and our position within that world-moment. I call it “the self in place-time,” playing on the Einsteinian concept of space-time. We inhabit, of course, a position in space-time, as physical beings, but that position in space-time becomes a “place” when it is suffused with human culture and ideology.

Space has a shape that is physical—there are “things” that really exist, both technological and natural, that do not go away when we stop believing in them, and these are the physical elements of the world. But there is also human culture, human political structure, human ideology, which turn “things” into “objects” and turn that “space” into a “place.” A good metaphor for this might be the difference (often uninterrogated) between a “house” and a “home.” A house is a physical structure consisting of materials and constructed in such a fashion as to provide for living. It is a space. A home, on the other hand, is that same space once it has accrued an identity as a “place” in which human beings are carrying out (and narrating) their lives.

Human beings who live in a house suffuse the materials of it with meaning and turn it into a “place.” But that place is also given meaning by its position within human-structured culture. A home in Berlin in 1939 is not the same as a home in Kansas in 1893, though they may be referred to by the same word. And neither one of those homes, even those same physical structures, unaltered, would be the same “home” today. Each place-time provides a different set of constraints and possibilities, and the people who live in them must function within those parameters. So it is with Dimitrios: he is a creature of the place-time that exists when he is thrown into it. How responsible is he for his actions? For the person he becomes? And how responsible are Alvin and Sylvia for their actions? To what extent are they “individuals,” and to what extent are they produced by the place-time in which they are embedded?

EJ: I think this distinction between space and place is very compelling. Could you expand on this?

RN: Okay. Philip K. Dick had a simple, elegant definition of reality which I love: “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” I think this is a perfect definition, and it works on many levels: first of all there is the fact that things in the world exist, whether or not we perceive them: Mount Everest is there, in all its physicality, no matter what my set of beliefs is. Even if I did not know it was there, it would be real. It is real, as a thing, even in the absence of consciousness to perceive it. Everest exists in space-time. But there is another level here to reality: Human constructions. These are also reality. They are structures built up of ideology and traditions, structures, like the metaphor earlier of the creosote, seeded into the extinct systems of even older structures. These structures may not be physical, in the strictest sense, but they are real. They are actualities. They don’t go away even when we, as individuals, stop believing in them. They exist in place-time, the world created by the accretions of human culture. Charles Sanders Peirce puts it perfectly: “A court may issue injunctions and judgements against me and I care not a snap of my fingers for them, I may think them idle vapour. But when I feel the sheriff’s hand on my shoulder, I shall begin to have a sense of actuality.”

These actualities define place-time. I can cease to believe in the values of capitalism, but it remains the driving force of our present economic realities. I can fail to recognize that my host family in Turkmenistan cannot understand my actions, but that won’t make my actions intelligible to them. I can deny the importance of nation-states, but they will continue to exert influence on the fate of billions. I can claim that racism doesn’t exist in the United States, or that I am not a racist, but racism will still be a powerful, structuring force in our history and present society—a force that has shaped me and every other person who lives in that place-time. I cannot escape my position in place-time’s mesh. I am “of” the world in which I exist, though I can push against it.

So, what kind of freedom am I left with? I do not think the answer is “none,” but certainly the fantasy individuality of the Western subject is a Cartesian farce. Tolstoy demonstrated this in War and Peace more than a hundred and fifty years ago. He laid it out for us over more than a thousand pages, but we still haven’t absorbed the full measure of that novel and its message.

That is the central question of “A Rocket for Dimitrios.” What, as individuals trapped in the warped grid of place-time, can we do to make a difference? And it’s the question I ask myself every day. It is the question that drives me to keep writing.

EJ: I cannot add anything to that. One of my favorite phrases in English is “a conversation in progress”—this conversation shows just how vital that experience can be. Thank you.

RN: Thank you, Earl. I hope you know how vital your teaching has been to me, and how much you changed my life for the better. And I hope these conversations remain in progress for a long, long time.


Ray <raynayler.net> had his debut as a writer of science fiction in the pages of Asimov’s in 2015 with the story “Mutability.” Since then, his work has appeared in the magazine several times, as well as in Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, F&SF, Nightmare, and is upcoming in Analog. His story “The Ocean Between the Leaves,” from the July/August 2019 issue of Asimov’s, was selected for the Year’s Best Science Fiction, Volume 5, edited by Neil Clarke. Ray has lived and worked abroad for almost two decades in Russia, Central Asia, Afghanistan, and the Caucasus. He is a Foreign Service Officer and was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Turkmenistan. Ray is currently the Cultural Affairs Officer for the U.S. Embassy in Pristina, Kosovo, where he lives with his wife, their one-year-old daughter and their two rescued street cats (one Tajik, one American). In the author’s latest story, Sylvia Aldstatt—first introduced to us in “The Disintegration Loops” (November/December 2019)—now finds death and terror in Istanbul.

Jewish Christmas is Science Fiction

by Sam Schreiber

Ten years ago on the sitcom Community, Abed Nadir tells his friends the meaning of Christmas is the idea that Christmas has meaning, and that it can mean whatever we want. A season later, he convinces his best friend and Jehovah’s Witness Troy Barnes to “infiltrate” the holiday in order to destroy it from within. It’s a flimsy ruse to rope Troy and the rest of the study group into joining the school’s glee club, but what’s striking is how both of them embrace the thinnest excuse for loving Christmas, albeit on their own terms.

I can relate.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had what I suspect for secular Jews is a pretty typical relationship with Christmas. Never remotely tempted to become a Christian. Slightly guilty at what even at a young age I understood was the urge to assimilate. Unable to resist that impulse. Not quite sure where that left me, but knowing it left me somewhere.

If you grew up celebrating Christmas as a religious holiday, you might not get what I’m talking about. Even if you aren’t a Biblical literalist, even if you don’t consider yourself a Christian at all, the story of the Christ child and the promise of messianic redemption probably holds some meaning in your subconscious, be it faint or fraught. For you, those stories and those promises are the primary texts from which the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, the Doctor Who and Rankin/Bass Christmas specials, and NORAD tracking Santa all draw their power, if not their meaning.

