Jean-Paul L. Garnier: What inspired you to conduct the series of interviews in Human Voices, Alien Conversations, and how do you go about selecting interviewees?
James Machell: Several of the interviews had appeared in Utopia Science Fiction Magazine and Electronic Brain. What I wanted to do with Human Voices, Alien Conversations was pull them together into one narrative, and additional interviews were conducted to fill what I perceived to be the gaps in the collection as an overview of SF in the 21st Century. In order to show this with a bird’s eye, I couldn’t just focus on writing when there’s art, editing, performance, and adaptation. I also wanted to explore understated significance. Samuel R. Delany, for example, is nowhere near as well known as Andy Weir, but his influence, even at the time of composing his major works, has been much more profound. Similarly, Chris Moore, with his prog-rock styled art for the SF Masterworks Series, created some of the most recognisable images in the history of SF but did so quietly, never chasing awards or drawing attention to himself: he let his art speak. Cyberpunk, almost exclusively associated with William Gibson, was developed by a “team” of writers in the ‘80s: I thought it would be much more interesting to speak with Pat Cadigan, who is frequently dubbed the “queen” of the subgenre. But I couldn’t just focus on the legends when their contributions to SF are constantly evolving through their influence on younger writers. Interviewees, therefore, vary greatly in age, juxtaposing the perspectives of those blossoming into the SF landscape with those who loosened the soil. Bogi Takács, Samantha Mills, and Ai Jiang, also included in Human Voices, Alien Conversations, are writers we should be looking out for. The final interview is with Matthew Holness, co-writer, co-director, and star of Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace, which gets my vote as the most underappreciated use of SF in visual media. As Holness is now working on the third in a series of spin-off novels, he was ideal to pull everything together.
JPG: How do you go about researching your subjects in preparation for interviews?
JM: Most of the interviewees were selected because I’d been enjoying their work for years. The questions came easily. The Internet Speculative Fiction Database and The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, however, were excellent resources for pinning down dates and discovering aspects of their careers which may have eluded even the most die-hard fan.
JPG: What do you see as some of the main concerns and themes in early 21st Century science fiction?
Vector (ed. Polina Levontin): As a literary scholar, you have written both about motherhood in Frankenstein and theorised the gothic genre in Dracula, a book you edited. How does writing and ‘research as practice’ intersect in The Turn?
Rachel Feder: One of my mentors in graduate school, Yopie Prins, once described herself as “promiscuous” in her scholarly interests. This stuck with me, and I like to say that I’m a slut for genre. I’m interested in genre as a form of experiment, one that calls a certain imagined readership into being. I’m interested in how genre hopping might allow me to imagine and, hopefully, connect with different communities of readers.
The Gothic is a really interesting test case, here. A text I think about a lot is Mary Wollstonecraft’s unfinished Gothic novel, The Wrongs of Woman, or Maria, which is, in my opinion, her most radically proto-feminist work. When Wollstonecraft enters political-theoretical discussions—which it’s actually incredible that she was able to do so effectively, given both her gender and her class and family background—she writes to the readership that was already established for that discourse field. She offers almost chiropractic adjustments to patriarchy. But then we get this raw, unfinished Gothic novel (edited and mediated by Godwin, who burned her drafts, sure), and suddenly we’re talking directly about abuse, assault, abortion, and suicide, in highly political ways. The femme-coded nature of the Gothic—which has always been a trade, or even pulp, genre—lets Wollstonecraft imagine talking directly to the victims of patriarchy. One of the most invested readers of that text was Mary Shelley—it really haunts her work—so Wollstonecraft’s feminist intervention in the Gothic informs the history of science fiction, too.
Personally, I’m interested in how the Gothic reveals totalities. When I want to understand forces that feel invisible, totally oppressive, or inevitable in our world, playing with fiction lets me take a hard look at my subject. When someone runs out of a haunted house, you get to see the house, if only for a moment.
And the follow-up question is the converse: writing from experience rather than theory, about motherhood, academic life, academic life as a mother… To me, who is also both, The Turn spoke directly. Genre fiction is precisely the mode to talk about the politics of care, both childcare and care as a creator more generally. Was reaching for the Gothic motivated by the desire to convey the real problems in the most visceral way?
RF: Across genres, I would say that my writing mind and my parental mind are inseparable. I like to joke that I made my kids strange baby books—I began working in earnest on my monograph, Harvester of Hearts: Motherhood Under the Sign of Frankenstein, almost immediately postpartum with my older child, and started writing The Turn while home with a new baby during the pandemic. One argument I make in Harvester is that there is no such thing as writing from theory rather than experience. Our experiences—including our familial and embodied experiences, and our experiences of giving and receiving care—are always going to inform how we understand theory.
And then of course, there are external events. The pandemic. Did it really happen? Apparently, forgetting – a global amnesia – seems to be one of our responses. The memory gaps, of course, play a key part in the plot. Is this a random connection? When, in relation to the pandemic, did you begin writing this novella? Did you have to overcome forgetting?
