Q&A With Michael Libling

Michael Libling answers questions about his novelette, “Trial by Harry”, in our [May/June issue, on sale now!]. Read on to learn about the tragic catalyst for this story and about his career as a writer in multiple fields.

Asimov’s Editor: How did this story germinate? Was there a spark of inspiration, or did it come to you slowly?
Michael Libling: The answer you’re looking for is slowly. Very slowly. By my estimate, TRIAL BY HARRY was over twenty years in the making.

In retrospect, I suppose, the idea began with my mother. She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and though she was well into her eighties, it in no way softened the blow. She had always been confident, witty, outgoing, and as sharp as anyone when it came to business. To see her reduced to what gradually amounted to a shell of her former self was, to say the least, painful for all who had known her.

Often, while sitting with her or taking her for walks, I tried to imagine what might be going on inside her head. I wondered if it was possible that two worlds were at play, the one my mother was now trapped in versus the world she’d left behind, the one we continued to live in without her. The last two years of her life were especially tough, made all the more inexplicable by these rare moments in which it seemed as if she’d returned to us—offering a fleeting glimpse of the person she had been.  

Once, in the dining room, of the residence where she was living, she spit the seed of a lemon onto the floor during dinner, and a caregiver chided her. “You know you shouldn’t spit on the floor, Mollie.” To which my allegedly oblivious Mom quipped, “Where do you want me to spit, on the ceiling?”

For a good month or two leading up to her death, most of her time was spent in bed, unresponsive to anything or anyone around her. She didn’t recognize any of us. But then, less than a week before my mother would ultimately pass, the youngest of our three daughters came to visit after school. “Hi, Bubby,” she said, as she always did, “bubby” being a variation on the Yiddish for grandmother. My mother blinked awake for the first time in a long while, smiled at my daughter as if it was merely another day, and said, “Hi, Margie. How are you doing?”

Sadly, despite these instances and the flicker of hope that a miraculous turnaround might be underway, my mother’s awareness was gone as quickly as it had appeared. It was like she was dropping in on us every now and then, just to say hello, before returning to that unknown realm where she now spent the greater part of her time.

While there was little promise of a cure during my mother’s lifetime, recent research into senolytics, GLP-1 receptor agonists, and other therapies have offered hope, with some suggestion of even adding years to one’s life.

It was against this entire backdrop TRIAL BY HARRY took shape, with potential scenarios exploring various shades of light and dark, before the dark won out, yet again, and the cautionary tale before you emerged.

AE: Do you particularly relate to any of the characters in this story?
ML: Yes. Definitely. Harry’s children.

I see my sister, my wife, my daughters, my brother-in-law, and myself at my mother’s bedside, holding her hand, talking to her, consulting with doctors, chatting with the nurses and caregivers, protecting her interests in the same way she had always fought for ours. It was here, in the midst of all the sadness, I was struck by the extent to which small talk prevailed. My mother was dying, her kidneys were failing, and yet we continued to natter on about the weather, the news, movies, TV shows, restaurants…. I hated the fact it was all so business as usual, all so ordinary. Nothing could resist it, not even Death.

AE: Clearly, you have a strong personal connection to the story. Did this make it easier or more difficult to write?
ML: Neither, really. While the writing brought back many memories, good and bad, of those days with my mother, fiction is fiction, however personal its roots. My goal was, as always, to tell a good story—period. Had I written TRIAL BY HARRY years earlier, closer to the time of my mother’s passing, I suspect the story might not have been as dark in terms of character and plot. Back then, emotions were running in a far different direction.


While the writing brought back many memories, good and bad, of those days with my mother, fiction is fiction, however personal its roots. My goal was, as always, to tell a good story—period.


AE: How much or little do current events impact your writing?
ML: Current events—whether politics or conflict or science or culture or anything— inevitably slip into every story. Sometimes more, sometimes less. In the case of TRIAL BY HARRY, I took recent developments in Alzheimer’s research and extrapolated them to some future date. It’s an optimistic “if this goes on” approach, which, admittedly, is the only optimistic aspect of the story. Whether the current research ultimately amounts to anything, of course, will determine whether I was prophetic, misguided, or just plain twisted.

AE: How did you break into writing?
ML: I’d wanted to write since I was a kid, thanks to the encouragement of my older sister, Mara, a couple of great high school teachers, and, in university, the teacher/writers Clark Blaise and Mordecai Richler. I sold gaglines to cartoonists and concepts to greeting card companies. I wrote term papers at seven bucks a page. I had newspaper and magazine features published. I wrote and edited a Canadian stock market magazine. And I landed a job in advertising, rising from junior copywriter to creative director. (Yes, I accept full responsibility for writing “Ex-Lax. It can make your day overnight.”) Throughout these other writing pursuits, my fiction submissions gathered nothing but rejections. Hundreds! Often, the rejections would include personal, sometimes handwritten notes inviting me to submit more work, but in my mind a rejection was nothing but a rejection. In fact, I preferred form rejections over the personal ones that noted how “your story came closer than most.” Not every writer would agree, but I found editors’ simultaneous encouragement and rejection too damn frustrating. If my story came “closer than most,” why the heck didn’t you buy it!!?? What does coming close even mean? It was only after I landed an agent, the late Virginia Kidd, that my fiction began to sell. Fact is, within a month of her signing me, I made my first fiction sale. Amazingly, pretty much every story I’ve written since has found a pro market. I can also say that every sale is as much of a thrill as my first.

AE: How do you deal with writers’ block?
ML: I’ve talked about this several times in previous interviews and realize now my answer is never the same. Frankly, I struggle with writers’ block every single time I complete a project. Look, I know this will sound nuts, but I forget how I managed to pull off all previous stories. While I’ve read endless articles on how to overcome writers’ block, I’ve never found any method that works for me with any consistency. My only solution is to write, write, write ANYTHING—often with only the glimmer of a concept in mind. I put down sentences. I complete paragraphs. I fill pages. And I keep going until suddenly—and I have zero understanding as to why—the story takes over my life and I’m zipping along with an end in sight. Yeah, I just might be the most clueless working writer out there.

AE: You mention you worked in advertising. Did this or any other job you might have had affect your writing? If so, how?
ML: Advertising taught me focus, discipline, self-editing, and the importance of meeting deadlines. Advertising also taught me to roll with the punches, to never take rejection personally. Indeed, rejection was an everyday occurrence, where your best ideas—the most daring—usually ended up in the trash. Trust me, the most troublesome editor you’ve ever dealt with is a saint compared to your average client in the advertising world. I should also add that I, personally, have yet to encounter a troublesome editor. (Yeah, I’m covering my butt here, just in case.)

With a nod to your previous question, copywriters’ block never once reared its head, and I’m at loss to understand why. Kind of odd, really.

Now and then, I’ve incorporated my advertising days into stories, along with other jobs I’ve held. As a kid, I worked in a marina, which factored into my novel HOLLYWOOD NORTH. I also spent a lot of time in my parents’ small diner in Trenton, Ontario, where I scooped ice cream among other things, which played a big part in my most recent novel, THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE. Yeah, ice cream and serial killing. Hmm…notice how subtly I managed to plug my novels?

AE: What are you reading right now?
ML: I’ve been reading a lot of nonfiction in recent months. Just finished Ben Macintyre’s ROGUE HEROES: THE HISTORY OF THE SAS, the book on which the terrific BBC series ROGUE HEROES is based. I was surprised by how faithful the teleplay is to the actual story. Week before that it was HITCHCOCK’S BLONDES by Laurence Leamer. As of today, I’ve started MOONWALKING WITH EINSTEIN, Johsua Foer’s foray into The Art & Science of Remembering Everything. I have long had the habit of gathering odd facts and bits of information. My library runs the gamut from literary and genre fiction to books on history, geography, science, pop culture, and the weirdly offbeat—including CLUCK!: THE TRUE STORY OF CHICKENS IN THE CINEMA by Jon Stephen Fink to name but one.

AE: Interesting. Has this habit paid off in your writing or in other ways?
ML: All the time! For instance, pop culture trivia is peppered throughout HOLLYWOOD NORTH. As well, I was once on a team that won the CBC TV Trivia championship for Quebec, eventually placing second in the national finals, losing only in the closing seconds after leading throughout. Grrr…that loss still rankles. I did, however, manage to parlay my knowledge into a twenty-year gig in radio, creating, writing, and co-hosting The Trivia Show on CJAD in Montreal. Although I left in December of 1999, the show is still running on Sunday mornings and remains a fun listen. It’s nice to know that something I created from scratch continues to thrive after forty-four years on the air.

