I wrote this story in 2016. At the time, even moreso than now, writing was the product of compulsion. I was living in a suburban zone, and my block was exactly one mile long. It was an 8 minute run, or an 18 minute walk, alternating between the thoroughfare and various sheltered backstreets. In the summer, it was desolate. I walked it frequently; during one such walk I conceived of the story. I returned home and wrote it immediately.

Thinking back, I remember where on the sidewalk ideas began taking shape (about two hundred yards out the door, across from a vacant lot), and I remember the buzzy excitement when I arrived home, repeating the first sentences in my head.

The story revolves around human digitization, which I had been writing about a lot. In many ways it was a reprise of XXXX, 140, 7 Billion—different details, same themes, longer and more specific in its perspective. Reviewing my notes, I was surprised to find that I had published XXXX only one day before I started working on Throughout All Generations. I really thought more time had elapsed between the two!

Robin Hanson had published The Age of Em earlier that year. I hadn’t read the book, but it was in the air. In collaboration with friends, I had already explored some of the concept’s darker implications. 

I dithered over the name Novamir (for a nation-like virtual reality server), and over whether to describe the politics of moving between servers in more detail. Ultimately, I dropped the world-building angle to keep the story focused. I still think this was a solid choice; all the details are implied.

But otherwise it was very easy. At that time, I rarely finished anything. I had to rush to capture ideas, because once the initial flash had faded, I found my capacity to write paralyzed.

In fact, immediately after publishing Throughout All Generations, I took another walk, and was struck again by inspiration. I didn’t act fast enough; that story remains unwritten. I think about it often.

Eighteen minutes of ideation, followed by about four hours of writing. I published the next day, after changing a few numbers. 

This is kind of embarrassing, but I just wrote one sentence after another. I spent a very long time on each one—there wasn’t much editing after the fact.

Structurally, I knew where to begin and where to end, and approximately what I wanted to discuss along the way. I tend to “chunk” concepts into paragraphs, but I discovered the order of the paragraphs by writing them, rather than by mapping my flow of thought in advance.

The story surprised me in a few ways—I hadn’t thought very much about the original Min until the time came to write about her. Even her name, Minerva Teller, resulted from wordplay in the heat of writing (I had already chosen “Min” for foggy subconscious reasons.)

I spent ten minutes phrasing and rephrasing this statement. A paradigmatic, if exaggerated, sample of my demented and inefficient process.

"(These journals are not yet available.)” was removed. This passage took a long time to write, and I was apparently deliberating on the specifics of what would be included in the Min Vaults. I don’t remember exactly what I had in mind here—were the original’s journals to be withheld until another milestone was reached?

There are several points in the version history where I pause for a long while, thinking. The thoughts themselves are not recorded, but I find the moments suggestive: after naming Novamir, after mentioning the religious prophet Aquila-Cadens Min, after asking whether Minerva feels imprisoned by comparison to her ancestors. 

I was very slowly and painfully crawling out of a nadir, living with my parents, psyching myself back into attending school. My writing environment was a laptop on an extremely messy bed. I was acutely aware of life’s narrowing space of possibility.

I don’t generally listen to music while writing. It’s too distracting—with or without lyrics, fast or slow, whatever. The problem isn’t the music so much as the burden of curation. This applies to more than sound—I don’t want to split my attention between the words and a responsibility towards perfecting my environment. Now that I have a phone I write a lot while in transit, outside, in waiting rooms, etc. 

Because I do most of my editing in situ, figuring out when something is ready for publication is usually about figuring out when to cut myself off. For this story, it was easy; I had a destination in mind, and had even decided that the final words would be an approximate quotation from Don Hertzfeldt’s film It’s Such a Beautiful Day. 

Occasionally I’ll read through a piece and find it lacking. I’ll then shelve it for a year or two, and rewrite it completely when I feel distant enough.

Typically, being finished is signalled by frustration—irritation at what I believe is a sense of diminishing returns from further speech. Often I haven’t managed to say everything I wanted to, but the remaining bits of philosophy or lore or word-craft will require more scaffolding than they’re worth. 

It was lovely, and tremendously encouraging. I never expect much; it remains a great honor to be read by anyone at all. 

I wouldn’t change anything. The story would be different if I wrote it now, of course—I have new interests and anxieties. I’m ancient and no longer quick with sorrow. I’ve traded the universality of being sad and young for various experiences, coping mechanisms, and rabbit holes. I’m a more specific person, and therefore a less accessible one, and that is reflected in what I write. 

The old world is closed to me; I’m very glad a capsule of it exists. 

One: If you feel creatively stagnant, getting punched in the face (or otherwise physically stressed) is very helpful. There are various kinds of non-damaging suffering that will shock your brain into doing odd things with words.

Another: Style and content converge. This one always surprises me with how controversial it is—some people seem to value only the literal, informative content of a text. I would argue that structure and language (even language that obfuscates) are just as information-dense; they unspool into a painting of the world. The rhythm of a monologue belies the inner voice and pacing of a character’s thoughts. The use of strange or technical vocabulary can extract a greater share of a reader’s attention. Beautiful prose can amplify beauty or bring ugliness into stark contrast. Don’t merely “write to be understood”. Write to say more than what you’re saying!

The disagreement actually excites me. It’s amazing that people process language in ways that are so alien to one another.

Furthermore: TVTropes must burn. 

I’m going to deliberately misinterpret this question (specifically, I’ll ignore the “short” in short story) in service of making my favorite claim: that the best and weirdest modern science fiction novels are hosted in obscurity on random personal websites.

The Metamorphosis of Prime Intellect may be the canonical text of this vintage. I have heard it called “impossible to recommend”; I will recommend it anyways.

More people should read The Shining Path by Matthew Skala. Highly bizarre cyberpunk.

Fernando Borretti, author of The Epiphany of Gliese 581, is basically the only writer I am violently envious of. Fernando, if you’re reading this, we have to duel. He also writes incredible short fiction.

Most recently, I’ve adored Upon the Mirror Sea, which concerns itself with accessing the brain’s computational substrate using psychedelics and VR (to gloss things extremely poorly).

These are rough around the edges, at times uncomfortably sexual or violent, and remarkably unique. They feel like artefacts that could only exist online, where personal obsessions run the show, unfettered by marketability.

As for my own works, Obituary: Daniel Calhoun, murine music author, dies at 132 was extremely fun to write, and is one of the only stories I’ve considered writing a sequel to. It was also cognitively transformative in unexpected ways; “mouse” has become a very salient mental category. I gave all my friends and family members mouse names. 

I’m at peace with reaping the benefits of weirdness in exchange for having to write the stories that I want to read myself. Most contemporary fiction disappoints me; I find it too vacuously sentimental, too character focused, too smug, too damp, too synesthetically pastel-colored, too synesthetically oatmeal-textured, not healthful, excessively fungal in its sympathies, too English, unselcouth, nimis contemptus gloriae Caesaris, etc. etc.

Basically, my list of complaints is so personal as to be broadly worthless. The good stuff is out there. I do wish it were easier to find. Everyone I love is wrestling with a cruel algorithm. If you know of any excellent, uncanny stories, please send them to me. 

There’s a lot to like about Substack. It has a great interface, and competent typesetting options. I love the mailing list approach to text-distribution. It suffers for being a monetized platform, and for its reputation as a place for “serious writers”.

Or rather, these things incur tradeoffs. Monetization can be great for artists, but attracts grifters and drives re-engagement with the same few inflammatory topics. And a platform that caters to finance-driven, straight-laced thinkpiecers will never match the vibrancy of one infested with psychotic fandom-brained teenagers—though such cultures have problems of their own!