RF: In the summer of 2020, my husband and kids and I were staying at my childhood home in Boulder. (The house in The Turn is not based on my childhood home, but rather on the home of my friend, the writer, scholar, and lawyer Natalie Brown.) I awoke one morning to a strange dream, the dream Baxter has at the beginning of the novella. In the dream, I walked out into my childhood living room and looked out the window to find the house was a ship floating on the sea.
My first attempt at this project was a story serialized in the online literary journal Luna Luna Magazine. The editors there were so generously willing to take a chance on something I had yet to write, and very kind to me when, for various reasons, I was unable to keep going. But Baxter stayed with me, and, with some distance, I was finally able to come back to her story, and bring her home.
It’s interesting to me that you bring up forgetting. I’m a very inductive writer, so I didn’t imagine the memory gaps in the story as such when I was first drafting—I was just learning things at the same time Baxter did. But forgetting is such a crucial component of the way, for example, Mary Shelley imagines motherhood in relation to the Gothic. In terms of The Turn, I think the question for me has more to do with the fraught connection between cognitive and embodied knowledge.
One of the horror/realism aspects in The Turn is how gendered parental roles are. Fathers seem superfluous, while the biological bond between a mother and a child is rendered fantastical and supernatural. Is the gender of the child significant? In this way, we find a protagonist torn between two male figures with unnatural power over her body.
RF: It’s really important to me, as a cis hetero person who often writes about parenthood—and who writes, inherently, from my own experience of the world, my own identity—not to ever imply that I think about biological motherhood as somehow better or “more than” any other type of parenthood. I feel the need to tread lightly to avoid spoilers here, so I will just mention that the monstrous forces at the margins of Baxter’s world are both paternal and maternal in nature—a hallmark of the Gothic.
Regardless of whether this pertains to gender, the fantastical, supernatural bonds in the book have to do with loving a child unconditionally and caring for that child no matter what. That’s the real magic, I think, that makes a parent.
In terms of the kids, Thebes and Quinn just kind of came to me whole cloth. You’d need to ask them any questions you have about their genders.
Power is often narrativised as magic. The imagery of vampirism has been used in critiques of capitalism and deployed to represent sexual power. Situating consent within the ambivalent framing of the gothic genre seemed especially difficult. What were the parts that gave you the most trouble?
RF: When I teach the history of vampire literature, I invite students to consider how stories can be subversive, but not necessarily progressive. Monster stories often open up pockets of possibility—for queerness and polyamory in Dracula, for example—but then punish these desires and reassert the status quo.
One of the Gothic novellas that inspired this project is Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw. I’ll never forget reading that text in class for the first time. The professor, the great James scholar William Veeder, paid particular attention to the end of the book. I remember him saying something along the lines of, sometimes the Gothic opens Pandora’s box, and what comes out is too powerful. You can’t close the box. You can’t reassert the frame. You can’t put things back in their “proper” place. I’m committed to this Gothic potential. The greatest challenge of this project—and the most rewarding—was letting Baxter fully embrace her own power, even as the world around her continued to spin into disorder.
Will there be a sequence? What are you working on now?
RF: The form of the Gothic governess novella is an integral part of The Turn’s deep engagement with literary history. Someday I’d love to try my hand at some kind of serialized adaptation of the story to a different medium, extending past the current ending, maybe even in collaboration with other writers.
I’m working on a few projects now, in different genres: a literary horroromance novel; a libretto for a musical; a collaborative scholarly project. Like all my creative endeavors, these examine how literary history informs our shared cultural mythologies, and our sense of what we owe ourselves and each other.
Tristan Evarts is the editor of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine, and since 2019 he has overseen the publication of optimistic prose, poetry, non-fiction, and art. The magazine operates with a reverence for the classics of the SF canon while pushing to explore new ways of living, technology as a friend rather than enemy, and humanity adapting to present crossroads. Themes push writers to examine the different manifestations of utopia, ranging from language to disability to weird SF. Contributors include Beth Cato, Jean-Paul L. Garnier, and Bogi Takács. Cover artists range from Donato Giancola to Stephen Youll to Alyssa Winans. Every December, Utopia SF publishes an art special, showcasing a broad range of talent, with a portion of the profits donated to charity.
Tristan gave me my start as an SF interviewer when he took me on as outreach manager in 2023, so it’s a real pleasure to be sharing this interview with him now.
James Machell
JM: What do you think makes a really great utopian story?
TE: I think a great utopian story realizes that a utopian world isn’t the end game in and of itself, and that it’s really just a launching pad for truly discovering the universe and examining the more subtle but powerful aspects of what makes us human. It doesn’t accomplish this the way most people seem to want, by tearing down the utopia and setting us back to the apocalyptic and imperfect world we live in today, but by saying “Okay, we’ve gotten past our worst, childlike instincts. Not suppressed or ignored them, but actually learned to deal with them in a healthy way. What next?” We can still find conflict, but we get to solving it the right way in the end. We learn, we grow, we discover new mysteries, and when conflict arises, we show how to navigate it in a healthy way, even if it might take a while to get there. I’d point to many classic Star Trek episodes, or James White’s Sector General novels, as some good examples.
JM: Can you take us through how Utopia Science Fiction Magazine has developed since it was founded in 2019?
