I can relate much more to an everyday character who has to react to a situation or situations that is/are out of their control. Whether they’re fantastical instances or extreme real life ones aren’t necessarily that important to me. It’s the people, the characters, and how they handle these “wingers” (an attacking player in soccer), as I like to call them, that makes a more gripping and relatable story in my opinion.

Images are introduced early in the story, then repeated, developed, given in variations, and hopefully come together at the end. This is a deliberate technical process but hopefully it’s something a reader barely notices, as a sense that all the elements of the story are in harmony with each other, until suddenly they are not. Motifs are common elements of any good story, but it’s rare that mine are so musical.

“Things of Which We Do Not Speak” was written during a period of my writing life when I focused more on real world horror and less on the supernatural. That has changed somewhat now, but I’ve always been intrigued by the dynamics of dominant/submissive relationships and the fear and distaste some profess for this type of sex play. So I started with the idea of a woman who asks to be “abused” as part of a sex game, while her male partner reacts very negatively and judgmentally to the idea.

“Great Black Wave” began with the ending, and nothing like its final form. All of the wider context, the bomb disposal team, the robot, the Afghanistan setting, grew out of that. In that sense—and I suppose this is always the case to some extent—the particular themes and background were a combination of pragmatism and my own preoccupations. A bomb disposal robot and rural Afghanistan as a location were an interesting way into the tale I wanted to tell.

“The Lost” is one of my earliest genre efforts. I’d gotten out of Columbia for my MFA not long before, and finally felt free to experiment. Columbia’s a lot more open-minded now, but back then genre wasn’t permitted. So I tinkered a lot—trying to figure out the line between literary and genre, between symbolic loss and real loss, and how to show that. Turns out, there are no rules, right?