AE: How can our readers follow you and your writing?
ML: My website and occasional blog can be found at http://www.michaellibling.com. I can also be contacted by email through the site. Elsewhere, you’ll find me on…

Twitter, Bluesky, or Mastodon: @michaellibling

Instagram: michaelliblingwriter

Facebook, well, just search for me: Michael Libling

Please follow or “friend” me. As I’ve said in other interviews, if you’ve managed to tolerate my babbling to this point, it should be clear that I can use all the friends I can get, real, imaginary, and otherworldly.


Michael Libling is a World Fantasy Award finalist whose short fiction has appeared in F&SFRealms of FantasyAmazing Stories, and several anthologies, including the Year’s Best variety. His fantasy noir, Hollywood North: A Novel in Six Reels (ChiZine/Open Road Media), was published in 2019 and his horror/thriller novel, The Serial Killer’s Son Takes a Wife (WordFire Press), in 2023. You can find him online at michaellibling.com and pretty much every social media outlet, Instagram, Facebook, Mastodon, and Blue Sky among them.

Q&A With Harry Turtledove

Legendary SF author Harry Turtledove returns to Asimov’s, where he was first published in 1981, with “The Fight Goes On,” his story in our [May/June issue, on sale now!]. Learn more about Harry’s influences and current projects in the our latest interview him

Asimov’s Editor: What is the story behind this piece?
Harry Turtledove: It’s a story that envisions a complication of time travel not many people have played with:  namely, that as a people travel back to important events from further and further uptime, eventually, whole swarms of them will be there, all gawking at and trying to change those events.  Robert Silverberg may have been the first to notice it, and used it in Up the Line in the late 1960s.  Not many others have since then.

AE: How did the title for this piece come to you?
HT: When the past is mutable, when it can get changed, recharged, unchanged, changed back, and changed again, nothing is permanent and the fight always goes on.

AE: What is your history with Asimov’s?
HT: My first story in Asimov’s, “Death in Vesunna” (cowritten with my ex), appeared in the January 19, 1981 issue, when George Scithers was the editor.  I’ve been lucky enough to have a good many in here since then.

AE: Who or what are your greatest influences and inspirations?
HT: If I hand’t discovered  L. Sprague de Camp’s Lest Darkness Fall at an impressionable age, my whole life would be different now.  It led me to study Byzantine history after I flunked out of Caltech, to have written most of what I’ve written (I would have written something anyway—I already hd the bug), to be married to my wife (whom I met while pinch-hitting for my prof at UCLA), have the kids I have….Other than that, it didn’t change my life a bit.  Alternate history on the micro historical level!


When the past is mutable, when it can get changed, recharged, unchanged, changed back, and changed again, nothing is permanent and the fight always goes on.


AE: How much or little do current events impact your writing?
HT: Usually, not very much, because alternate history written about near-contemporary events quickly turns into a political tract.  To steal from Ted Sturgeon, I don’t aim to sell my birthright for a pot of message.  But I have had one or two sharp things to say in print about the fascist idiot currently infesting the White House.

AE: What other projects are you currently working on?
HT: I recently had a noirish urban fantasy, Twice As Dead, come out from Caezik.  It’s set in a postwar L.A. with a hard-drinking detective, vampires, zombies, ghosts, the Central Avenue jazz scene, a bunch of corrupt cops, and a smartass talking cat.  I’ve sold a couple of others in the same milieu, and am working on one more still.  I’m also playing with an off-the-wall short piece.

AE: What are you reading right now?
HT: A bawdy diary by an Englishman who traveled in—i.e., drank, gambled, and whored his way through—the United States in 1884-85, made friends with Buffalo Bill, and was later instrumental in bringing Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show to England and Europe; and a Max Hastings book about the RAF’s 1943 effort to knock out German industry in the Ruhr using Barnes Wallis’ bouncing bombs against the dams on the rivers there.

AE: Do you have any advice for up-and-coming writers?
HT: Read a lot. Write.  Imitate what you admire.  Submit what you write.  Keep submitting when it comes back, because it often will.  Repeat endlessly.  (This is related to and descended from Heinlein’s writing tips, but is not identical to them.)

AE: How can our readers follow you and your writing? (IE: Social media handles, website URL…)
HT: I’m @hntdove.bsky.social, and have been annoying people there for a few months now.


The two most recent books by Harry Turtledove <@hntdove on Bluesky and @hntdove@wandering.shop on Mastodon> are Other People’s Playgrounds, a collection of stories set in other people’s universes; and Twice as Dead, a noirish urban fantasy that takes place in postwar Los Angeles. Coming later this year are City in Chains, a fantasy about collaboration and resistance; and Powerless, an alternate history about a Marxist-Leninist-Stalinist West Coast in a Marxist-Leninist-Stalinist world. He also has stories in anthologies edited by Henry Herz (Combat Monsters) and Darrell Schweitzer (Cold War Cthulhu). “The Fight Goes On” looks at one of the complications of trying to change the past that may not have been considered enough.

The Case For The “Unsympathetic” Protagonist

by Donald McCarthy

Donald McCarthy advocates for using ‘unsympathetic’ protagonists and explains his process for writing one. See his work in practice in our [March/April issue, on sale now!]

The narrator of “Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon” is not a warm person. She’s cold to people she doesn’t know; she’s outright dangerous to those she does. Her obsession with finding a sense of meaning in life via UFO sightings and alien abductions has made her unable to function in what society would consider a healthy fashion.

I enjoy this type of protagonist. Looking over not just this story but most stories I write, I’d say that the protagonists I craft are not people I want to be friends with and, in many cases, would not want to run into. Yet, it’s from these types of characters that I find I can try to explore some universal truths and universal struggles. My narrator may not be a kind person, but her search for meaning is one most people can connect with. By extrapolating that sense of longing into an all-consuming purpose, the narrator becomes unpleasant, yes, but also very human. Don’t well all sometimes feel like we’ll be driven to madness by a lack of substance in our lives? Don’t we all have moments where we consider risking it all, tossing everything away in the hopes of finding a better existence? We don’t do it, but through this narrator, we can live vicariously to an extent.

The danger with the so-called unsympathetic lead, however, is that they become so unsympathetic as to turn the reader off. When constructing the narrator for my short story, I kept that in mind. I had no interest in softening the character’s edges, but I did need a reason for the reader to feel invested in the narrator. I came up with two solutions, although I knew there was no way to satisfy everyone, which is fine. Different characters click with different people.

The first decision I made was to make the narrator effective in her field of interest. She’s smart, she has successfully formed contacts that aid in her search, and she’s clearly informed on UFO sightings, including which ones are real and which ones are hoaxes. She’s not flailing around desperately; she has specific plans. This way, even if the audience finds her off-putting, her general competence makes her journey interesting to follow. I think readers respond to that. For instance, you might want to read a story about a smart, inventive hitman. You’re less likely to want to read a story about a hitman who keeps accidentally shooting people in the shoulder. There’s an attraction to competency.

My second goal was to give the narrator an origin story that makes her behavior logical. You wouldn’t (hopefully) approve of her violent actions, but it’s easy to see where they come from. This is a classic move when creating villains; when doing it with a protagonist, however, the truth of the backstory becomes all the more important. I assumed that most people have experienced a truly happy experience in their life and had difficulty then going back to the drudgery of daily existence. For my narrator, I’d simply be taking both the fulfilling moment itself and the reaction in losing it to the extreme. The benefit of science-fiction is the audience will allow that extreme to be, well, quite extreme.

Getting the audience to engage with this narrator is one thing. It’s a fair question to ask why I’m so invested in doing this to begin with. Why not just craft main characters that are likeable?


The pain and anger present in each of us can be safely explored through art.


There are plenty of likeable protagonists in fiction, and in some of my own stories, that I’m fond of, but by diving into characters who are thornier, we’re able to get at truths about humanity that are, shall we say, less than pleasant. The pain and anger present in each of us can be safely explored through art. It’s true for both reader and writer. I myself am not like the narrator, but the withering disdain with which she describes both the people and locations around her does echo my frustrations when I’m in a bad mood. Writing that feels therapeutic for me; as a reader, I find it just as illuminating to see it in a book or story I’m diving into. I believe many readers feel the same.

I also enjoy narratives that are ambiguous, which seems to be a thought disconnected from the idea of an “unsympathetic” narrator. I’d disagree, though. With an unlikeable narrator, we are forced to explore why they are the way they are and why we, as a reader, might be engaged by someone we’d otherwise not want to meet. The ambiguity is in the human experience: why do some of us become what we become? A protagonist that contains some of our less desirable traits can help us come closer to an answer but never fully provide one. It’s a situation both frustrating and fascinating. I find that the best of art feels that way.