TE: It’s developed quite a lot. It went from a single-person, token-paying small operation in 2019 to what it is today: a globally staffed, pro-paying magazine. It’s been quite a journey and I owe an awful lot to all the staff and volunteer readers who have joined us over the years to help progress us to where we are today. And we’re not done yet! Our hope, as always, is to increase readership and subscribers, which helps drive up the amount we can pay authors and artists. We’ve come a mighty long way and there’s further still to go!
JM: What drew you to publishing utopian writing?
TE: Chiefly a desire to move away from the (at the time) crushing amount of dystopian fiction out there. You know the phrase: “You are what you eat.” The same is true that “you are what you read.” If all you read is dark, gritty, disparaging, cynical things about the world then that’s how you start to view it and, at least at an unconscious level, how you begin to shape the world around you. It’s a cyclical pattern—people who see the world as apocalyptic are more likely to see the darker things and when those get more attention, they take over our worldview. For a real-life example, just look at the news cycle and see how that affects people’s worldview and mental health. We need to see the good, the hopeful, especially when things are at their darkest. We need to know that we can (and will) overcome this and this is what it’s going to look like at the end. And seeing Utopia as a beginning and not an end is important too. I think, with the arrival of all the cozy books coming out, more people are starting to realize this. I think in the Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, we’re mentioned as part of the solarpunk movement and hearing that is quite an honor.
JM: In addition to publishing science fiction stories, poetry, non-fiction, and art, Utopia Science Fiction Magazine also offers a critique service, helping budding writers to find their feet. You’ve also recently taught an Apex creative writing class. Can you describe your approach to assessing a piece of writing, and some of the suggestions you’re most likely to make?
TE: Let’s start off with assessment. When I look at a story there are a few things I’m really hoping to see before I go on to accept it. The first is: does the story grip me from the first paragraph? If I make it to the end of the first page and am not thoroughly engrossed with a story or character, I’ll usually pass on it. Second is pacing and momentum. If a story starts off strong, does it carry through the rest of the piece? Sometimes, for short pieces, I’ll read through it entirely, but for longer pieces, there’s a trick to use. In the well-written, well-structured story, you can read the first and last sentences in each paragraph without reading anything in the middle and still walk away with all the essential information you need for plot and story. If you do that and stumble or get confused, it means the story has pacing issues and depending on how far from the mark that goes, I may decide it requires more editing than any of us have time to do before the next issue and pass on it. Third is the ending. The last line a person writes is the single most important line they will write. It’s going to decide if the story stays in my memory, awakens that feeling of wonder, or simply fizzles into the frustrating silence of unfinished or underdeveloped potential. So, if it’s got a strong start and consistent pacing, but the ending is flat or leaves us in a rather dismal or dystopian way, I’m liable to pass on it. If I accept it and decide to work with the author to edit it into shape, there are a lot of suggestions I might make depending on what the piece needs. My goal is always to elevate the writer – to get them to perfect their craft a bit more, to push harder and write better by cutting out extraneous words, adding complexity to the themes and ideas, and really project their message out into the world.
JM: Roughly, what is the acceptance rate for stories submitted to Utopia Science Fiction Magazine?
TE: We receive hundreds upon hundreds of submissions in a given year and only publish a total of 15 to 20 stories in a given year. So, like all magazines, there’s a small acceptance rate based largely on limited space. We have to reject a lot of great stories just based on that alone.
JM: Utopia Science Fiction Magazine has recently published its Weird Science Fiction issue. What themes can we be on the lookout for in the future?
TE: We have the cozy issue in June, and August is always an ‘anything goes’ field where we try to publish the best of the best. Every June/July the editors of Utopia meet up and discuss what we want the themes for the next volume to be. There are always a lot of good ideas passed around, but only a few issues we publish. So, what’s on the horizon for next volume’s themes? You’ll just have to stay tuned!
JM: What are some of the books and stories you wish you could travel back in time and publish yourself?
TE: That is a very good question and one I’m not sure I can answer. There are a lot of stories I love, but I’m glad they’ve been published elsewhere. It gives us a chance to read them, to learn from them and push the envelope farther in terms of ideas, technique, etc. We have a part of our magazine called The Vault where every issue I go back and find some amazing, public domain, stories to publish. So, in essence, if there are stories I really love I can go back in time and publish them in this manner (after a very exhausting and extensive search for the public domain and copyright registrations).
JM: When you’re not at the helm of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine, you’re running Castle Books & Tea. Can you tell us a bit about your life as a bookseller and are you offering any good deals on rare books at the moment?
TE: Castle Books and Tea was born out of a bizarre moment when I realized I had free time, and it felt so unnatural I panicked and decided to launch a side project. I’m happy to say I no longer have anything remotely considered free time anymore. But it’s a real passion project— one of our specialities is vintage science fiction books. I’ve been to a lot of places to stock books and bought some amazing collections from people to resell. We’ve had books signed by Isaac Asimov, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Roger Zelazny, and a lot more. It’s fun to track down some of the harder to find books too, like Soviet Sci-Fi or the novels of Clifford D. Simak. We usually have a big sale in May to celebrate our anniversary (this year is the start of our 5th) and a lot of small sales throughout the year.
