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[Interviewer’s Note: This
is a series of interviews featuring the contributors of Shine: An

Anthology of Optimistic SF edited by Jetse de Vries.]

Eric Gregory’s stories have appeared in Strange Horizons, Interzone, Black Static, Sybil’s Garage, and more. He has also written non-fiction for Fantasy Magazine and The Internet Review of Science Fiction. Visit him online at

Charles Tan: Hi! Thanks for agreeing to do the

interview. First off, what’s the appeal of science fiction for you?

Eric Gregory: Thank you for the opportunity!

I love the flexibility of SF. It lends itself both to big, serious questions and wild imagination. You see genre writers take a particular sort of glee in invention, the sort of glee that’s infectious. And it’s precisely that creative flexibility that makes the genre such a strong platform for questioning why things (systems of governance, energy policies, war machines) work the way they do, and how they might–for better or worse–work differently.

CT: What made you decide to write

science fiction?

EG: I never really sat down and said,


I’m going to write SF now.” But in an indirect sort of way, I

guess it was my grandfather’s fault. When I was eight or nine, he gave

me an anthology of Hugo and Nebula winners from Asimov’s; I


remember Nancy Kress’s “Beggars in Spain” and Terry Bisson’s “Bears

Discover Fire” blowing my mind one right after the other. I jumped

from Asimov’s to the novel version of Beggars in Spain

and from there to Starship Troopers and Rendezvous with Rama,

not always understanding what I read but loving it all the more for

that. SF was such a foundational part of my first serious reading

that its values and protocols are etched pretty deep into my sense of

what a story should do. Even when I sit down and tell myself that I’m

going to write a piece of stern, grounded realism, I usually find a

way to make it strange.  

CT: What made you decide to contribute to the Shine anthology? Did you find

the criteria of near-future optimistic SF difficult?

EG: When I heard what Jetse was trying

to do with Shine, I thought, “Oh, cool. I’d like to

read more fiction like that.” And the desire to read fed the desire

to write. I didn’t find the optimism or near-futurism particularly


but once I got into it, I definitely felt myself stretching some


muscles. I hadn’t realized how many (spoiler alert) dreary or


ambivalent endings I’d written until I wrote a really happy one.   

CT: What’s the appeal of optimistic science fiction for you?

EG: When you write a piece of optimistic

SF, you’re necessarily making an argument about what constitutes

positive development, and that allows for a very cool sort of


about progress. If some Richard Branson-ite zillionaire starts carrying

wealthy space-tourists to the rings of Saturn, is that really

a good thing? Why? For whom? If we develop cleaner nuclear tech, who

will it benefit? What happens to the people sitting on high


of thorium or whatever?

I’m not particularly interested in

stories that read like policy proposals, but when a future is framed

as “optimistic” or “better” or even just “feasible,”

I think it really challenges the reader to interrogate the story, to

riff and talk back and toss up alternatives. And I like that dynamic. 

CT: Do you think science fiction is capable of changing the world?

EG: Yup. It’s already changed the

world–inspiring NASA engineers, programmers, etc, etc–so I guess

the question is really whether it’ll continue to inspire. And I think

so. Writers like Paolo Bacigalupi are edging into the pop-cultural


talking about energy and agriculture and journalism as SFnal subjects,

sparking serious (and often just-plain-cool) discussions within the

context of SF. We’re not living in the future of starships and moon

colonies, but we are living in the future. A messy, dizzyingly

complicated, unevenly distributed future. It’s only natural that the

stories we tell about ourselves turn more science fictional. And those

stories have power.   

CT: What made you decide to set “The Earth of Yunhe” in a Chinese


EG: The first story I started for Shine

actually took place pretty close to my home, in the Blue Ridge

Mountains of southwest Virginia. In that story, a man named Xiaohao

searched for a way to reclaim environments flooded by coal waste (as,

in the real world, one Tennessee town was flooded in December 2008).

That story grew–and continues to grow–way, way beyond the sort of

wordcount Jetse was looking for, so I started looking for another idea

for Shine. Even as I puzzled over different concepts, different

characters, I kept returning to Xiaohao. I wondered what motivated him,

what would happen once he found his answers. “The Earth of Yunhe”

grew out of those questions, and I ended up following my character home.

CT: What research did you have to do

for the story?

EG: First (and probably most invisibly),

I researched recent coal waste disasters. Silas House and Jason Howard’s

Something Rising has a lot of powerful firsthand accounts of small

communities’ struggles with coal crises, and I’d recommend it to anyone.

Once I realized where my story was going, I started reading Chinese

fiction, travel books, online news from both within and without. With

a complex of cultures as broad, rich, and ancient as China, reading

could only carry me so far, but I tried to learn enough to write the

story respectfully.    

CT: Moving on to your writing in general, what were the challenges you had

to overcome before getting published?

EG: I wrote short stories for a few years

before realizing that publishing was even an option–my friends and

I workshopped with no real goal apart from entertaining one another.

Once I found the nerve, once I started submitting, I sold my first story

pretty quickly. The biggest challenge came after: working out what I’d

done right, and then trying to replicate it.


CT: What is it about the short story

format that appeals to you?

EG: As a reader, I love the leanness

of a good short story or novella–so many novels just don’t need 300

pages to do their business, and end up diluting themselves with bloat.

(Far as I’m concerned, Gemma Files and Stephen Barringer’s “each thing

i show you is a piece of my death” is what House of Leaves

wants to be when it grows up.) The best short stories stick in my head

the way a song does–the tight focus, the sheer concentration of ideas,

makes them hard to forget.

As a writer, I like that I can


complete and sell a short story within the same geologic age. I like

that I can take a few days (or, um, longer) to explore a world on a

whim. You can experiment with genres and structures and loopy premises,

and if it doesn’t work out, hey. No big loss. It’s nice to be able to

sit back and say, “Okay, it’s just a story.” 

CT: Anything else you want to plug?

EG: I’ve got a story forthcoming in

Futurismic that takes place on the other side of the same world

as “The Earth of Yunhe.” That should be up in a couple of months.

A few fantasy and horror stories are set to come out later in the year.

I’ve been kind of lax lately, but I blog about SF, books, music, and

whatever else comes to mind at

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