Of course, by allowing us to explore ourselves, perhaps aspects of ourselves we are not fully comfortable with, is the unsympathetic narrator in actuality quite sympathetic? That’s why I tend to put unsympathetic in quotes, because I do wonder if even the most unlikeable of leads is someone we can end up sympathizing with to a degree. What does that say about us?

I’m not sure. It’s fun to find out, though, which is why I love cracking open a book with a lead character that’ll challenge my morals and my outlook. The narrator of “Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon” made me think about the purpose of life, or perhaps the lack thereof, in a way I hadn’t before. If she was more pleasant, more likeable, then I don’t think I would’ve exited the writing experience feeling how I did. I hope that you, as a reader, feel the same.


Donald McCarthy <www.donaldmccarthy.com> is an author from Long Island, New York. He’s published short fiction with The Baltimore Review, Mythaxis Magazine, James Gunn’s Ad Astra, Pseudopod, The Creepy Podcast, The Grey Rooms, and more. His nonfiction has appeared at Salon, Undark Magazine, The Huffington Post, Nightmare Magazine, and other venues. The author’s latest story concerns a UFO hunter who had a supernatural experience as a child and will do anything to have one again.

On The Night Shift: the story behind the story

by Zohar Jacobs

Zohar Jacobs explains the real events in NASA’s history that inspired her new story “On the Night Shift”, available in our [March/April issue, on sale now!]

Climate change is coming for us all but there are some places where it feels painfully present already. For me, Houston is one of those places: something about the ever-present proximity of water, an industrial landscape of oil tanks and petrochemical plants and container ports and suburban sprawl superimposed on low-lying pasture and winding bayous, under regular threat from hurricanes rolling in from the Gulf of Mexico.

That contrast between the sprawl of modern industry and the inescapability of nature feels even more dramatic in Houston because it’s the nerve center of American spaceflight. Johnson Space Center, not much more than thirteen feet above sea level and practically on the shores of Galveston Bay, has always been vulnerable to flooding. Nearly forty years ago, NASA was already planning for a back-up control center to ride out a hurricane – but back in 1987 they would have had to fly three “portable… advanced computers” (as a contemporary article in the New York Times put it) to NASA’s White Sands Test Facility in a cargo plane to be able to control a mission from there.

Since then, JSC has had multiple close calls. During Hurricane Harvey in 2017, it closed due to flooding, but a skeleton crew of engineers slept on-site and worked twelve-hour shifts to keep the International Space Station supported. “I don’t think [the crew on the ISS] realized the Flight Control Team was riding out the storm,” said Ground Controller Dorothy Ruiz. “Not until they somehow found out we were sleeping in cots.” I highly recommend her interview on the Rocket Women blog, not only for the tales of blacked-out hallways and “looting” colleagues’ food from refrigerators, but also for the amazing story of how she came to work at NASA in the first place, after a childhood spent traveling between central Mexico and America as a migrant farmworker.

“On the Night Shift” was inspired by a throw-away line in a Verge article about how NASA dealt with Hurricane Harvey: “there’s the option of moving Mission Control temporarily to a hotel in Round Rock, Texas.” That sparked my imagination: what would it be like to control a space mission from a makeshift control center in a hotel, after a chaotic evacuation? And what if the people who were meant to be in charge didn’t make it there at all?

My protagonist, Maria, is in her late twenties, as many early-career flight controllers still are. Controlling human spaceflight requires specialist skills, so it remains a “learn on the job” role. During the Apollo program, most of the engineers at Johnson Space Center were recruited not from elite institutions like MIT or Caltech, but from midwestern and southern state universities. A B average was good enough. “Anyone who could spell Apollo,” one man recalled, “we took them.”


What would it be like to control a space mission from a makeshift control center in a hotel, after a chaotic evacuation? And what if the people who were meant to be in charge didn’t make it there at all?


But in the near-future dystopia I created in “On the Night Shift,” I wanted to highlight how American social mobility has taken a downturn since the post-war period. Maria has faced much stiffer competition to get on the career ladder. And while the men who moved to Houston in the 1960s could buy a house and support wives and families on one government salary, Maria is stuck living in a shared house in an area that she knows will flood. Economic precarity reinforces climate change vulnerability. Although the housing cost crisis isn’t such a present reality for Johnson Space Center’s engineers, it’s already becoming an issue for staff at the Jet Propulsion Lab in Los Angeles, where high housing prices are making some employees question whether they can afford an idealistic job in the public sector.

Writing a believable engineering crisis is always a challenge, if you’re not satisfied with resorting to technobabble along the lines of reversing the polarity of the neutron flow. I strongly believe it’s better to borrow than to invent. The high-stakes situation that forms the climax of “On the Night Shift” was inspired by the 1985 abort-to-orbit of the Shuttle mission STS-51F after one of its main engines shut down during launch. It was Booster Systems Officer Jenny Howard – one of the very first women to work in Mission Control – who guessed that this was a sensor problem and made the gutsy call to inhibit the sensors from commanding a shutdown on a second engine.

“This isn’t science fiction,” said a good friend of mine in response to an earlier draft of this story. Though I indignantly refuted Tim’s comment at the time, it may not be entirely wrong. A first human mission to Mars sadly seems a long way off, but climate change is here – now, already. Reports have highlighted how a major hurricane hitting the Gulf Coast in the wrong place could drive a storm surge up the Houston Ship Channel, inundating coastal refineries and resulting in a natural disaster that one expert says could be “America’s version of Chernobyl.”

But although Houston has so far escaped a major climate change disaster, the unprecedented wildfires in Los Angeles only a couple of months ago led to the evacuation of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Library, with hundreds of employees losing their homes. Climate change is coming for the space program. Let’s hope that our ability to imagine and envision the future helps us to live a better life on Earth even as we reach for the stars.


Zohar Jacobs <X: @zoharjacobs and Bluesky: @zoharjacobs.bsky.social> has published short fiction in the Sunday Morning Transport, Analog, and Clarkesworld. A graduate of Viable Paradise, she grew up in New Hampshire and now lives in England. Last year she finally made a pilgrimage to Johnson Space Center. Zohar’s latest tale for Asimov’s tells the story of a Mars mission entering orbit during a chaotic hurricane evacuation from Houston, and sudden new responsibilities for a young engineer.

Q&A with Ray Nayler

Ray Nayler fell down the rabbit hole of researching historical medicine and emerged with a story featuring treatments better left forgotten. You can read it in our [March/April issue, on sale now!]

Asimov’s Editor: How did this story germinate? Was there a spark of inspiration, or did it come to you slowly?
Ray Nayler: Like everything I write, the story started because I got curious about something, and wanted to find out more about it. For me, writing is a way of engaging my curiosity. I write to dig deeper, and find out more about a subject. Writing is a way, for me, of instrumentalizing curiosity – giving it a goal, a reason, some kind of structure. I think if you took all of my books and stories and arranged them in the order in which they were written, you could get an ice core of my interests and explorations – a kind of autobiography of curiosity.
In this particular case, I got curious about the lobotomy. It’s such a strange, dark moment in American history: this time when all of a sudden, it seemed, it became perfectly reasonable to stick an icepick in the frontal lobes of mental patients and tear part of their brains apart on purpose, in order to cure them. Thousands and thousands of these operations were performed, all over the country, and then, just as mysteriously as they had become acceptable, they became unacceptable again.
So I started digging into the phenomenon. I read the book The Lobotomist, by Jack El-Hai, about Walter Freeman, the physician who popularized and performed the procedures in the United States, and traveled all over the country spreading the gospel of lobotomy to mental hospitals and tapping his icepick into the brains of patients. Freeman’s biography is bizarre: it’s such a disturbing interweaving of patriarchy, hubris, and dangerous self-delusion, combined with what seems like a genuine desire to help people and get them out of the nightmarish dungeons American mental hospitals had become.
While reading that book, I came across descriptions of other early shock therapies: cold baths, insulin comas . . . and the drug Metrazol, which was used to induce convulsions in mental patients, and which had a strange side effect: just before the seizure hit, the patients would get a look of unspeakable terror on their faces, as if they had seen the most awful thing they could imagine. But because of the memory loss the seizures induced, the patients could never describe what they had seen.
And I thought, “there’s a story here . . .”