JM: What are some of the tropes and subjects that you’d prefer that authors avoid in submissions?
TE: I have read far more books about robots, AI, etc. than I ever hoped could have existed. While we find things about these books to like, it’s an exhausted topic and I find myself preferring more novel ideas. Otherwise, it’s a lot of what other sci-fi magazines hope to avoid seeing. We’re particular in that we really don’t need to see any dystopian, post-apocalyptic, shoot-em-dead stories. As our name suggests, these types of stories really aren’t for us.
JM: Any tips for budding writers who’d like to make Utopia Science Fiction Magazine their first place of publication?
TE: Write every day and read every day. Read the stories you like and read them for technique, not just for story. Read what Utopia has published. A lot of them are available for free through our site, Medium, and Substack. Also don’t get discouraged. You will get rejected. A lot. But that’s all just practice for when you get accepted. And you will. Just keep improving your craft.
Tristan Evarts
Tristan Evarts is the editor-in-chief of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine and has been for the past seven years. He has a Bachelor’s in English and Philosophy with a specialization in creative writing and a Masters in Library and Information Science. When not editing, he is working at the library or at his bookshop, Castle Books and Tea, or growing his eclectic collection of books.
James Machell
James Machell is a British writer. He contributes to The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction and curates its Substack. He also serves as Outreach Manager for Utopia Science Fiction Magazine and was the 2025 Contest Chair for the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association. Find him on Bluesky @jamesmachell.bsky.social or YouTube @Fell-Purpose.
What came first, the characters, the language, or the shape of the commune? In some ways, the text suggests that the shape of the commune was predetermined: children needed to be raised communally because there was too much work… How much did initial conditions and the founders determine the trajectory?
Sue: The characters and the environment shaped each other as they interacted and the story developed, but I started off with two main ideas.
Firstly, I knew I’d have to set the story in the past, with a cast of characters who would want change but not be in a position to have an intellectual discussion about gender. Secondly, shipwrecking them on a hostile, barren island would force a departure from their rigid, oppressive gender roles, as survival would be their primary motivator.
The language evolved with the different dialects and experience each character brought to the island, which also affected the roles the founders adopted within the community.
There were a lot of adjustments made during the editing process.
The Mune functions without any form of money; was this a deliberate choice? The workload and resources are allocated without any particular system, even as crises pass and the commune grows.
The short answer is yes. I wanted to create as close to a true democracy as possible —where no role was valued more than another. Everyone on the island contributed what they could and had equal worth. Even when the Mune was stable, there was never an excess of food or time, so there was never complacency. They lived in the present not the past, with no desire to hoard.
History shows us that money tends to create inequality, and wealth is not an indicator of ability or productivity, quite often it’s down to luck and lineage.
Some of the commune’s most important tenets were suggested by a sci-fi story within the novel. The commune is a model of applied science fiction – however, the relationship is not linear, utopian stories don’t build utopian worlds. Did you intentionally separate the stories and their impacts?
Master’s Science stories are actually pastiches based on work written in the Victorian period that The Mune is set. The stories not only reflect the society of the time but showcase social and political ambitions and the methods imagined for achieving them. I hoped the stories would provide a bridge between accurate historical fact and SF narratives, which contained key nineteenth century ideas and technological advances, whilst imagining a more compassionate future. They also allowed me to shape my characters and add details about the island, reducing exposition in the main narrative.
Speaking of complexity, Betty and Master are among the most challenging protagonists, zigzagging from crimes to saviourism (and/or saviourism as crimes). They are on a different level of complexity compared to other characters. Incidentally, they are both science fiction writers. Is this a coincidence?
I wanted Betty’s character to be influenced by the stories she read with Master, and to use some of the key utopian ideas from those texts to shape the community. It felt just that Betty would be able to use her lived experience and imagination to gain her independence once back in the old world.
Master’s love of science fiction and discovery meant he was open to novel environments and more focused on discovery once on the island, than trying to control the community. Neither Betty nor Master is inherently bad, but a product of their environment. It’s the inability to change and adapt that causes the problems.
On the back of this, did you intentionally make the main protagonist one that your readers might grow to dislike, or did the Betty character come into her own as the story developed?
Betty came into her own as the story developed. Her character provided conflict, being so resistant to change. She reacts as I believe the majority of us would do in a life-altering situation, wanting to escape or be rescued rather than face her demons. She was just a child when she arrived on the island, having been gaslit and deeply traumatised.
If gender is technology, then The Mune is a very techno-optimistic narrative. Transformation happens quickly and thoroughly. It is a social tipping point – a tiny nudge (a vote) and all the awful stuff vanishes. It is exhilarating. But was there a temptation to make the process of change slower and painful for society as a whole, not just for Betty or Master?
I wanted the narrative to be optimistic so, there was never a temptation to slow the process of change or make the journey more painful for the society. I felt the majority of the founders had suffered enough in asylums, in service and on the streets of London. Despite the hard work of surviving, the founders acquired agency on the island, learned skills denied to them, and had the freedom to express themselves and there was no one on the island with (perceived) authority to oppose change. It seemed logical that they would want their children to be free of the shackles that bound them and embrace transformation.
