I got the call a few days ago (they give you a call first in case you want to decline the nomination), but now it’s public knowledge: “The New Mother” has been nominated for best novella, on a list with some of the best fiction I read in the last year, and much more that I’m excited to discover. I’m profoundly grateful to all who nominated me, and to Sheila Williams, who believed in me enough to give me a twenty thousand word chunk of Asimov’s. That’s twenty thousand words of ink and paper, twenty thousand words she therefore didn’t give to someone else with fans and a reputation. It’s still hard to believe my imaginary people merited that. But I found out I was a finalist while I was finishing up a treatment for a television series based on the story, so you may yet get to see more of Tess and Judy.
I’m typing this from my parents’ house in San Antonio, where we’ll soon all go out for a celebratory meal. But this afternoon I’m sitting with a book from their library, one that came out when I was twelve. Two decades ago science fiction seemed a naturally occurring phenomenon, something to be admired from afar like a rainbow or mountain range. Now it’s a close, living thing, full of friends and colleagues. I’ve many goals yet unmet, but today it feels nice to turn around and look back at the path trailing into my childhood, appreciate how far I’ve come.

Eons ago in 2010 I had my first publication in Asimov’s, a near future SF short story about oceanic technology and global politics titled “Adrift.” I wrote the first draft as part of my Clarion application, and revised it through a haze of pain and drugs during the ten post-Clarion months I was bedridden with Crohn’s disease. I sent it out, got rejected, sent it out again, just going through the motions, the vast majority of my attention consumed by the slow struggle back towards health and the contemporaneous crumble of my long term relationship. September of 2009 found me living alone in an apartment, in a body warped beyond recognition by a long course of prednisone, wondering where the last year had gone. So when I heard from Sheila Williams that she wanted to buy this story for Asimov’s, the good news struck me as a sparkle from very far away. It was like being gifted a fragment from the life I’d thought I’d have, the one where I left Clarion with artistic momentum, wrote more stories, applied to graduate school, began to focus on having a writing career.