AE: Why was that the moment for you when you thought there was a story?
RN: I think what I am interested the most as a writer is the unique angle into an issue: the view that offers up some unexpected element, and presents the possibility to write something that is truly new. It is always my goal to write stories that are unlike anything else, and the best way to do that is to start from an angle into the story that maybe no-one has thought of before. That flash of terror, forgotten (but is anything really forgotten) seemed like a great place to start digging.

AE: What made you think of Asimov’s for this story?
RN: I thought, at first, that this might not be a story for Asimov’s – perhaps it was a bit too much of a horror story. But in the end it’s really a story about science. About hubris, and repression, and how much what constitutes mental illness is a question of what is and is not acceptable to the society of the time. I thought – I’ll let Sheila decide if it’s right for her. Asimov’s was the first magazine to publish my work in SF, with my short story Mutability, in 2015, and it has been home to so many of my stories. I sent it in thinking that Sheila might reject it, but I wanted to give her a first look at it, just in case. I was so glad when she took it.


The meanings found in memory are like the meanings found in history: they may be tangentially related to the real events that occurred, but they only use those events as raw materials: their real purpose is, like history, to help us better understand our present moment.


AE: Are there any themes that you find yourself returning to throughout your writing?
RN: There are many, but I think that memory is the subject that I seem to return to most. That seems appropriate, because in the end memory and language are the materials a writer works with, the way a painter works with paint and light. I’ve long been fascinated by memory, and the strange ways it changes form, and I’ve come to believe that it is not a storage system at all: it is a functional organ of the self, constantly helping us to generate our current self-image and to help us find equilibrium in a complex world. The meanings found in memory are like the meanings found in history: they may be tangentially related to the real events that occurred, but they only use those events as raw materials: their real purpose is, like history, to help us better understand our present moment.

AE: What is your process?
RN: I get up early in the morning, pour a cup of coffee, put on headphones, and write for at least an hour. I usually start by going back over what I wrote the day before, editing it and cleaning up sentences, shaping and reshaping it, until I feel I am sufficiently in the world of the piece. Then I begin writing new material. By the time I’m finished with a story, I’ve gone over its sentence innumerable times. So editing is a big part of the process, and I see writing as iterative: I’m always returning to what was written before, looping back to it before moving forward.

AE: What inspired you to start writing?
RN: I don’t exactly know. It might have been something as simple as an excess of curiosity, or some desire to put new things in the world. I’m afraid, sometimes, to think too deeply about questions like this: don’t we often reshape our reasons to suit our present moment? I wrote from a very young age, young enough that whatever impulse I had to do it is beyond retrieval, so to answer this I would have to make something up.

AE: What other projects are you currently working on?
RN: I have my second novel, Where the Axe is Buried, coming out in April. I am hard at work on the third novel, but I don’t talk about current projects. I have several shorter ideas in the works as well. My next story with Asimov’s, a novelette titled “The Tin Man’s Ghost” will be out later this year. It’s a continuation of the Disintegration Loops series.

AE: What are you reading right now?
RN: I’m mostly reading for research on the current book, and since I can’t talk too much about that, I can’t talk too much about what I’m reading. But I am also learning Spanish at the Foreign Service Institute, and to inspire myself I am reading a book of poems by Jorge Luis Borges. Encountering him again (he is a favorite author of mine) via his poetry in the original has been wonderful.

AE: Do you have any advice for up-and-coming writers?
RN: It’s hard to block out all the noise and concentrate on your craft, but you will be much happier and a much better writer if you do.

AE: What other careers have you had, and how have they affected your writing?
RN: I am a Foreign Service Officer with the Department of State, and I’ve served in Kosovo, Azerbaijan, Vietnam, and Kyrgyzstan. I worked for years on international development programs, living in Tajikistan, Russia, Kazakhstan, and Afghanistan, and was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Turkmenistan. I spent twenty years outside the United States. Living for years in radically different societies will teach you what it means to be the alien, what it means to be the other, the outsider. What it means to be continually misunderstood. I think I bring that into my work.

AE: How can our readers follow you and your writing?
RN: I’ve pared my social media presence down to an Instagram account, @raynayler and am considering dropping that as well. The best place to find me is at raynayler.net – readers can also subscribe to my newsletter, Angles In there.


Ray Nayler <raynayler.net> is the author of the novel The Mountain in the Sea, which won the Locus Award for Best First Novel, and the novella The Tusks of Extinction, praised by the New York Times and the Washington Post. Called “one of the up-and-coming masters of SF short fiction” by Locus, Ray’s stories have won the Clarkesworld Readers’ Poll and the Asimov’s Readers’ Award, and his novelette “Sarcophagus” was a finalist for the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. A Russian speaker, Ray lived and worked abroad for two decades in Russia, Central Asia, Vietnam, and the Balkans.

Q&A with Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Kristine Kathryn Rusch turned an idle thought about the prospect of controlling the weather into the novella Weather Duty, available to read in our [March/April issue, on sale now!]

Asimov’s Editor: How did this story germinate? Was there a spark of inspiration, or did it come to you slowly?
Kristine Kathryn Rusch: I started this story before the pandemic, shortly after I moved to Las Vegas from Oregon. I was afraid of the heat then, and wondered what would happen if people really could control the weather. Then, I was scanning story starts in early 2024, and found it, and realized that if someone did figure out how to control the weather, there would probably be a committee. Then I realized, no, the government would have to be involved.
I live a few blocks from the courthouse and from city hall, which is in this story. Somehow the location made it morph into “weather duty” as in “jury duty.” If you’ve ever done jury duty, you know how hard it is for anyone to agree on anything. And that gave me the story.

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

AE: What made you think of Asimov’s for this story?
KKR: I always send Asimov’s my sci-fi stories first. I love hearing what Sheila has to say about them.

AE: How much or little do current events impact your writing?
KKR: Waaaay too much. Even when I don’t realize it as I’m writing. I guess that’s an occupational hazard. I was a broadcast journalist before I became a fiction writer. Plus my training as a historian also makes me inclined to look at the events around me to create stories.

AE: How do you deal with writers’ block?
KKR: There is no such thing. There’s project block, which means that a project gets stalled, personal beliefs that get in the way, and life events that may make it impossible to write for a time, but writer’s block itself is a myth.
That said, my company, WMG Publishing, has an online course to help writers who feel blocked. https://wmgwriterstore.com/collections/writers-block-freedom

AE: What other projects are you currently working on?
KKR: I just finished a surprise fantasy novel (I thought it was a short story. Whoops!) that doesn’t have a title yet. I am finishing a side saga in my Fey universe. I’m in the middle of the fifth novel there. I’ve also approached the next novel in my Diving universe a few times in the past few months, but haven’t figured out how to open it yet. (See project block, above.) And then there’s the short fiction; I’m working on a story a month right now.

AE: What are you reading right now?
KKR: I’m discouraged about the state of the world right now, and when that happens, I find myself unable to read the usual relaxing things. So I read thrillers and crime fiction. I just finished Robert Crais’s latest, The Big Empty, and followed it with The Best American Mystery Stories 2024. I have one more best-of to read before I get back to novels.


Write your stories and believe in yourself. Write a lot. Don’t rewrite. If you have to fix something major, redraft. Your story is in your head. The manuscript is the tool to communicate the story. If the tool is flawed, grab a new tool.


AE: Do you have any advice for up-and-coming writers?
KKR: Stay away from peer writing workshops. Beginners don’t know nothing. So, a bunch of beginners going on about your writing is as valuable as asking for advice from your cat. Write your stories and believe in yourself. Write a lot. Don’t rewrite. If you have to fix something major, redraft. Your story is in your head. The manuscript is the tool to communicate the story. If the tool is flawed, grab a new tool.

AE: What other careers have you had, and how have they affected your writing?
KKR: Oh, dear. Careers as opposed to jobs. Hmmm. Journalism taught me to hit deadlines. If I don’t have ideas, too bad. Something is due, and that means I need to write. I brought that directly into my fiction writing. I meet my deadlines if I have a story assignment or need to turn in a novel.
I was and still am an editor. I know that some stories may be wonderful, but they aren’t to a particular editor’s taste. It means I don’t take rejection personally. That’s a very valuable attitude to have.

AE: How can our readers follow you and your writing?
KKR: Currently, I’m on Bluesky, Facebook, and Patreon. Then there’s my website. So here goes:
Bluesky: @kristinerusch.bsky.social
Facebook: my page is kristinerusch/writer, but I’ve been on Facebook so long that my personal profile page is where I post most of the time. (That started back when pages were considered fan pages)
Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/kristinekathrynrusch.  I use this for nonfiction mostly, although I’ve been goofing around with video as well.
And my website is kriswrites.com.


Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s fiction has won the Asimov’s Readers Award the past two years running. She also won The Short Fiction Mystery’s Derringer Award for the best novelette for a story that was in The WMG Holiday Spectacular. She expects to have a new novel in the Diving series in 2025. Kris is finishing a big saga in her Fey series as well, with a new book coming out in September. The author moved to Las Vegas in 2018, and as a Midwestern girl, had to learn how to live in the heat. She was doing fine until this past summer broke all heat records and lasted longer than any previous summer.

Q&A with T.R. Napper

T.R. Napper wondered what might happen if some of the world’s worst billionaires somehow disappeared, and eventually came up with his latest story for Asimov’s, a novella called The Hidden God in our [March/April issue, on sale now!]

Asimov’s Editor: What is the story behind this piece?
T.R. Napper: I had just finished challenging edits on a very dark and morally complex novel, and decided I need a break from such creative intensity. I wanted to have some fun, so I thought: How about killing off the worst billionaires?
It was fun, at the start (creatively only, of course), but very quickly my mind yearned for something more. It’s actually a very good question for moral philosophy: if you had the power to kill off the worst billionaires, would you? What would be the consequences?
So instead of a simple and light short story, I found myself writing a dark, sometimes violent, and certainly morally complex novella. I can’t help myself, apparently.
The story also seems sadly prescient, given recent events in the US with your elections, with a growing oligarchy, and the influence of the billionaire class. I started writing The Hidden God two years ago, but it looks like I wrote it last week.

AE: Is this story part of a larger universe, or is it stand-alone?
TRN: Part of a larger universe. All my published works thus far, from my collection (Neon Leviathan), two novels (36 Streets and The Escher Man), and novella (Ghost of the Neon God) take place in the same future reality, ranging from the years 2080 to 2101. The Hidden God takes place earlier in the timeline (2063), and in a different country than I normally write—the Republic of California. All my other works are set in either Australia, Vietnam, or elsewhere in Southeast Asia.
I’d largely ignored the United States in my speculative future. This is because I’ve imagined a world where the US has collapsed and China remains the sole superpower. My fiction has sometime been called “post-Western” because, I assume, the US and Europe are no longer relevant (my intent was not to be deliberately “post-western” —my intent was simply to extrapolate the future I’d seen while living in Southeast Asia and Australia).
But I wanted to write about billionaires, and California has remained a functioning entity in my world, so I thought it might be a good place to start.

AE: What made you think of Asimov’s for this story?
TRN: Honestly, I didn’t think Sheila would take this, and was ecstatic when she did. My first story in Asimov’s was in 2015, right near the start of my writing career, and I’ve been submitting ever since. 15 stories over the past decade— some of which were held for a very long time, but none quite managing a spot.
I didn’t expect The Hidden God to succeed where the others had failed because it was a novella (and who I am to have a novella in Asimov’s?), and because it is so dark and violent. Not that Asimov’s doesn’t push boundaries—it does—but it didn’t seem typical for the magazine. Very pleased to have been proven wrong (and, as they say—never self-reject).

AE: Who or what are your greatest influences and inspirations?
TRN: Literature: Kazuo Ishiguro, Dashiell Hammett, Bao Ninh, Tim Winton, Ursula Le Guin, Philip K Dick, George Orwell, Kurt Vonnegut, Hilary St John Mandel, James M Cain, Vladimir Nabokov, Albert Camus.
Film: Blade Runner, Ghost in the Shell, Memento, Fury Road, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Gattaca.

AE: How much or little do current events impact your writing?
TRN: You’d be forgiven for thinking they do intensely, if you’d just read my novella in Asimov’s. But, on the other hand, not at all.  
By this I mean: while I have a firm set of political beliefs, and draw on events in the present to inform my work, I’m also a writer. I’m not a polemicist or an essayist. The world is complex and humans are complex and I believe the best stories are, as well. What I want, ultimately, is to write stories that can be relevant to different times and different places. I suppose I want to try (even if I fail) to write something true about what it means to be human.
I do not like fiction that tries to spoon feed a particular morality—even if (especially if) it happens to match my own—or that is connected in an obvious way to the present. I want real people in real imagined worlds, living full three-dimensional lives, with all the messiness and uncertainty that this contains. I have themes I return to, of course—the dehumanizing effects of technology, rising corporate power and surveillance, new imperialisms, the relationship between memory and the soul, the consequences of violence—but themes need not be didactic.
As Hemingway said: “As a writer, you should not judge, you should understand.”


What I want, ultimately, is to write stories that can be relevant to different times and different places. I suppose I want to try (even if I fail) to write something true about what it means to be human.


AE: What is your process?
TRN: I’m disciplined. I try to write (or edit) every day, and I read every day. I have word count targets every month, and usually hit them (for those wondering, I write full time, I work half-time, and I have two young children, which is to say: I’m tired). I’m not a fast writer, but I’m consistent. Eking out words every day yields impressive results in the long term.
I tend towards the plotting end of the spectrum, do an enormous amount of research, obsesses over world building, write profiles for every important character in my stories and pin it to the wall in front of my writing desk. After a third draft I put aside stories to let them breathe. Weeks for short fiction, a year (or even more) for a novel. I can’t explain it, but it is intrinsic to my creative mind.
I’m a perfectionist. I obsess over edits, over words, over commas.
And, like I said: I read. Every night. Reading is part of the job of the writer. I read widely (outside my own genre), and aim to finish a book a week. It’s a great part of the job, yes, but in my view absolutely fundamental to being a better author.

AE: What other projects are you currently working on?
TRN: I’m about to start pitching a newly-completed novel, also set in my cyberpunk world, but a generation further into the future (approx. 2130). It’s more military SF than cyberpunk, and looks at the consequences of fully automatous warfare. With mechas.
But behind this, in the background, is a huge dark fantasy novel I’ve been working on and off for the past four years. Excited to get back to it.

AE: If you could choose one SFnal universe to live in, what universe would it be, and why? & What SFnal prediction would you like to see come true?
TRN: I’m reading The Player of Games right now actually by Iain M Banks, which takes place in the ‘Culture’. That universe has no possessions, ownership, or sickness, and lifespans are about 400 years (and yet Banks still finds ways to create conflict and tension).
So, yes, a world where I could create art and read myriad books (in 400 years I might be able to get through my TBR pile) and not have to worry about the mortgage, or the bills, yes that would be nice. Where my contribution would be valued, where I would still serve a purpose to society, where words and learning and ideas still mattered? Yeah. Wouldn’t mind that.
But I’m a punk, at heart, and punks like to fight. Maybe I wouldn’t be happy, after all.  

AE: Do you have any advice for up-and-coming writers?
TRM:If you’re reading this you’re probably a writer of short stories. That’s a good thing. Short stories are great way to hone your craft, and, indeed, turbocharge it. I began writing short stories because I wanted to learn how to write, and because the cycle of drafting, critiquing, submission, and rejection was so much shorter compared to the novel.
But in the process I fell in love with the form. It’s a diabolical challenge to introduce a world, a story, create emotional resonance, and a satisfying character arc, all in 5000 words. There are many novelists who simply cannot do it. But I truly think going the other way is easier. If you can master the short form, you will have developed many of the crucial skills needed for the novel.
You also develop an audience. A small one, yes, but you’ve got to start somewhere. Industry professionals start to notice you, which doesn’t hurt, either. An old-school path to traditional publishing was the short-story, followed by the collection, followed by the full-length novel. This is the path I took, and it worked.

AE: What other careers have you had, and how have they affected your writing?
TRN: I started writing later in life, compared to my peers. I was in my mid-thirties when I took up the pen, after a career in foreign aid. Working overseas (mainly in Southeast Asia) for over a decade, implementing poverty alleviation programs in some of the poorest communities on Earth. This of course influenced my world view.
I think it’s good to start writing late, actually. While my craft was poor at the start, and I knew no-one, and didn’t understand how the industry worked, I nonetheless had a ‘voice’. I knew who I was, knew what I believed in, and had years of intense cultural, social, and political experiences that in turn influenced my work.
I never have writer’s block. In fact I have the opposite problem: a profusion of ideas for stories and series and situations. I think Iin part this is why I still try to write short stories, even though my main focus now is the novel. Short fiction is the perfect arena to experiment, get some new ideas onto the page. 