The plot ends with a deus ex machina. Commune has to move. I was left with a longing, hoping that another novel was waiting around the corner, waiting to see the Old World remade by the intrusion. Will there be? And, why did you choose to end the story there?
There are a few characters who have refused to leave my imagination despite the fact I’m working on something quite different. There’s Star, the traveller, who would be well placed to reflect on our society, although currently it feels a little too dystopic! And there’s Betty’s child, in the womb on the island, who would have the advantage of the technology brought back by the Mune and witness the altered world.
However, I’d need my own shipwreck and an isolated island to write it all.
Dr Sue Dawes is an author, educator and editor. She has written and published a large number of science fiction, literary and crime short stories and articles in magazines and online, and her novel, The Mune, was published by Goldsmiths Press in 2025. Sue has taught creative writing at Essex University, for community groups and is a manuscript editor and mentor for The Writers Company. Sue completed her PhD in creative writing in 2023, specialising in gendered language and inclusion. She is currently studying to become an occupational therapist and has a particular interest in community narratives, the occupation of storytelling, and collaborative writing.
Adedapo Adeniyi (also goes by Dapo The Abstract) is a Nigerian artist working in literature, film and photography, music (DJ) as well as art curation and counterculture archiving. He expresses his art through abstract avant-garde sensibilities. His debut novel, Wanderer, is available in stores. You can read an excerpt of his novel below, courtesy of the author.
Chisom Umeh is a Nigerian fiction writer and poet. His short stories have been featured in Omenana, Apex, Clarkesworld, Year’s Best African Speculative Fiction 2023, African Ghosts anthology, Isele, Mythaxis, Scifi Shorts, and elsewhere. His short story, “Ancestor’s Gift”, won the 2024 Tractor Beam short story contest. He was a finalist for the Seattle Worldcon Short Story Contest and is the winner of the 2025 Nommo Award for Best African Speculative Fiction Short Story.
Chisom, holding a copy of the Wanderer. Image: African Imaginary
Chisom: Hey Dapo.
Nice to have you do the interview.
I finished reading your novel Wanderer a couple of days ago, and I must say, the journey feels like one long dream. It’s a steady flow of alternating sentences and logic that sometimes contradict each other and yet, strangely enough, feels complete and cohesive. Can you tell me how you were able to keep the story you were trying to tell in focus, even while spinning such a wild tale?
Dapo: Thank you, Chisom. I’m excited to have this interview with you.
I want to start by saying the story mostly wrote itself; I was just a conduit. Most of this book was written in an automatist, stream-of-consciousness style. They were retellings of dreams, memories, and reality, and I wanted them to appear that way. I never lost sight of the story because I welcomed getting lost as I was writing it to find myself.
Chisom: Oh, that’s pretty interesting. To me, the novel reads like Amos Tutuola’s The Palmwine Drinkard crossed with Vajra Chandrasekera’s luminous prose. It definitely felt like older hands were guiding yours on the page. Were there literary influences you were channeling when writing the book?
Dapo: Yeah, I mean, I try to stay away from direct influences while I’m writing, and I didn’t read The Palmwine Drinkard until after I wrote Wanderer. I took influences more from films and cinematic sensibilities than literary, but in that regard, Borges, Philip K. Dick, Timothy Leary, André Breton’s Surrealist Manifesto, Aldous Huxley’s The Doors Of Perception, and my editor and friend, Manuel Marrero. I think these are the ones I can remember right now, plus I don’t want to go overboard. But these people and their works across surrealism, psychedelia, paranoid fiction, sci-fi, metafiction, and so on influenced me in many ways and were formative for how I approached writing and this book.
Chisom: It’s interesting that you mentioned Surrealist Manifesto, psychedelia, and paranoid fiction, because in an essay in Medium titled Abstractism Manifesto, you talked about how ‘abstractism’ is a term that subsumes all of these concepts and more. I like the way you explained it in the essay and how it relates to your work. But could you do a quick description of the term (abstractism) so we could understand it in relation to your work?
Dapo: Absolutely! So when I wrote the Abstractism Manifesto in early 2023, I defined it as being an amalgamation of solipsism, surrealism, psychedelia, subjective reality, and the physics of psychosis. I believe abstractism brings these concepts together to take reality and the world around us from a state of form to an abstract sensory state of formlessness, and that’s what I try to do with my work — the dissolution of some absolute real into an abstract cosmic real.
Chisom: In your experience as a filmmaker, what is the major difference between visual storytelling and written one? Do you prefer one medium over the other?
Dapo: I mean, writing is definitely cheaper. Making films is more expensive and taxing. I also think it’ll kill me faster so that might be why right now it excites me more than writing does. But, frankly, the major difference is the painting. With words, I’m guiding the readers’ imagination. At the end of the day, everyone will come out of it with different images. But with film, I have to literally represent those images on the screen. I’m doing the painting for the audience, they just have to watch and engage.
Chisom: Besides making movies, I know that you do some DJ work on the side. You had a collaboration with NTS, which is really great. How did that happen?
Dapo: Let me put it in context: I work with this new-age collective called Freewater, which was founded by my friends. I serve as its curator and co-director. Freewater secured a residency with NTS Radio, and since I also DJ, they featured one of my mixes as part of the collective. We’re having an underground, new wave music festival/concert on the 11th of December (I think the interview will be out after it?), and NTS is our major partner.