But for me? They are the primary texts. The meaning of Christmas is the idea that Christmas has meaning. And like science fiction, Christmas is what we point to when we say it. Which is why I say to you today that Jewish Christmas is science fiction.

Despite the title and the fact that its protagonist is literally Santa Claus, the true meaning of Christmas wasn’t even close to being the most important component of my novelette “Christmas at the Hilbert Astoria,” which appears in the November/December 2020 issue of Asimov’s [on sale now]. At least not when I was writing it. At its heart, it’s a detective story, and not this version of Santa’s first rodeo either. Nick is a seasoned, cynical gumshoe if ever there was one. Bigger influences than any particular Christmas story were Martin Cruz Smith’s Arkady Renko novels, Stephen King’s short story “1408,” and Connie Willis’ novella “At the Rialto,” whose narrator is a sort of a mathematical detective in her own right, solving for the true meaning of quantum physics. At least, I think she is. But it’s definitely happening set in a hotel. Maybe.


Put another way, Jewish Christmas is Gene Rodenberry’s Star Trek. Cosmopolitan commonality, good will among men and peace on much more than just Earth. “There are always possibilities,” Captain Kirk quotes Mister Spock at the end of The Wrath of Khan. It’s among those possibilities that the science fiction of Christmas lives for us.


Look, it’s quantum physics. I can be forgiven for getting it wrong, or at least partially wrong. Check out “Take a Look at the Five and Ten” in this issue, by the way.

But for Nick, who in some respects bears more of a resemblance to Saint Nicholas of Myra (patron saint of sex workers, thieves, and fences seems about his speed) than he does to the jolly old elf we know and love, the true meaning of Christmas is the schism between the way things should be and the way things are. Between who he should be and who he is, or rather, what he is. Reconciling those differences is no grand triumph for Nick, but a pyrrhic victory. This Christmas is a vision of moral duty, the determination and world-weary humor with which it is carried out, and the horrifying cost of it all.

Of course, my fiction has always skewed a little dark. Things don’t always have to go that way. But no matter how happy or hopeful Jewish Christmas is, that schism is always a piece of the puzzle.

Just look at the music.

Songs about the baby Jesus, stars of Bethlehem, shepherd boys and mighty kings? Not really our forte. We write songs about roasting chestnuts, silver bells, red-nosed reindeers and, of course, Santa. Celebrations of the thing, not the thing itself. The mythos is all well and good, and I’m as big a fan of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Jesus Christ Superstar as anyone. But we dream of White Christmases just like the ones we used to know, except we never actually knew them.

But we could.

Put another way, Jewish Christmas is Gene Rodenberry’s Star Trek. Cosmopolitan commonality, good will among men and peace on much more than just Earth. “There are always possibilities,” Captain Kirk quotes Mister Spock at the end of The Wrath of Khan. It’s among those possibilities that the science fiction of Christmas lives for us. We imagine Christmas without experiencing it—or at least not the same version of it that others do—because, well, we have to. If Jewish Christmas is anything, it’s the longing for a different world, one which we can absolutely relate to and envision, but that doesn’t quite exist.

But it could.

And I suppose that’s one reason I wrote “Christmas at the Hilbert Astoria,” even if I wasn’t really aware of it at the time. For those of you who don’t know, Hilbert’s Hotel is a thought experiment that asks us to imagine a hotel with an infinite number of rooms, all of them occupied. Is there room for another guest? The answer (which is yes, by the way) boils down to the nature of large and small infinities and it’s an entertaining enough thought experiment. But for me, the next step in that experiment was considering what large and small infinities implied. There’s the infinity of what is. And there’s the infinity of what could be. Jewish Christmas means imagining the possible and, every so often, the impossible. Is it any wonder I chose Santa Claus?

Of course, Nick isn’t merely a curiosity in the world of “Christmas in the Hilbert of Astoria.” His superpower is explicitly tied up with the infinite. It isn’t an accident that he’s the one who the powers that be call in to take on an especially metaphysically challenging case. But for all his reality-bending talents, the sum total of all possible universes is bigger than he is, and he knows it. When the chips are down, he finds himself corned and outmatched. What happens next, well . . . I do actually want you to buy a copy, so that’ll just have to wait for now.

Obviously Jewish science fiction, the Jewish diaspora, and the true meaning of Christmas for Jews—or anyone else whose relationship to Christmas parallels my own—are giant, intimidating topics and a single blog post isn’t going to do them justice. If I’m being completely honest, this is the first piece of writing meant for the public in which I’ve discussed Judaism and Jewishness at all, let alone the relationship between my own Jewishness and my writing. Too many people who are smarter than me, who know more than I do, have done it better, and it makes it hard to say…well, anything on these topics. But here we are, in the final stretch of a short essay and here I am, saying . . . something. Once again, I’m the kid who doesn’t know quite what to do with conflicting theories about what one should feel, never mind what one should say. But I have the chance to put my two shekels in anyway, and I suppose that’s not something one should ever take for granted.


Sam Schreiber teaches science fiction and fantasy at New York University’s Tandon School of Engineering and lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife and the neighbor cat who sometimes drops in to say hello. Sam’s intense and zany first story for us imagines “Christmas at the Hilbert Astoria.”

Q&A with Lora Gray

“The onboard medic/says not to worry,” begins Lora Gray’s poem, “After a Year of Solitude” [in our current issue, on sale now]. But where did the poem really begin? Below, Lora tells us about its backstory, their own backstory as a writer and Asimov’s fan, and what they’re reading and writing lately.


Asimov’s Editor: How did this “After a Year of Solitude” germinate?

LG: This poem began as a quick, (barely decipherable) series of notes I scribbled in a journal during a long road trip in 2017. The poem itself was very slow to germinate and briefly morphed into a piece of flash fiction before settling into its final form.