AE: How can our readers follow you and your writing? (IE: Social media handles, website URL…)
TRN: On Bluesky, Instagram, and Facebook I’m trnapper. On Twitter I’m @TheEscherMan, and my website is: www.nappertime.com


T. R. Napper is a multi-award-winning science fiction author. His honours include the prestigious Aurealis three times (Best Horror Short Story 2016, Best Science Fiction Novella 2020, Best Science Fiction Novel 2022). His short fiction has appeared in Asimov’sTheMagazine of Fantasy & Science FictionInterzone, and numerous others. He received a creative writing doctorate for his thesis: The Dark Century, 1946 – 2046. Noir, Cyberpunk, and Asian Modernity. 
Before turning to writing, T. R. Napper was a diplomat and aid worker, delivering humanitarian programs throughout Southeast Asia for a decade. During this period, he received a commendation from the Government of Laos for his work with the poor. He was a resident of the Old Quarter in Hanoi for several years, the setting for his acclaimed debut novel, 36 Streets (2022). 
These days he has returned to his home country of Australia, where, in addition to his writing, he runs art therapy programs for people with disabilities.

Q&A With Nancy Kress

We’re thrilled to welcome back Nancy Kress (photo credit: Mary Grace Long) to Asimov’s, as the first part of her two-part novel Quantum Ghosts appears in our [March/April issue, on sale now!]. In this enlightening interview with Kress, we discuss the scientific inspiration behind Quantum Ghosts, her beginnings as a writer, and more.

Asimov’s Editor: What is the story behind this piece?
Nancy Kress: All my stories start the same way: with a character, a scientific idea, or both.  For “Quantum Ghosts,” the scientific idea was the interaction between the magnetic shielding needed for a massive quantum computer and the magnetosphere of the Earth.  The character was actually two characters I wanted to write about: a person who suddenly goes from financially cared for to destitute, and a character who is struggling to step out of their family’s expectations for them.  The first of these is Kenda O’Malley, who came to me at the same time as the basic idea for the story.  The second took more thought.  Kenda is young, innocent, female; I decided she is destitute because her single-parent mother just died.  I wanted my second protagonist to be a contrast to her, so Robert Dayson is male, older, and well off.  Why is he still trying to live up to family expectations in his forties?  I had to think about that, including the fact that some people never escape familial traditions.  Both Kenda and Dayson have children to care for: Kenda’s little sister and Dayson’s difficult daughter. 
The next step was to tie these two characters together, and both of them to the problem posed by the quantum computers.  My original idea (and no, I don’t know where these things come from) included not just Kenda but also the quantum ghosts, electrical leakages that affect the human brain (a very real phenomenon from high-voltage wires, although not in the way I use them here.)  Once I figured out how Kenda and Dayson were connected, the plot began to take shape in my mind.
This novella was actually planned first as a novel, with a great many more main characters with their own stories.  The novel didn’t really work, so I pared it down to Kenda and Dayson, with other characters functioning mostly in connection to those two.

AE: Do you particularly relate to any of the characters in this story?
NK: A fan once remarked to me, not without a hint of exasperation, “Do all your stories revolve around pairs of sisters?”  Well, no, not all, but a great many do, including my arguably most successful novel, Beggars in Spain.  Sometimes the sisters are allies; sometimes rivals; sometimes, as in “Quantum Ghosts,” the elder is caretaker for a much younger sister.  My sister is seven years younger than I, and when we were kids, I did indeed babysit her, teach her, mother her, even though we had a perfectly good mother.  Some of this auxiliary mothering was not especially appreciated: I taught her to read by chasing her around the house and sitting on her until she learned.  Anyway, Kenda is the character I most relate to.

AE: What is your history with Asimov’s
NK: My second story published story appeared in Asimov’s in 1978.  Since then, I sold stories steadily to editors George Scithers, Shawna McCarthy, Gardner Dozois, and Sheila Williams.

AE: What is your process?
NK: For any story with real science (or rather, real-to-a-point science; if it were all real it wouldn’t be science fiction), I research first.  The characters, like Kenda and Dayson, might already be in my mind, but characters have to actually do things, and the majority of those things should be connected in some way to the science.  So I begin with reading, note-taking, and playing with the concepts and details of the science, be it genetic engineering, stellar physics, or—in this case—the Earth’s geomagnetic sphere (which is not a sphere but an elongated shape that extends from the center of the Earth to several hundred miles into space.)  Because I knew next-to-nothing about geomagnetism, this involved a lot of study, a lot of going “Huh?” and then “Huh!”  Also a lot of cursing; I am not trained as a scientist.  Research not only grounds a story in actual science, it can also suggest plot ideas, and I ended up with as many pages of story ideas as research facts.
Next all this gets reviewed and a loose outline emerges.  Actually, to call it an “outline” is to vastly overstate.  It’s one or two pages labeled MASTER SHEET which pretty much ends up mastering nothing, but at least it’s something to point out which direction I am hypothetically going and a few possible pathways to get there.  Not so much GPS as a faded, dog-eared, slightly outdated Atlas roadmap that lacks all the new roads, collapsed bridges, and accidents on Interstate 90.

AE: How do you deal with writer’s block?
NK: I don’t actually have writer’s block, if by that you mean wanting to write but not being able to.  I do have periods in which I am not writing, either because there is too much else going on in my life, good or bad, or because I am waiting for an idea to come to fruition in my mind.  These fallow periods are full of reading, note making on odd bits of paper, seeing movies and analyzing their structure.  For the most part, the fallow periods are serene.  I know that eventually I will start writing again, and eventually I do.
Different from those periods are times I have a piece in progress but am reluctant to sit down and work on it.  If this goes on for a few days, I know I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere in the story.  So I go back to the last place I was excited and confident about the story, and replot from there.

AE:  What inspired you to start writing?
NK: Boredom and isolation—not, I know, the usual answer.  I was living way out in the country with a toddler and a difficult second pregnancy.  My then-husband was working all day and taking an MBA at night.  There were no other young women living on our road, and the older ones had all gone back to work.  I was new to the entire city.  Like all fiction writers, I had always read a lot of fiction, including science fiction.  So when my toddler was napping, I started writing stories.  They were all terrible and promptly rejected.  But I enjoyed writing them, and gradually they got better.  After a year, one of them sold.

AE: What other careers have you had, and how have they affected your writing?
NK: Two other careers.  I was a corporate copy-writer for in-house copy, which means writing news letters, speeches for executives to give, non-technical training manuals.  All these items must be gone over with the individual client, who then tells what corrections they want.  From this process, I learned how not to write.  Clients (not all, but most) wanted terrible prose: passive voice, pointless repetitions, bombastic diction (“It sounds more important.”)
I have also been a teacher of the fourth grade (liked it very much), of high school (lasted five months), of college (liked the graduate courses I taught, some of the undergraduate ones, but not freshman comp) and for the last several decades, at workshops like Clarion and Taos Toolbox, teaching committed adults who want to be SF writers (love it.)  Teaching others forces one to articulate the principles of good writing, as well as seeing new techniques being worked out by talented aspiring writers.  I always learn from my students.

NK: What other projects are you working on?
AE: I began in the early 1980’s by writing fantasy novels, not SF, and right now I am returning to fantasy with an historical novel, almost completed, called The Queen’s Witch.  Tudor England has always fascinated me (as it does so many others), and my novel is about a witch bound to Anne Boleyn, a state of affairs neither likes.  But they need each other and, as much enemies as allies, try to navigate the shifting currents of Heney VIII’s court.  Everyone knows how that ends for Anne, but not the desperate twists my witch employs to try to save her, or why.

AE: Do you have any advice for upcoming writers?
NK: Yes, but none of it is new.  Persevere: you are presumably in this for the long haul, and the fate of one story or one novel does not predict the rest of your career.  Nor even two stories or novels, or three.  Try to rein in both your elation at success and your despair at failure; any career contains a lot of both.  Sometimes that isn’t evident to anyone but the writer, but it’s still true.
Read.  Read good fiction and analyze why it’s good.  Read bad fiction and try to determine why it got published, especially if it’s wildly popular.  Read non-fiction.  Stock the pond with ideas and details; that’s where ideas hatch.
Keep an open mind about criticism from beta readers, writing groups, agents, editors.  The criticism might be not be useful, but consider it anyway until you are sure it isn’t useful to your particular work.

AE:  What SFnal prediction would you like to see come true?
NK: SF doesn’t predict the future, it rehearses possible futures.  Given a choice of those, I want benevolent aliens to make peaceful contact with us.  It would be so lovely to know we are not alone in the universe.  A bonus would be if they can help us straighten out the mess we are making of our planet, but that might be too much to ask for.  Still, one can dream.