Chisom: That’s incredible, actually. So, does your music influence your writing in any way? Some writers like to curate playlists for particular writing projects. Something they listen to just to put themselves in the mood. Are you that kind of writer?
Dapo: Music definitely plays a huge part in my process. When I was writing Wanderer, all I listened to was shoegaze. I found a shoegaze playlist that had over a hundred songs and it was all I listened to while I slept and dreamt and while I wrote as well. I’ve been DJing for almost 2 years now, and it’s made me understand music as well as how different people interact with it. There are sensibilities of transience I borrowed from writing and translated to how I DJ.
Chisom: I kept wondering about the shoegaze reference when I was reading the book. Something told me there was more to it than just being an element in the story, and I’m glad you just confirmed that. Which brings me to your process with writing your stories and how you edit them. Do you edit while writing or after?
Dapo: Oh yeah, shoegaze has a very dreamlike, haze-inducing feeling and I wanted the book to feel like that. I do very minimal editing while writing. I finished the entire thing then read it over a couple of times before sending it to my editor, and we had this period of sending drafts back and forth and conversations on the subject matter.
But enough about me, I want to hear what type of music you listen to and how editing works for you. I mean, you just won the Nommo, haha.
Chisom: Oh, lol.
Well, I’m very mundane with my music. I don’t have any playlists or do any sort of curation. In fact, when I’m writing, I wouldn’t want to hear any music at all as it easily interferes with my thought processes and breaks my stream-of-consciousness, AKA “flow”. But when I do listen to music, outside writing, it’s very Davido and Asake and Victony, and whatever Dlala Thukzin just released. For edits, I can’t move forward with writing if I feel like there’s something wrong with a previous sentence. So I tinker with that till it feels fine to me. So we’re maybe kind of opposites on this.
Dapo: Correct me if I’m wrong but you seem like a very calculated writer. You’re delicate about detail, you’re careful. I think it’s beautiful. I wish I could be that type of writer. Like I said before (this may sound a little pretentious but I fully believe it), I don’t really do any writing, these things write themselves and use me as a conduit. I don’t know where they come from or where they are going or why; they come raw and I write in real time. My flow can be erratic most times.
Chisom: I like to think I have an eye for detail, but, trust me, I’m not really that meticulous. I know writers who would draw up elaborate plots that cover the first scene to the last, and fill up a board with sticky notes. Me? I mostly just sit down and write a story as it comes into my head. I think both our approaches are valid, so long as the outcome is something folks can read and enjoy. When I’m done writing and send the work out, that’s where my effort ends. But I’ve seen you go through hell and high water to publicize your book. And it has really paid off. Maybe that’s something you’d teach me someday?
Nardwuar holding a copy of Dapo’s first novel, Wanderer
Dapo: You’re amazing, so we’re kin.
Thank you, I think it’s been a learning curve. A lot of how this book has been handled is experimental, constantly trying to see how to reinvent whatever a rollout is supposed to be. Some days before the book came out I’d post videos of just my legs as I was walking around. Wandering, if you will. I made cards and handed out googly eyes. I’ve had readings and talks. I even had an abstractism lecture and played a psychedelic techno set. I keep thinking of ways to present a work of literature outside of just the confines of literature, especially as a multimedia artist. I look forward to reinterpreting the book and presenting it in so many other formats: photograph, sound, installation, you name it.
Chisom: Say I wanted to try my hand at writing abstractism, are you holding one of those lectures anytime soon?
Dapo: Hopefully sometime early next year. I’m working on writing another edition of the manifesto that’s more professional, but I think that through reading the manifesto that’s up right now, as well as Wanderer and some of my short stories, anyone could get the gist of what abstractism is.
What’s next for you now Chisom? In the world of African Speculative Fiction.
Chisom: For me, I’m also trying to piece together a collection of short stories that hopefully might be my debut in the book-publishing space. I want most of the stories in the collection to be centered around two themes, so that means I’m writing mostly new stories.
Anyway, it’s really been wonderful having this chat with you. I’m looking forward to reading more of your stuff in the future.
Dapo: Sending you love and the best of wishes Chisom, excited to see your collection. I’ll send you mine as it comes along. You’re a refreshing voice in the scene here.
My late father, the Czech composer and broadcaster, Karel Janovický – born Bohuš František Šimsa in Pilsen in 1930, but better known under the pseudonym he adopted in the 1950s to protect his parents, whom he had left behind in Communist Czechoslovakia, when he skipped the border during the Cold War – died in January 2024. He left behind a four-storey Victorian terrace in North London, crammed with music, books, and papers, including 250 or so classical compositions and a not inconsiderable personal archive.
It was in his papers that I found a booklet with the libretto of his one-act opera, The Utmost Sail, which he wrote in 1958 to an English-language text by another Czech émigré, Karel Brušák (1913-2004). The booklet is mimeographed, fanzine-style, so it is not a professional publication; but to anyone familiar with the history of fanzines or sf fandom, the format will be immediately recognisable, and I assume this is something that he or Brušák must have had printed for the benefit of future producers and performers at around the same time they were finishing the work itself.