AE: Is this story part of a larger universe, or is it stand-alone?

LG: Most likely a stand-alone, although I’ve since explored similar themes in other poems and short stories.

AE: What is your history with Asimov’s?

LG: When I was in junior high, a local convenience store carried Asimov’s. They had a spectacular book/magazine aisle and I remember plunking myself down on the floor and trying to speed read as many stories as I could while my mom shopped. When I was a little older and had money of my own to spend, Asimov’s was one of the first magazine subscriptions I ever purchased.


There’s a rhythm and sense of timing in particular, that I’ve noticed tends to work its way into my poetry that’s very similar to the way I move when I dance and choreograph.


AE: How do you deal with writers’ block?

LG: I’m a big fan of freewriting and stream of consciousness exercises. When I’m stuck, forcing myself to write nonstop for five-ten minutes, as quickly as I can, without rules or worrying about what I’m putting down on the page, tends to shake me out of mental stickiness pretty quickly.

AE: How did you break into writing?

LG: I’d been published in a few smaller literary journals and anthologies when I was younger, but when I was in my twenties, I took a long hiatus from writing because of health issues. In 2016, shortly after I started writing seriously again, I was accepted into Clarion West. It was an invaluable experience and really helped me rediscover my creative footing. My short fiction and poetry have been published in several magazines and anthologies since.

AE: What other projects are you currently working on?

LG: I’m currently working on a slew of poems and stories (I generally have at least half a dozen going at any given time), as well as a novel which I’m hoping to have drafted by early 2021.

AE: What are you reading right now?

LG: I just finished Follow Me to Ground by Sue Rainsford, which was deliciously creepy and poetic.  I’ve just started Docile by K.M. Szpara, which is great so far.

AE: Do you have any advice for up-and-coming writers?

LG: Don’t be afraid to explore various writing habits and processes to discover what works for you. Oh! And finish what you start.

AE: What other careers have you had, and how have they affected your writing?

LG: I’ve worked professionally in several creative fields, including dance, art, and music (and briefly theater). I’ve found that, for me at least, every one of them has informed the other. There’s a rhythm and sense of timing in particular, that I’ve noticed tends to work its way into my poetry that’s very similar to the way I move when I dance and choreograph.

AE: How can our readers follow you and your writing?

LG: You can find me on my website, lora-gray.com, and on Twitter @LoraJGray.


Lora Gray is a non-binary speculative fiction writer and poet from Northeast Ohio. Their work has previously appeared in Uncanny, PseudoPod, Flash Fiction Online and Strange Horizons among other places. Their poetry has been nominated for the Rhysling Award. When they aren’t writing, Lora works as an artist, dance instructor and wrangler of a very smart cat named Cecil.

The Next Great Disaster

by Julie Nováková

Imagine a vast icy cold landscape of patchwork black-and-white ice bathed in starlight. Imagine stepping onto it a hundred years after the previous crewed mission had landed there. How does that make you feel?

Congratulations. You’re on Saturn’s moon Iapetus amidst the long Iapetan night, and you’ve reached another of humanity’s stepping stones in regaining its past achievements before Earth’s metaphorical long night. That long night is what I’ve come here to talk about. Beware: it’s not going to be a happy, uplifting read.

In “The Long Iapetan Night” [in our current issue, on sale now!] people are starting to explore the solar system once again a century after a disaster that plunged humanity into chaos—or, rather, two such disasters separated by less than a year.

There are a number of events that could have such an effect. In the story, it was a large volcanic eruption that erased Naples from the map and plunged Earth into a volcanic winter, followed by a powerful solar storm hitting the planet and frying not only satellites, but also a lot of ground-based infrastructure. We could think of other non-anthropogenic rare events with immediate global consequences, most importantly an asteroid strike. These events have some traits in common: They are rare (and the larger-scale they are, the rarer they get), and they are nigh impossible to reliably predict sufficiently in advance. We have their distribution mapped reasonably well, but that still doesn’t tell us whether the next megavolcano, severe solar storm with a coronal mass ejection hitting the Earth, or asteroid strike will occur next year, in ten years’ time, in the next century, or in a thousand years; only the approximate likelihood that it happens sometime in a given period of time. The probability of two of such events coinciding is extremely low—but even one would suffice to do major global damage.

Sometimes these events are dubbed “black swans,” referring to something unexpected, near-unpredictable, and highly improbable. We should differentiate these from “gray rhinos,” events that can have just as massive impacts, but are slower moving, and the threat is more obvious (not that we can predict exactly when and how they happen, but looking at the statistics, we can say that the danger is more or less imminent). The current COVID-19 pandemic is such an event. Anthropogenic climate change is another.

Rare events such as volcanic eruptions, asteroid strikes, or solar flares more or less follow a power law distribution where the stronger they are, the less frequently they occur. Small meteoroids that burn up in the atmosphere or fall down as tiny chunks of stone and metal hit our planet many times a day. An asteroid of a one-km diameter, approximately the smallest that could theoretically jumpstart a global disaster, hits the Earth on average every half a million years. An asteroid strike of the rate that contributed to the extinction of dinosaurs (well, apart from birds) occurs, on average, about every twenty million years. The last one of such force occurred sixty-six million years ago—yeah, the dinosaur extinction—but that doesn’t mean we’re “due” for one. The next one could strike next year just as well as in a hundred million years.


If we are to survive and thrive as a species, as a biosphere, we need to take global action. The healthier and more stable the population and the whole environment are, the more likely we are to face any coming disaster of manageable proportions, well, managed. We need to care about infrastructure in the developed as well as developing countries—in terms of supply chains, industry, energy, information, health care, education . . .


The same, as far as we know, applies to volcanic events (although it’s necessarily simplifying—in principle, rare processes leading to clustering of eruptions could be imagined). As Papale (2018) remarks: “Exponential distributions are memoryless, exactly meaning that the probability of observing a next event in a given time window is always the same, irrespective of the time passed from the last observed event. Therefore . . . there is no ‘overdue’ event: the probability of a next cataclysmic or colossal eruption somewhere on the Earth is always the same, no matter how long ago—one day or one million years—we observed the last one.”

