I’ve never written a stranger story … nor one which has gestated for a longer period of time … nor one with a longer title.<\/p>\n
My father was the captain of the darting team for Ye Olde Tripple Inn, a bar on the north side of West 54th Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue in Manhattan. And immediately across the street was … Studio 54. I often thought of the vast metaphysical distance between those two locations which existed only yards apart, and for decades knew there was a story there, but I had no idea what it was. <\/p>\n
Until in the middle of one night last year, I woke with an opening sentence in my head, scribbled it down in the dark, and hoped I\u2019d be able to read my handwriting the next morning. (Luckily, I could!) And then I began writing as best as I was able the next, best sentence, over and over again. I had no idea where I was going, or whether what I had to say would make sense to anyone but me.<\/p>\n
In fact, I assumed the story would be unsellable. But I needed to write it anyway.<\/p>\n
Here’s what I scribbled in my journal at the start off it all — <\/p>\n
\u201cI think I\u2019m going to have to consider this playing, and not actually writing a story, so I don\u2019t have to feel bad when it turns out not to become one. I\u2019ll let it just be fun.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Usually, as I near the completion of a story, I know exactly which market I think might be its best possible home. With this story, I hd no idea. I couldn’t conceive of an editor who’d be willing to publish something so personal and so odd. So I shared it with a couple of friends, one of whom told me he thought it was the best thing I’d ever written (which humbled me), and suggested I send it to Lightspeed<\/em> editor John Joseph Adams. Which I did.<\/p>\n