Karel Janovický, Ludwigsburg refugee camp, Germany, ca. 1950
I had been long aware that my father had written an opera, and back in my teenage years, when I was at the height of my initial involvement with science fiction, he had even told me it was set on a spaceship. However, in the way children have of ignoring their parents, I had never actually seen a copy or read the text. And while I have still not seen a performance, the libretto can stand on its own as an interesting example of mid-20th Century European sf theatre.
Tara Campbell is an award-winning writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse, and graduate of American University’s MFA in Creative Writing. Publication credits include Masters Review, Wigleaf, Electric Literature, CRAFT Literary, Uncharted Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, and Escape Pod/Artemis Rising. She’s the author of the eco sci-fi novel TreeVolution, two hybrid collections of poetry and prose, and two short story collections from feminist sci-fi publisher Aqueduct Press. Her sixth book, City of Dancing Gargoyles, was released by Santa Fe Writers Project (SFWP) in September 2024. She teaches creative writing at venues such as Johns Hopkins University, Clarion West, The Writer’s Center, and Hugo House. Find her at www.taracampbell.com
Jean-Paul L. Garnier is the owner of Space Cowboy Books bookstore and publishing house, producer of Simultaneous Times Podcast (2023 Laureate Award Winner, 2024 BSFA, Ignyte, and British Fantasy Award Finalist), and was the editor of the SFPA’s Star*Line magazine from 2021-2025. He is also the poetry editor of Worlds of IF & Galaxy magazines. In 2024 he won the Laureate Award for Best Editor. He has written many books of poetry and science fiction. https://spacecowboybooks.com/
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JPG – CITY OF DANCING GARGOYLES has a really interesting format: it switches between epistolary and more traditional novel narratives. What made you decide to mix these formats to tell your story, and what advantages did it provide you?
TC – Well, I hadn’t actually planned on writing a novel. During COVID I was having a hard time concentrating enough just to read, let alone write, but I was inspired by a novel pre-writing technique by Michael Moorcock that centered on imagery containing deliberate paradoxes. The image he gave as an example was “In the city of screaming statues.” That image created so many questions in my mind: I had to know what the city looked like, what it sounded like, what set these statues off, were they screaming words or just sounds, did they ever stop, etc. I was excited at how many questions that one image created, so I created a writing exercise for myself based on nouns and verbs, putting together words that absolutely do not belong together, like floating wolves and sailing statues and glaring chocolates and all of these things that simply can’t be.
I wound up writing a couple dozen stories, and when I started thinking about how to bring them together in a collection, I created a chart to figure out how to group them, looking at commonalities of theme or tone or perspective or any way they would cohere. Then a writer friend suggested using an element I mentioned in one of the stories—alchemical testing—to imagine all of the stories as part of the same universe.
Once I started thinking in terms of a novel, I had to be more ruthless in how to change or cut stories for the purposes of the narrative. Some of the stories turned into setting or characters instead of self-standing works. But on the other hand, the epistolary sections let certain stories be as weird as they wanted to be in this future US that’s been that’s been altered by climate change and alchemical testing.
Catherynne M. Valente has packed a lot into the first 20 years of her career. Her genre-busting work runs the gamut from alternative history to fairytale fantasy to cosmic horror. In addition to writing 27 novels and novellas, she has multiple collections of short fiction and poetry. She is also the creator of a six-year-old human, but motherhood shows no signs of slowing her down. Space Opera, her 2018 bestseller about an interplanetary Eurovision Song Contest, was shortlisted for Best Novel at the Hugo Awards. Her new novel, Space Oddity, picks up where Space Opera left off and reflects contemporary concerns like pandemics, online misinformation, and the threat of all-out war. https://www.catherynnemvalente.com/
Tony Conn is a writer and filmmaker with an interest in all things strange. He is perhaps the world’s leading expert on the Megatron, a flying saucer-shaped restaurant that used to adorn the Cambridgeshire countryside and now features in Space Oddity. https://tonyconn.com/
TC: Could you tell us about your background and early influences?
CV: My parents met at UCLA and divorced when I was very young. I had two stepparents most of my childhood and went back and forth between Seattle and northern California. My dad was an aspiring filmmaker who went into advertising instead, which is very much a family thing on my father’s side. A lot of them intended to be artists and ended up in the family business. My mother is a retired political science professor. She was in her master’s and PhD programmes through almost every portion of my early life that I can remember. She was working for the mayor of Seattle, getting her degrees in public policy, doing advocacy work, and she’s a pretty hardcore statistician as well.
They were in their early twenties when they had me. They had no sense of what was appropriate for a child. I had no boundaries as to what I could read, or watch, or anything. I just had to be vocal about when it was too much for me, which is kind of a modern parenting idea. My mother read Plato’s Republic to me as a bedtime story, specifically The Myth of Er, which is this allegory about what happens when we die. At five, she had me read The Breasts of Tiresias by Apollinaire. It’s above the pay grade of adults, let alone a small child. My mother had no sense of that. In my mom’s house, there are stacks of books that are now end tables. Cairns of books everywhere.