Predicting these events is hard. Most of the near-Earth asteroid population has been mapped, but still—asteroids are not so easy to spot, and if they don’t conveniently obscure some star while we’re looking at it, radiate a lot of heat as opposed to background, or reflect lots of sunlight, the chances are we would only notice one on a collision course with Earth too late to do anything about it—even if we were able to deflect an asteroid, which we at the moment aren’t. Volcanoes are notoriously difficult to predict—or, rather, we can usually tell if a volcano is about to erupt in the foreseeable future, but the size of the eruption is hard to ascertain in advance. Robust connections between the eruption size and pre-eruption data have not been found yet, although that may improve in the future. And as for solar flares, it’s possible to predict a coronal mass ejection hitting the Earth, but the warning period would be low indeed. If a flare-induced geomagnetic storm occurs on Earth, its effect will depend greatly on its size and other factors, such as the bedrock beneath grid infrastructure (resistive rocks may make the hazard worse). It could damage the electrical grid in just a small region, or it could leave us without satellite navigation and communications, and more or less without electricity—thus also without information. . . .

How can we prepare for these events? Infrastructure redundancy is one thing. It means not depending on a single source of food, energy, anything. The more you decentralize and the more independent systems you build, the more likely you persist with less damage. For instance, a geomagnetic storm could fry satellites and a substantial part of ground-based infrastructure, while it could leave cables laid on the bottom of the sea intact. It’s nice to have satellites as well as undersea cables in place. But that’s a trivial example. Another that doesn’t only apply to rare global disasters is having enough (well-equipped, well-staffed) hospitals distributed across the landscape, so that as few regions as possible are left with low accessibility of medical care. Having well-kept stores of basic medicine, food reserves or other essentials—and having clear, ideally local-based (not depending on offices hundreds of miles away) protocols of what to do with them if needed—would also be prudent. We don’t directly see the Earth in “The Long Iapetan Night,” but I like to imagine that at least some of these factors contributed to humankind venturing back into space only a century after the two disasters.

Yet given how 2020 has fared so far, I’m afraid that “The Long Iapetan Night” is hilariously, hilariously optimistic. (Ah, well. I suppose it had to be. Even Peter Watts is an optimist, and I probably don’t know any actual pessimists.) We’d known that a pandemic was coming. We’d had no idea about its type, its origin, or the time it would hit, but some pandemic sooner or later was [1] inevitable. It was reasonable for any government to have clear contingency plans with up-to-date ties to the market for surgical masks, ventilators and other equipment; to have stores of essential equipment and medicine; to be at least vaguely prepared for the eventuality of mass quarantine in terms of infrastructure, money, and education; to have regularly updated plans on how to effectively distribute key information . . .

Instead, in more places than not, we’ve got disasters. I was tempted to say shitshows, and speaking of some governments, I would not hesitate to use the term, but it would be more than disrespectful to the countless victims of the pandemic worldwide to apply it generally. Although, I guess I’m entitled to call it a shitshow if it’s my country’s government. It reacted reasonably well in spring . . . and then sat on its hands in summer, thinking that if people go about without masks, go to holidays, and generally have fun, everything will be okay. Guess what: Once people returned to their workplaces and to schools, the number of cases spiked rapidly and is still growing exponentially. We might be facing ICU overload in a few weeks’ time, and still, no measures matching those in spring have been taken. Experts predict that even if the measures are taken now, we’ll likely face insufficient medical care for patients with serious symptoms, because we can only observe the effect of safety measures (or lack thereof) with a delay of more than a week.

Things could have been done in summer—the capacity for testing may have been increased. More people for contact tracing may have been hired and trained. More supplies of masks and ventilators could have been secured. More resources could have been diverted towards distance-working and learning. Instead, we’ve got campaigns about holiday-going.

Reading this, you might perhaps be tempted to become a “prepper,” to build a bunker underneath your house, stash lots of conserved food, medicine and other long-lasting essential items, and imagine you’d be okay.

That is not the way. If we are to survive and thrive as a species, as a biosphere, we need to take global action. The healthier and more stable the population and the whole environment are, the more likely we are to face any coming disaster of manageable proportions, well, managed. We need to care about infrastructure in the developed as well as developing countries—in terms of supply chains, industry, energy, information, health care, education . . . Investments in health care and education seem especially prudent, since they can leave the population more productive, less costly in the long term (guess what—it’s cheaper to have good-quality free prevention than spend on treating ailments or have sick people suffer while treatments exist), and more equipped to deal with catastrophic events. Lower, more manageable and less environment-demanding population growth closely follows the quality of healthcare and education (although one may argue that a single-child first-world family takes a much, much higher toll on the environment than a seven-child third-world family—which is a reason to change that cost, too). Measures such as the universal basic income are gaining more traction amidst the current pandemic, and multiple studies (albeit localized, rather short-term) suggest that it’s an economically (and literally) healthy step.

All of this has been and continues to be explored in SF. Science fiction can both warn and inspire. It can scare the hell out of us, and then get us to act. There is an ongoing debate about whether dystopias or hopepunk are more or less useful in this respect, but delving into that would be material for a whole new article. As someone who doesn’t too much like “taking sides” without the support of numbers, I’ll just say that it remains an interesting question to explore.

To look on the brighter side, it’s not like nothing is being done. Countless teams of scientists are collecting and studying data that may eventually help us predict large-scale disasters and mitigate their impacts. ESA is looking into more closely studying extreme space weather, and has an impressive fleet of satellites observing the Earth and ultimately helping mitigate the effects of smaller-scale events such as draughts, fires, storms and more. NASA, ESA and other agencies are trying to increase the observation and tracking of near-Earth objects. Things are moving . . . and it’s largely up to cosmic accident whether it’s good enough.

