I think both the inspector and Gemma are characters who find solace in each other because they are trying to mediate these brutal social forces that they didn’t choose, but were born into, which is something I relate to. How are you supposed to make decisions for yourself, or even just survive, when you inherit a world other people made for you?

I live near the Greenwich Peninsula, which is an area of London crammed full of new-build blocks of luxury apartments, some of which (particularly during the COVID lockdowns) seemed almost entirely empty. I would often notice a single light in the stairwell.

I don’t think going to Mars will save us. Nor will building some godlike artificial intelligence. No—if there is to be a worthwhile, dignified future for human life on Earth, we have to break free of this malevolent cosmology, this planet-devouring maw.

Using a child’s innocent mind, it is easier to take ourselves back to our primal and untainted fears. I agree with you. To add to that, I also think the older we get, the more tethered we become to the world. Reality becomes more concrete; our understanding sheds its infinity. A necessity, but also a limitation. However, with children, the imagination is still free-flying, and writing from their perspective allows for directions usually unattainable.

I wanted to write about a so-called lost writer but also to push that idea into somewhere strange by writing about a writer and book that may belong in oblivion. As my narrator says, “Some things, perhaps, are not and will never be classics, were rightfully neglected or lost for good reasons.” That’s the core concept I was working with. My interest in forgotten writers, the legend of the stone, and the narrative framework coalesced quite well.

Given the modern problems of dating and such, I have my suspicions, but can you tell us a bit about what inspired “Backseat Kiss”? This story went through a few iterations. At first, I wanted to use a relationship to explore power dynamics, and originally the story was going to be about cuckoldry. That then […]

I like to start my short stories by immediately taking a plunge with my audience, a phrase or a certain voice or tone that lets them know what kind of tale they’re getting into and to trust this voice. This notion, supported with a sense of immediate urgency, i.e., give them something or someone interesting to latch onto—guides most of my work.

Grief causes us to make questionable decisions or judgements. When we’re grieving we do risky things and often trust the wrong people because nothing seems to matter, or maybe anything is better than what we’re currently feeling or experiencing. Romance and sex can be a wonderful distraction.

I think it started out in my head with the scene where the eyeball falls out of Muniza’s socket, and this almost sitcom style uh-oh moment where there’s just the worst person in the world witnessing that. The shame of falling apart while under intense, unsympathetic scrutiny. Then I got to thinking: what are the emotional stakes of that situation?

I like grimy stuff. Dirty, menacing, quick-witted exchanges between folks. I like crime fiction and horror that refuses to get world-rending, to get huge, that sticks to singular people. I love writing shakedowns, and that’s what happens to Chuck in that first scene. He’s got a need, and that need gets exploited