Both of my birthparents are big musical theatre people, so I grew up seeing musicals all the time. I’ve always had this really low voice, since I was ten. I wanted to be a singer, but there weren’t any parts for somebody with a voice like mine. My mom also has a master’s degree in drama, so I remember when Beaumarchais was a big thing in our house. At eleven, all that anybody talked about was The Barber of Seville.
I had a lot of influences from my parents. My mom read every murder mystery. My dad is hardcore science fiction. And then, my stepmother Kim is the world’s biggest Stephen King fan. Horror was my first love, both as a reader and a writer.
A.D. Sui is a Ukrainian-born, queer, disabled science fiction writer, and the author of THE DRAGONFLY GAMBIT and the forthcoming Erewhon novel, THE IRON GARDEN SUTRA (2026). She is a failed academic, retired fencer, and coffee enthusiast. Her short fiction has appeared in Augur, Fusion Fragment, HavenSpec, and other venues. When not wrangling her two dogs you can find her on every social media platform as @thesuiway – https://thesuiway.ca/
Jean-Paul L. Garnier is the owner of Space Cowboy Books bookstore and publishing house, producer of Simultaneous Times Podcast (2023 Laureate Award Winner, BSFA, Ignyte, and British Fantasy Award Finalist), and editor of the SFPA’s Star*Line magazine. He is also the deputy editor-in-chief of Worlds of IF & Galaxy magazines. In 2024 he won the Laureate Award for Best Editor. He has written many books of poetry and science fiction. https://spacecowboybooks.com/
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JPG – The Dragonfly Gambit has all of the elements of space opera: a big story, politics, empire, worldbuilding, etc., but unlike most modern space operas the book is short – how did you manage to create such a large-scale story in so few words, and what are your feelings on space opera as a sub-genre?
A.D. S – First, thank you so much! I want to say that space opera has a long-running tradition of glorifying empires. They’re almost the natural default government system in far-future science fiction, which positions them as a sort of inevitability. But historically, we know this isn’t true. Empires fall all the time. That’s the whole point. So, I really wanted to focus on a time of an empire falling.
As far as the structure goes, I can’t remember who said it, it might have been one of my agency siblings, but in a novel, each scene fights for its right to exist. In a short story, every sentence does. A novella is somewhere in between, so my editing wasn’t as ruthless as it would have been for a short story, but I was definitely focusing on each sentence delivering either character development or new information, and preferably both. Also, as much as it is a space opera, it also has *one* location where most of the action takes place. So, I could really go into a lot of detail about the world/order of things by describing this one place instead of jumping between locations.
JPG – One of the themes in the book is sacrifice and martyrdom, sacrifice being an arcane tradition to the culture in the book – can you speak about the nature of sacrifice and weighing individual characters against large-scale problems?
A.D. S – It’s a bit of a pipe dream to think that one person can shift the tides of history. I don’t think anyone is that special. It’s one of the reasons why, as a genre, science fiction and fantasy are moving away from, or challenging, the Chosen One narrative. But how often do you see a disabled protagonist who is a woman, in her thirties, and by every marker, a failure, be The Chosen One? That was fun to write, and yes, very self-indulgent.
Now, sacrifice and martyrdom were two themes that felt natural when having a conversation about militaries. Martyrdom is baked into military culture, you can’t escape it. Historically, militaries uphold and immortalize those who lose their lives in combat. We label these people as heroes while simultaneously treating them terribly while they’re still alive or if they remained alive (see the utter lack of any decent veterans’ services). It’s easier to herald someone as a hero than to actually treat them as such. There is a tension in there between the shine of heroism, and the loss of life and the absolute meaninglessness of it while it’s still there.
Pedro Iniguez is a Mexican-American horror and science-fiction writer from Los Angeles, California. He is a Rhysling Award finalist and a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee.
His work has appeared in Nightmare Magazine, Never Wake: An Anthology of Dream Horror, Shadows Over Main Street Volume 3, and Qualia Nous Vol. 2, among others.
Forthcoming, his horror fiction collection, FEVER DREAMS OF A PARASITE, is slated for a 2025 release from publisher Raw Dog Screaming Press. https://pedroiniguezauthor.com/
Jean-Paul L. Garnier is the owner of Space Cowboy Books bookstore and publishing house, producer of Simultaneous Times Podcast (2023 Laureate Award Winner, BSFA, Ignyte, and British Fantasy Award Finalist), and editor of the SFPA’s Star*Line magazine. He is also the deputy editor-in-chief of Worlds of IF & Galaxy magazines. In 2024 he won the Laureate Award for Best Editor. He has written many books of poetry and science fiction. https://spacecowboybooks.com/
JPG – What made you want to take on the themes in Mexicans on the Moon through speculative poetry, and where did specpo take you that other mediums might not have allowed?
PI – I think there’s a power in the brevity and playfulness of poetry that really worked in my favor with this collection. Speculative poetry allows me to shift gears quickly from poem to poem. For example, in Mexicans on the Moon, you’ll find poems that are heartwarming, funny, sad, chilling, or thought-provoking. It allows the poems to take on their own life, be tonally different, while still feeling thematically coherent in the grand scheme of things.
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