In any case, don’t be mistaken. The next great disaster is coming. It may be coming for us, our grandchildren, or many, many generations later, but it will happen. Hopefully, we’ll have mapped near-Earth objects, understood solar activity, or monitored geodynamics much better than now by then, but even that is no excuse for not being prepared in the most basic of ways.

The question is not if. It’s when.


Julie Novakova is a scientist, educator, and award-winning Czech author of science fiction and detective stories. She has published seven novels and over thirty short pieces in Czech. Her work in English has appeared in Asimov’s, Analog, Clarkesworld, and elsewhere, and has been reprinted in venues like The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 2019. Julie’s works have been translated into eight languages, and she has translated Czech stories into English for Tor.com, Strange Horizons, and F&SF. The author edited an anthology of Czech speculative fiction in translation, Dreams from Beyond, coedited a book of European SF in Filipino translation, Haka, and created an outreach anthology of astrobiological SF, Strangest of All. Her newest book is a story collection titled The Ship Whisperer (Arbiter Press, 2020). Julie is a recipient of the European fandom’s Encouragement Award and multiple Czech national genre awards. She’s active in science outreach, education and nonfiction writing, and co-leads the outreach group of the European Astrobiology Institute. In addition, Julie is a member of the XPRIZE Sci-fi Advisory Council. Readers of her latest tale for us will feel the terrifying chill of “The Long Iapetan Night.”

Writing Hope in Times of Trouble

by Kate Maruyama

I sat down with four futurist and scifi writers—Cecil Castelucci, Matt Kressel, PJ Manney, Nisi Shawl, and Sherri L. Smith—on BookSwell with Cody Sisco in May, and we talked about the difficulty of writing the future when our present times are so difficult. So many very productive writers I know have had trouble stringing sentences together these days, let alone pages or story, as we are all overwhelmed by the present. Each day brings new tonnage of information to process. Our biggest questions were, “How do we move forward?” and, “What can we write now?”

This conversation was early in the quarantine, and we were seeing the positive environmental repercussions on the planet from everyone simply staying home. My family made the trip to see bioluminescence come back to the Santa Monica Bay for the first time in decades. Matt Kressel said, “All across the world people are reporting bluer skies, cleaner water. I hope that people will make it want to last longer, think about how to treat the environment better.”

I came away from that conversation so full of hope for the future and this planet, hope that out of the current crises, things can change. I also came away thinking science fiction was more important now than ever.

When I wrote “Footprint” I was in a very different place, wrestling with growing knowledge that my kids, now eighteen and twenty, were outgrowing my abilities to protect them from the world. I had a terrible feeling I hadn’t prepared them properly. I’m certain so many parents are feeling this right now. The story, in the November/December issue of Asimov’s [on sale now], dives into the helplessness of being a parent and how terrifying it is that every decision you make, even if it feels like a guess, can have lasting repercussions on a child’s life. At the time I wrote it, I was overwhelmed by these feelings, to the point at which I was having trouble writing. But not writing isn’t an option, so I waded in, sank for a while. I set the story in a future where global warming is catching up with us and my main character is missing garlic, which no longer grows fresh in Southern California. Temperatures are up, bees are down, food supply is challenging, but it was important to me to capture a future with hope in the air, a world on the cusp of positive change. That the reader leave this future feeling things are on their way to getting better. In many ways I hope that is where we are now, a bad place where things can only get better.


But not writing isn’t an option, so I waded in, sank for a while. I set the story in a future where global warming is catching up with us and my main character is missing garlic, which no longer grows fresh in Southern California. Temperatures are up, bees are down, food supply is challenging, but it was important to me to capture a future with hope in the air, a world on the cusp of positive change.


Science fiction has always created worlds we want to see, but there has been a recent trend of dystopian futures, worlds without hope. Zombie narratives have touted an every man for himself future, testing the theory of how badly we will behave when things are at their worst. The problem is we’ve reached some terrible times, and that narrative seems only to have encouraged hoarding. There was that period of the quarantine when we all ran out of toilet paper, when I saw people installing deep freezes in their garages so they could buy all the meat, when the shelves at the supermarket were empty. Cory Doctorow has written and spoken on how these narratives in fiction can be damaging to us as a human race.

In these times, I’m more fascinated by the good I’m seeing coming out in people. In Los Angeles, I’m seeing neighborhoods stepping forward to take care of their own, from people buying groceries for each other, to local restaurants in Little Tokyo forming cooperatives to churn out free meals for people unemployed or houseless due to COVID-19. My group of friends seem to be participating in a vegetable exchange as we’ve all started growing things in our gardens or in pots. Rebecca Solnit, in her book A Paradise Made in Hell, tracks disasters across a century and a half, detailing how unexpectedly people have kindness at their center when terrible events occur. These times, despite the news to the contrary, are full of basic human kindness. In our conversation on BookSwell, Sherri L. Smith said, “The willingness to stay inside to protect other people . . . is the most generous movement I’ve seen on this planet for a long time.”

Afrofuturism revolutionized the idea of laying a path of positive futures centering on Black characters doing good things, in positions of power, at the leading edge of technology, living free of the inequities of current times. There is power in painting futures we want to see.

A number of science fiction writers at NorWescon (Nisi Shawl and PJ Manney included) were on a panel where they talked about the importance creating a New Mythos, an ideology where we don’t have to imagine a terrible future. We can envision ourselves better; we can envision a planet healing; we can find a way forward. In our conversation, Nisi Shawl said, “[dystopia] is what’s served to us, it’s what we’re trained to enjoy . . . I want people to feel better, to let them know they can go forward . . .”

In our conversation, Cecil Castellucci pointed out that half of the scientists she knows at NASA say that science fiction was what gave them the vision to want to pursue space exploration, that drove them to choose science. That the better futures dreamed up in fiction seemed like a possibility worth pursuing.

So as writers of the future, how can we expose the evils of the world—as they should be—but bend toward a more hopeful future? How can we help change the human narrative? Be careful what you write; you are making a bigger imprint than you know.