Nancy Kress is the author of twenty-five novels, five collections of short stories, and three books about writing. Her fiction has won six Nebulas, two Hugos, a Sturgeon, and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award. Her most recent work is Observer, written with Dr. Robert Lanza. Subatomic particles have always both fascinated and baffled Nancy, and over the course of her forty-five-year writing career, quantum physics has only gotten weirder.

The Problem With Chakotay

by Siobhan Carroll

Professor Siobhan Carroll recounts her disappointment watching the contentious Star Trek: Voyager character Chakotay, and describes how the missed opportunity he represents helped inspire “In the Splinterlands the Crows Fly Blind,” her story from our [January/February issue, on sale now!]

The roots of “In the Splinterlands…” can be traced to my youthful hobby of Getting Mad at TV Shows. Specifically, it can be traced to 1995, and the debut of Star Trek: Voyager, for which I was psyched.

As a teenager I liked Star Trek shows (good!) and had an unhealthy fixation on maritime disaster stories (worrying!), so Voyager seemed like my kind of show. Its promo materials promised a story about a lost Starfleet ship (great!) captained by a woman (even better!) and showed a  crewmember with a tattoo on his face (badass)!

Unfortunately, the show never lived up to my hopes. In retrospect, the storylines my teenage self wanted from Voyager (Mutiny! Survival cannibalism! A musical episode about a murder trial!) would have been a poor fit for Star Trek’s shiny moral universe.

Even so, I got mad at the version of Voyager I did see. One of the things I was maddest about was Chakotay: the character with the badass facial tattoo and cool name, who’d been sold as being the first Native American character in the Star Trek universe.

(Caveat: I didn’t watch Voyager steadily after it made its debut. My memories of the show are garbled, blurry, and highly inaccurate. All the better for a blog post, right? Let’s go!)

Commander Chakotay was played by Mexican-American actor Robert Beltran. Beltran tried his best, but his dialogue was just… bad. One speech Chakotay gave sounded indistinguishable from the “ancient wisdom” handed to me by an aging white hippie at the bus stop. Another time, Chakotay sounded like a character from Dances With Wolves. I remember thinking that if a character on Star Trek was talking like a character from a movie set in the 1800s, something was wrong.

Worse, Chakotay wasn’t just a “Native American” officer. He was a Magical, Mystical Native American who could Commune with Nature. Even as a white kid in the suburbs, this struck me as an obvious stereotype (and therefore “bad”).

Still, even “bad” stereotypes could sometimes work out for characters on ‘90s TV, where there weren’t a lot of great roles for actors-of-color to choose from. Sure, it was a stereotype to have Asian-American characters know kung-fu, but at least it meant that whenever a fight broke out, your favorite character would get screentime. They’d be part of the story.

But Voyager was set in the VOID of OUTER SPACE. How much “Communing with Nature” could Chakotay possibly do?

As the show waned on, Voyager’s writers seemed to struggle with this problem. They tried to create moments where Chakotay’s powers would come in handy (maybe the ship encounters a planet of trees!) but at best those plots reduced Chakotay to a messenger for the alien-of-the-week.


I remember thinking that if a character on Star Trek was talking like a character from a movie set in the 1800s, something was wrong.


More often, he was reduced to a dispenser of wisdom. In Magical Minority mode, he’d weigh in on Captain Janeway’s decision with a series of platitudes (which in my memory often turned on caring for the environment, or “honoring the land”) and she’d nod, and make her choice. Usually, it was the choice we already knew she’d make.

Because here’s the thing about ‘90s Star Trek captains. They were already the Good Guys. If Janeway had been, say, Moby Dick’s Captain Ahab, or even the historical Captain Cook (the model for TOS’s Captain Kirk), Chakotay’s advice scenes would have had real tension. But given that Chakotay never caught Captain Janeway dropkicking baby seals across the deck, his advice felt less like advice, and more like an affirmation of shared values.

When Chakotay was called on to use his powers, he’d go into a room and meditate, taking a Timeout from the plot. I don’t think he ever ‘tried and failed’at communicating with the ancestors, or the aliens, or space-trees. If the writers had written things differently, one of the magical Star Trek computers could have delivered the same information. In such scenes, Chakotay didn’t have a story: he had a function.

And that bothered me. It bothered me that they’d made this cool-seeming character into a stereotype with nothing to do.

One day, when I was watching an episode where Chakotay was stuck in a nothing-plot and the engineer was trying and failing to save everybody. I was struck by how typical this was. With the exception of DS9, Star Trek stories turn on the fact that the spaceship moves. When the ship can’t move, or the Warp Drive does something wacky, it’s a Problem. Watching this episode, I figured that the writers could eliminate most of the other positions on Voyager (including the captain) and the show’s storyline could continue. But the engineer? The engineer was necessary.

So why hadn’t they made Chakotay one of the engineers? Then he’d problems to solve every week.

That’s when it dawned on me that I’d never seen a TV show or read an SF story with a “Native American” character who was an engineer, or a hacker, or even a “student good at math.” Science fiction could imagine a lot of things, but most “indigenous” characters I’d encountered in the genre were futuristic versions of guides, trackers, warriors, or mystical gurus.

So I put a mental pin in the idea. I decided that, one day, I’d write about an indigenous character who was good with technology.

Years later, I found myself recalling my issues with Chakotay when I heard that Voyager’s “Native American” consultant had been Jamake Highwater. If you haven’t heard of him: Highwater was an Eastern European man who parlayed a fake indigenous identity into a Hollywood career. This had given him significant influence over Native American representations in film and TV.

As it happened, I’d just encountered a string of figures like Highwater in my nerdy historical reading. I’m not talking only about white men “playing Indian”, but ones who helped create the stereotype of what Shepard Krech III had called “the Ecological Indian”.

The “Ecological Indian” is a warmed-over Noble Savage stereotype: a born conservationist with deep spiritual ties to Nature, and thus a useful guide for white people looking to mend their environmental ways. Figures falling into this category included Iron-Eyes Cody, the Italian-American actor who played the “Crying Indian” in Keep America Beautiful’s famous anti-littering commercial. There was also Grey Owl, the Englishman who posed as a First Nations chief in the early 20th Century as he argued for the conservation of the environment.

And then there was “Chief Seattle”: not the real nineteenth-century Chief of the Suquamish people, but the version I’d seen quoted on posters since I was a kid, who’d given a famous speech about how the Earth was everyone’s mother. That speech was written by Ted Perry, a white scriptwriter working on an environmentalist movie funded by the Southern Baptists. (Perry later claimed he’d wanted his name on the speech, but was told his words just sounded better coming from a nineteenth-century Native American.)

The Chief Seattle speech illustrates one of the big problems of the “Ecological Indian” stereotype: the trope pretends to listen to indigenous peoples while erasing their actual concerns. Chief Seattle had given a famous speech about the land in the nineteenth century, but he was arguing for the right of “visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors” on Suquamish territories. In short, it was a speech about land rights. Perry and the movie promoters erased this context when they remade Chief Seattle into a 1970s environmentalist.

As Krech pointed out in a follow-up to The Ecological Indian: Myth and History (1999), the “Ecological Indian” trope created problems for indigenous people who “failed” to measure up to this stereotype. Groups that wanted to build infrastructure on their lands, or sell mineral rights, were taken to task by environmentalists for not being the “right kind” of Native Americans (or First Nations people). As Gregory D. Smithers noted of a landfill case, “white farmers, ranchers, and environmentalists insisted they knew what ‘authentic’ Indians would do”.

The “Ecological Indian” trope also performed work within indigenous communities, for good and ill. As Darren J. Ranco argued in his critique of Krech, many communities made use of the trope in the context of colonialism. In some cases, the “Ecological Indian” trope had helped bands regain stewardship of their traditional lands. However, as Kimberly Tallbear argued, the “Ecological Indian” was sometimes deployed within indigenous communities as a “narrow, generic, and romanticized view of what is traditional” that fomented community divisions.

So, it’s complicated. Nevertheless, when I ran across “Ecological Indian” discourse in grad school, it was clear that Chakotay checked a lot of Krech’s boxes. His speeches endorsed the same abstract environmentalism as the 1970s Chief Seattle poster; he didn’t seem to come from a particular tribe or place; and he was often stuck giving “advice” that reaffirmed his audiences’ values. So, in addition to writing a character who was good with technology, I figured I was now on the hook for writing a character who was bad at Nature.