Kate Maruyama’s novel Harrowgate was published by
47North and her novella “Family Solstice” by Omnium Gatherum. Kate’s short stories and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She writes, teaches, cooks, and eats in Los Angeles where she lives with her family. Kate’s first tale for us takes a moving look at family dynamics in the not too distant future.

How “The Hind” Came to Be

by Kevin J. Anderson and Rick Wilber

When we first conjured up “The Hind” [in our current issue, on sale now!] neither Kevin nor I had any idea that by the time of its publication, people worldwide would be confining themselves at home, isolating themselves not unlike our scenario about a generation ship facing a troubled future, with leaders more concerned with staying in power than in fixing the problems that plague the ship. 

The story began on a long drive in July of 2019 through the mountains of Colorado, with Kevin—adept at mountain driving—at the wheel, and me, a mere flatlander, riding shotgun and gawking at the incredible scenery. We were on our way to the summer residency at Western Colorado University, where we are both on the faculty of the graduate program in creative writing. Kevin is director of the innovative and highly successful publishing M.A. program, and I’m a visiting professor in the genre fiction program led by director (and award-winning writer) Fran Wilde.

I’d spent the previous night at Kevin and Rebecca Moesta’s castle-like home after flying in early to Colorado to spend a little time acclimating to the altitude. Our home in Florida lies eighteen feet above sea level, and the campus at Western is at nearly eight thousand feet, so that’s a bit of a difference. Spending a day in the Colorado Springs area, at 6,500 feet, seemed like a good idea. I planned to stay in a hotel and do as much walking around as I could, but when Kevin generously offered a guest room for the night and an afternoon walk through the spectacular Garden of the Gods, followed by an evening barbecue at the Anderson house with relatives and friends, well, I jumped at the chance. Kevin even offered to let me ride with him on the four-hour drive to the university.


We didn’t aim at a story so relevant to today’s pandemic crisis, but we are pleased to point out that in the story, some problems are resolved and things seem to be heading in the right direction for our characters.


The price for all this was minimal and a ton of fun. Kevin said we needed to write a short story together, and see if Asimov’s would buy it. I’m something of a regular in the magazine, with nearly two dozen stories or poems published in its pages over the years, but Kevin J. Anderson, with many dozens of best-selling novels and non-fiction books, and short stories published in almost every major SF market, had, oddly, never sold a story to Asimov’s. 

So conjuring up a story good enough to earn its way into the magazine’s pages seemed like a worthy goal, indeed; and conjure away we did during the long drive to Gunnison. We bounced various ideas around, though I have to say that Kevin’s ideas come pouring out at warp speed, and I’m more of an impulse-drive thinker. With Kevin in the lead, we quickly settled on a generation ship story, with a troubled young woman facing a grave personal crisis that involves the ship’s dangerous condition and its population limits, and the power-hungry leadership that wanted to keep the status quo.

Satisfied with the idea and exhausted by all the brainstorming, I relaxed. Kevin would do the first draft, and that surely would take weeks. And then I’d polish up the next draft, brainstorm and iron out any problems, clean up the final manuscript, and send the story in.

The college residency started and we both were busy with our classes, with only an occasional day off. I put the story out of my mind and focused on the workshop I was leading for those grad students who were just about to start writing their theses. The students were uniformly brilliant, to my delight, but it was demanding work for me, with a lot of thoughtful editing involved. By the time the first open day rolled around, I wanted to sleep in for part of it, and then walk around and see the sights in Gunnison.

Kevin, on the other hand, is inexhaustible. He was up early in the morning, off to a winding trail and beautiful natural area near the Blue Mesa Reservoir, and dictating our story.

This is his usual routine, I should point out. Kevin hikes in Colorado’s mountains and dictates his novels while on the trail. On this particular day, and on another trail the following day, he wrote an entire first draft of “The Hind.” By later that same day, his transcriptionist had typed it up and sent the manuscript back to him, and he’d then sent it on to me.    

Whoa—in two days? But Kevin reassured me that I could take whatever time I needed to do my part. That turned out to be a couple of months, sitting at my desk in the flatlands of coastal Florida, tinkering with the story here and there, with my principal input, perhaps, naming the generation ship—and the story—for Sir Francis Drake’s ship, The Golden Hind, which circumnavigated the globe in 1577-78.

Kevin and I went back and forth on it some from there, and then off it went to Sheila Williams, editor at Asimov’s. Now, more than a year after its inception, you can read the story and let us know what you think. We didn’t aim at a story so relevant to today’s pandemic crisis, but we are pleased to point out that in the story, some problems are resolved and things seem to be heading in the right direction for our characters. In terms of our current global crisis, we hope that problems are resolved and that a vaccine, better treatment options for coronavirus victims, and people embracing wearing masks get us all heading in that right direction. Just like The Hind.

—Rick Wilber

I’m not antisocial, really. I enjoy the company of other writers, talking business, brainstorming ideas, sharing our love of the genre. And Rick Wilber is certainly one of the good guys. I enjoy his company, and was pleased to offer him a place to stay when he flew into Colorado for our grad-school residency at Western. Gunnison, CO, the home of Western Colorado University, is in the middle of the mountains (and in the middle of nowhere), and is not particularly easy to get to. It generally requires flying into Denver or Colorado Springs, renting a car, and driving four to five hours. Since I was making the drive anyway from my home near Colorado Springs, how could I not let Rick tag along?

The only problem was that I rather enjoy the hours-long solo road trip. I spend the time thinking and I usually keep the digital recorder at hand. During long stretches on the open road, I’ll be dictating scenes or complete chapters in a work in progress or even a new story. For most of my career I’ve written by dictation; I have lectured and given workshops on the technique, even wrote a book with Martin L. Shoemaker, On Being a Dictator. I’d been looking forward to the hours-long drive through beautiful scenery to get some solid writing done.

If I had a copilot in the car, we might have some terrific conversation, but I wasn’t going to get any writing done. I told Rick, “You’re going to cost me a short story if you ride along.” So, I said we’d better come up with a story we could write together—and the brainstorming was a blast, as we tried to make our plot as twisty and curvy as the mountain roads.

On the same drive, I also agreed to produce a new collection of Rick’s short stories, Rambunctious, which my WordFire Press released earlier this year to great reviews. So, yeah, it was a pretty productive drive. I suppose he can tag along the next time we drive out for the summer residency.

—Kevin J. Anderson


Kevin J. Anderson is a New York Times bestselling author of more than 165 books and numerous short stories. This is his first appearance in Asimov’s. Kevin has written many novels in the Dune universe with Brian Herbert as well as his own Saga of Seven Suns and Saga of Shadows space opera series. Rick Wilber’s stories appear regularly in Asimov’s. He is the author of more than fifty short stories, several novels, and several college textbooks on writing and the mass media. His novel, Alien Morning (Tor, 2016), was a finalist for the 2017 John W. Campbell Memorial Award for Best Science Fiction Novel, and its sequel, Alien Day, will be out in 2021 from Tor. Both Kevin and Rick are professors at Western Colorado University’s Graduate Program in Creative Writing; they brainstormed and wrote this exciting tale about travel on a disabled generation ship during last year’s summer residency on campus.

Q&A with Robert Reed

Though it began  as “Riding the Growth Curve,” inspired by an image of “riding to the stars on an increasingly vast ball of meat and bone,” news junkie Robert Reed’s latest for Asimov’s comes to you, in our September/October issue, as “The Ossuary’s Passenger” [on sale now]. Read on to learn how the story was born, get Bob’s thoughts on writing in the midst of a pandemic, and benefit from his magic trick for dealing with stuck stories!


Asimov’s Editor: How did this story germinate?

RR: Someone else’s interesting idea. That where “The Ossuary’s Passenger” began. I don’t recall where I read it—probably online—and I certainly don’t care enough to chase down the source. But the subject was Scientology, and in particular, a bit of funeral nonsense involving an alien world that receives the dead. (A more energetic individual might chase down this theological reference. But I’m old and don’t care.) The critical point was that the universe is extraordinarily big, and bodies, no matter how small, take up space as well as mass. An influx of carcasses from millions of worlds will quickly transform the cemetery. And that’s where the story comes from: A what-if problem carried to its ultimate ends.

AE: Is this story part of a larger universe, or is it stand-alone?

RR: Obviously, “The Ossuary’s Passenger” is part of a larger universe. But in this universe, Robert Reed writes only this much.

AE: Do you particularly relate to any of the characters in this story?

RR: The old hyena. That’s just self-evident.

AE: How did the title for this piece come to you?

RR: Oh, that is an interesting anecdote. Or it’s dull as hell.

My first and only title was “Riding the Growth Curve.” That stems from an earlier story idea where the expansion of bodies is so great that the cemetery’s surface expands at relativistic velocities. The editor, Sheila Williams, didn’t particularly like that title, and so I pulled words from the text that seemed to make both of us happy.

Still, it remains an intriguing image: Riding to the stars on an increasingly vast ball of meat and bone.


“If a story is stuck, I sleep with a cat on my legs or chest. Because cats are magical beasts.”


AE: What is your history with Asimov’s?

RR: Barely worth mentioning. A few titles are wearing my name.

AE: (That’s the understatement of the year!) How much or little do current events impact your writing?

RR: This is the Golden Age for news junkies.

I’m always feasting on current events. Multiple newspapers, magazines, network broadcasts and news conferences. Of course I love every flavor of science, which helps with my work. But I’m also blessed with a talent for expecting the worst, and an extremely high tolerance for awful news.

My family and I were vacationing in New York City when I read a little item about some respiratory virus in China, and being familiar with the science and horror of pandemics, my first thought was, “Oh shit, we just walked through Times Square.”

(I have strung together most of my pandemic stories and published them on Kindle. Pallbearer and Other Tales of Glorious Contagions.)

As fun as science can be, politics are just as amazing to me. Politics are where our apish nature becomes obvious, and these last four years constitute the most gripping reality TV show ever produced.

AE: What is your process?

RR: I used to write every day, often for many hours at a time. Now I try to make new words every weekday, but only for two or three hours. That’s partly because I don’t need to produce a river of words anymore. It’s also because the number of markets has diminished.

AE: How do you deal with writers’ block?

Slow times come, but I rarely feel blocked.

Naps are a good solution. If a story is stuck, I sleep with a cat on my legs or chest. Because cats are magical beasts.

AE: They certainly are. What inspired you to start writing?

RR: I thought freelance SF was the path to an easy life. And I sensed that I might be rather good at it.

AE: You were right! What are you reading right now?

RR: Roman histories by Adrian Goldsworthy. And everything that I can find about the pandemic and global warming.


Robert Reed tells us that his new tale began as the simplest of thought problems: What if all the citizens of a far-flung galactic empire decided to come home at once? “It doesn’t take long for the math to turn brutal. Which is exactly what amoral math loves to do. Turn brutal. And that’s a lesson we have learned daily in these corona times.” Bob has just published a collection of his old work on Kindle. “Pallbearer and Other Tales of Glorious Contagions is a grim read, I’ll grant you that. But it proves that R. Reed has always been studying this specific kind of awful.”

Q&A with Jason Sanford

While no longer a “shovel bum” for an archaeologist, Jason Sanford is deeply impacted by the knowledge that we’re surrounded by a million plus years of human history at all times. “The Eight-Thousanders” [in our current issue, on sale now] plays with this idea, focusing on two older-than-human subjects: Mt. Everest, and a vampire. Jason stopped by to share the story’s origins, thoughts on masculinity, a harrowing tale from his past, and the recent contents of his bookshelf—Read on!


Asimov’s Editor: What is the story behind this piece?

JS: I’ve long been strangely fascinated by mountain climbing, in particular how elite climbers push themselves to their physical limits and their willingness to enter a challenging environment which actively tries to kill them.