Some time after I wrote my “Airwalker” for Asimov’s, I saw Rebecca Roanhorse’s tweet (or maybe a quote?) about indigenous peoples not being afraid of apocalypses because they’d survived so many of them already. That got me thinking about my own postapocalyptic multiverse and how various indigenous groups might be faring there. And I figured it was time to write my engineer’s story.

My way into Charlie’s character was via the character’s feeling of mismatch and failure. I can’t tell you what it feels like to belong seamlessly to a community, but I know what it feels like to not quite fit. And I have some knowledge of what it feels like to “fail” at “properly” being an identity you were born into: an identity you didn’t choose. When that happens in the context of colonialism, it’s particularly painful.

On Voyager, as I remember it, Chakotay seemed to have an easy, seamless connection to his ancestral past. Maybe that’s true for some indigenous people, but not for all.

When I met local Lenape chief Dennis Coker at an event some years ago, one of the first things he said to me was, “Please don’t ask if I have ‘Traditional’ Ecological Knowledge; I don’t. Your people destroyed it all.” If we think of ecological knowledge as it’s depicted in Chakotay’s visions—a kind of resource that can be seamlessly transferred from past to present—that’s true. If we think of it as like Anishinaabe scholar Deborah McGregor does, as a way of living oriented toward the environment of the present, it thrives.

So these are some of the things I was thinking about when writing “Splinterlands.” (And Jurassic Park, and crow language, and Ray Bradbury, and Darrel J. McLeod’s Mamaskatch, Tommy Orange’s There There, and the history of Kahgegagahbowh. Thanks again to all my readers—particularly John Bird— and to the contributors to projects like the Online Cree Dictionary and the nēhiyawak language experience.)

Finally, a word on Chakotay. Much as that character annoyed me in the 1990s, I’m sure there are people who loved that character, including some Native American and First Nations viewers who were happy to have a character like Chakotay on screen, even if he was played by a Mexican-American, even if he spoke in clichés.

I’m also sure that some viewers loved Chakotay for a more fundamental reason: because that character said or did something that resonated with them at an important time in their life. And afterward, that thing he said became a principle they adopted, or a thing they aspired to be.

The fact is, there are times in our life when fictional characters offer us a way to imagine ourselves in the world. They help us discover who we are. This is one of the gifts of fiction.

However problematic or complicated you later feel an impactful story or character is, the fact remains: for you, it was the right story at the right time. And the more possibilities we envision for characters, the more that experience may be shared by others.

For me, the character of Chakotay helped me think about a character I wanted to write about in the future. I’m glad for that. I’d be delighted if any of the stories in this issue of Asimov’s do the same for you. And if not, I hope at least that you are enjoy them and the worlds we’ve created.


Siobhan Carroll is an associate professor of English at the University of Delaware, where she researches the literary history of empire and the environment. Her short stories can be found in magazines like Reactor and on her website at voncarr-siobhan-carroll.blogspot.com. A previous story in the Unsettled Worlds, “The Airwalker Comes to the City in Green,” appeared in the December 2019 edition of Asimov’s.

Where the Past and Future Meet: Juxtaposing Historical and Science Fiction

by Nikki Braziel

Nikki Braziel lays out some of the surprising similarities between science fiction and historical fiction. To see how she puts these ideas into practice, check out Braziel’s latest story, “Through the Pinhole, or, the Origin of a Holostory,” in our [January/February issue, on sale now!]

Simplifying the definitions of two expansive genres, science fiction tells the story of the future, while historical fiction narrates the past. Science fiction discusses how society could be built. Will advances in technology reorganize what we know about community and culture? Historical fiction explores how society was built. Why did things turn out as they did, and what was it like to live through those times?

These would seem to be opposite genres.

But as science fiction readers know, space-time is a continuum. We don’t write our futures from an Archimedean point divorced from history. Our science fictions are informed by (written in response to, inspired by, celebrating, and disavowing) our personally and societally lived histories. There is a unique place for fiction that juxtaposes an invented future against a real Earth past.

The future makes the past strange.

A visitor sees what a resident takes for granted. Imagine walking through a foreign market. Every scent is an intriguing experience. How are the stalls laid out? How is the fruit hung? How is the market different from your grocery at home, and what does that say about your own culture? What inferences can you make about local agriculture or industrial food production? What are the implications on the broader economic system?

The details of daily life reveal what a society values, and the values of a society influences what it builds. Consider the difference between a Federation science vessel and a Romulan warbird.

When a visitor from the future comes to our present, or our past, we can see through their (detached, more critical) eyes what our society reveals about us. We can ask,

  • What does each civilization value?
  • What is the religious, technological, and scientific framework for understanding the world?
  • How does comparison allow an assessment of evolution? Or regression?

In “Through the Pinhole, or, the Origin of a Holostory,” which appears in the January/February 2025 issue of Asimov’s, I explore sixteenth century Malta through the eyes of a washed-up thirty-third century holonovelist. When our unnamed protagonist encounters Lady Imperia de Bonello, a shopkeeper in Mdina, she understands his time travel though her highly religious and comparatively simple scientific context. This informs her assumptions about how and why he has visited.

Compared to the sixteenth century, the thirty-third is less chauvinistic. When the protagonist is placed alongside a Knight Hospitaller from Imperia’s own time, his approach to gender becomes revolutionary; Imperia can laud and respect him in a way that his ex-wife, informed by the expectations of his own time, does not.

Science fiction and historical fiction collide across galaxies written and filmed.

Consider the popularity of the historical/sci-fi mashup in Star Trek: The Next Generation. The crew goes back in time physically or visits another era through the holodeck in nearly a dozen episodes. In “Elementary, Dear Data,” Geordi La Forge asks the computer to generate a holodeck opponent capable of defeating Data as Sherlock Holmes. Professor Moriarty, the resulting antagonist, becomes sentient, introducing a variety of futuristic ethical questions through the lens of the past.

In “The Big Goodbye,” Captain Picard engages in a holodeck simulation where he plays Dixon Hill, a hardboiled detective in a 1940s setting reminiscent of the work of Dashiell Hammett. The program reflects noir tropes. By comparing the utopian Star Trek universe to the crime and sexism prevalent in the mid-twentieth century underworld, the holodeck offers an aspirational argument for humanity’s improvement.

Doctor Who likewise visits the past, with half-a-dozen time travel episodes in the classic series and more than a dozen in the revived series. A distinction is made between fixed points—events which are unchangeable and have to happen—and fluid time, which can be altered with relatively minor consequence. A common favorite is “Vincent and the Doctor,” which explores the emotional weight of history.

The Man in the High Castle investigates how technology (in this case, video) influences how we imagine possible futures. Set in a timeline where the Nazis won World War II, its characters gain access to evidence of an alternate reality (our reality). Seeing what the world could be like inspires their resistance. The story makes a thematic argument for the recursive relationship between technology and society. A portal (like a pinhole) allows transit between worlds, establishing a relationship between the two.

The past makes the future more complex.

Science fiction and historical fiction are both worldbuilding genres. By examining our past, we can assess what mistakes were made and what assumptions were incorrect. What future were we hoping to arrive at? Remember, the automobile was once seen as an environmentally friendly solution, one that would remove the health and sanitation risks that came from manure dropped into the streets by horse-drawn carriages.

There are three primary methods of combining the past and the future.

  • Simulation, using technology like a holodeck in Star Trek. Characters may be affected by what they learn of the past, but that can’t influence what happened. The relationship is one-directional.
  • Physical time travel, using a device like Doctor Who’s TARDIS. Characters may alter the past, which might change the future. This, of course, depends on your story’s position on the butterfly effect and the integrity of the space-time continuum.
  • Alternate history, a separate but related structure in which the reader becomes the time traveler. Moving forward from a pivot point, the author juxtaposes our understanding of history against a new version.

Will you move forward (into the past) in your own writing?

Is there a historical period or event by which you’ve been fascinated? What is the consensus understanding of that moment? Or is there a diversity of narratives about its significance or impact? How would a visitor from the future see it differently? What type of time traveler would be at odds with our history? Who would have something to learn from it? How can our future selves help us assess our past? What can our past teach our future? By closing the distance between centuries, we give clarity to comparison and causality.


Nikki Braziel <Instagram: @nikkibraziel and Bluesky: @nikki braziel.bsky.social>, whose work has also appeared in Sunday Morning Transport, is making her Asimov’s debut with the tale of a washed-up holonovelist who crosses forty light-years and seventeen centuries to find himself trapped in the Great Siege of Malta. Will his near-death—and the romance he found alongside it—be enough to save his flailing career?