But climbing Mount Everest isn’t like climbing other mountains. You’re essentially queuing up with hundreds of other climbers as if at Disney World, with the catch that Everest is a tourist attraction which can kill you. And for the most part only the richest people in the world are able to pay to climb Everest. To reach the top, almost every climber relies on an extensive support system, including hundreds of guides from the Sherpa people who lay the grueling groundwork so some hedge fund manager can have their picture taken at Everest’s summit. 

Mount Everest today essentially presents a microcosm of our world’s problems, including extremes of wealth, entitlement, privilege, racism, class divisions, toxic masculinity, and environmental issues. 

So I figured I’d throw a vampire into all that and see where the story went. The result is “The Eight-Thousanders.”

AE: How did the title for this piece come to you?

JS: I love the term “eight-thousander,” which are the fourteen mountains in the world reaching more than 8,000 meters above sea level. The summits of these mountains are in what’s called the death zone, where the pressure of oxygen is so low the human body begins to die. This means there is only a limited about of time anyone can spend at the top of an eight-thousander.

Fewer than fifty people in history have climbed all of the world’s eight-thousanders, and less than half have done it without supplementary oxygen.

AE: What made you think of Asimov’s for this story?

JS: When I was young one of my favorite issues of Asimov’s was from October 1991. That issue featured a number of great stories including the Hugo-Award-winning “A Walk in the Sun” by Geoffrey A. Landis, plus excellent fiction by Gregory Benford, Tanith Lee, and others.

But the story which absolutely grabbed me was the Hugo-and-Nebula-nominated novella “Jack” by Connie Willis. Set in London during the blitz, the story follows the work of a rescue squad saving people from bombed out buildings and homes. Into this arrives a new volunteer named Jack, who only comes out at night and has an uncanny ability to find survivors in the rubble.

“Jack” isn’t your typical vampire story and is, in my opinion, one of the best ever written. When I finished “The Eight-Thousanders” I remembered how much I’d loved “Jack” and thought Asimov’s might be a natural for the story.

As an aside, I still have my original copy of the October 1991 Asimov’s and a few years ago at the Nebula Awards conference, I had it signed by Connie Willis, Gardner Dozois, Sheila Williams, and Geoffrey A. Landis. I also told Gardner how influential this issue was to me and thanked him for his work as editor. Glad I got to tell him that.

AE: Is this story part of a larger universe, or is it stand-alone?

JS: “The Eight-Thousanders” features the same vampire from my story “May Our Voices Sing Like Blood from Open Wounds,” originally published in Intergalactic Medicine Show. This earlier story is set during some of the darker aspects of the Italian Renaissance.

You don’t need to read the previous story to enjoy “The Eight-Thousanders,” which is structured as a stand-alone tale. But if you do, you’ll learn more about the vampire’s background.

AE: Are there any themes that you find yourself returning to throughout your writing? If yes, what and why?

JS: “The Eight-Thousanders” is one of a series of science fiction and fantasy short stories I’m writing around masculinity. One of the defining issues of our time is how our world deals with masculinity, be it the cultural and sociological aspects of masculinity or, alternately, how masculinity can be good, bad, or toxic depending on the person and expression.

Every single day we see how toxic displays of masculinity hurt people in our world. Perhaps the first step to changing this is to create stories about the issue.


“Mount Everest today essentially presents a microcosm of our world’s problems, including extremes of wealth, entitlement, privilege, racism, class divisions, toxic masculinity, and environmental issues.” 


AE: What is something we should know about you that we haven’t thought to ask?

JS: When I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Thailand, I was a passenger in a car which crashed through the railing on a bridge over a deep river and dangled up and down, half on and half off the bridge. It was like a bad scene in a bad movie or story, where the people in the car try not to move because the slightest motion will send them plummeting to their deaths. 

If I wrote that scene in one of my stories, readers would scream “cliché!” But it really happened. Funny how life can be like that.

AE: What other careers have you had, and how have they affected your writing?

JS: In college I majored in anthropology, with a specialization in archaeology. I also worked for a time as a low-level archaeologist, what they call a shovel bum. As a result archaeology deeply affects both how I see the world and how I write my stories. 

Every person alive today is surrounded by a million plus years of human history, yet we only see a tiny bit of this at any one time. Despite this limited view, that great expanse of history continually impacts our lives in both visible and invisible ways. 

It’s impossible to unearth all the hidden history around us. But if you want to understand humanity you must at least dig a little bit into all that came before us.

AE: What is your process?

JS: I tend to start my stories with the opening sentence or scene in mind, then brainstorm it from there. With my short fiction I almost always discover the story as I write, what some people call the “pantsing” method of writing.

However, when working on novella- or novel-length fiction, I tend to plot things out. Although even there, I leave room to follow new ideas as they hit me. A major part of my process is also rewriting my stories. Tons of rewriting. An almost endless amount of rewriting. If you want to be a writer, learn to rewrite!

AE: What are you reading right now?

JS: I’m currently reading or about to read Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones, and A Peculiar Peril by Jeff VanderMeer.

Other excellent novels I’ve read this year include The City We Became by N.K. Jemisin, Vagabonds by Hao Jingfang, Beneath the Rising by Premee Mohamed, Docile by K.M. Szpara, and A Song for a New Day by Sarah Pinsker.

AE: Do you have any advice for up-and-coming writers?

JS: Find the story only you can tell and tell it. This doesn’t mean your stories can’t be influenced or inspired by others—all fiction is created within a much larger world of stories. Instead, I mean to find the truth or voice or essence which only you can bring to a story. Then write that story!


It’s not often a story lands an award before it’s even published, but “The Eight-Thousanders” did just that, receiving an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award earlier this year. Jason Sanford says he has applied for these biennial arts grants before with no luck, but his chilling story of life and death on Mount Everest did the trick. “The Eight-Thousanders” is the author’s eighth appearance in Asimov’s, with his other stories having been published in magazines such as Apex, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Fireside Quarterly, and Interzone.