Ask the Author: Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev

“Ask me a question.” Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev

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Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev Hi, Dea! I suppose I could go with the answer many writers go with: I’m super special and have superpowers. But I think the truth is more boring than that! Mostly I begin with a scene or an idea. For Vanishing Bodies, it was a scene that’s no longer in the novel. Originally, the book was set in Harvard, and was a contemporary romance. I don’t enjoy writing contemporary romances (at least I don’t think I do!), and so, at some point in time, the novel began to lean toward science fiction. I will say in the original, ur-text the scene I eliminated was a student at Harvard committing suicide under mysterious circumstances. I couldn’t get the novel to work the way I wanted it to. One night after a miserable day of writing, maybe around two or three in the morning, I woke up and realized I had an epiphany, dream, vision, whatever—the student commits suicide and vanishes. So I went back and re-wrote the ur-text with that new vision. (I also changed the setting to Emory University per a friend’s recommendation—“Why Harvard? You never went to Harvard. F**k Harvard. This book needs to be set in Emory, where we actually went.”) So Emory it was. As for the rest of the novel, it took many rewrites and such to get it to where it’s at today. Nearly a decade of work, I believe. Hope you enjoy the ending.
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev Oh, God. So, so many books. There's no way in hell I'll get through all of them. Right now I'm working on The Dawn of Everything by Graeber and Wengrow. I also go down rabbit holes, and when I do, it's weeks of reading everything I can on the subject. Recently I went down the Michael Jackson rabbit hole. Then I went down the F. Scott Fitzgerald rabbit hole. Those lasted a few months each.
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev Sometimes I meet fascinating people that interest me at first sight. And I imagine them in certain situations, exploring their thoughts and actions in writing. One of the influences behind my character Mark Beloshinski, for example, was the father of a girl I dated back in college. I admired him a lot, and we bonded over our shared love of the role chance plays in life. He was, like me, a deeply romantic man who had gotten lucky in life. In conversations we explored chance, fate, and the randomness of life and love. At the time, he was in his fifties, and he and his wife would leave sticky notes on the bathroom mirror in which they'd proclaim their unconditional love for one another, or say something sweet. I found it affectionately memorable. While nothing worked out between his daughter and me, I still remember him vividly. I don't think I'll ever forget the man. And, I hope, the world doesn't forget him either.
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev Mostly physics, astrophysics, and astronomy. I’m on an “outer space” binge.
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev A fantasy children’s novel tentatively titled ‘Olivia & the Gentleman from Outer Space.’
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev Hi Mary! That’s a very thoughtful question; I hadn’t thought of doing a foreword. I suppose a foreword may help some people (or even most people). I’m not worried about the bad reviews, so don’t apologize for anything. I don’t want to change your opinion on the book. That would be a Vince Nilsson move. You can hate it—and that is perfectly fine with me.
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev An ex-girlfriend was supposed to drop off my acoustic guitar after a breakup. It took her weeks to do it. One night I had a dream that she delivered something to my door step. It was a package, alright. But it wasn’t my guitar. Instead, it was a body bag. I unzipped the body bag and was surprised to find myself—very pale and very dead—inside. I began writing ‘Bodies’ shortly after that.
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev Don’t do it. But if you do, don’t listen to anybody. Because nobody knows any thing—not even your readers.
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev I would go up to Gatsby's mansion and party with the drunk guy amongst the books and that massive library.
Moses Yuriyvich Mikheyev When he had finished the deed, he wiped his brow with his thick left hand, etching a trail of red across the crime of his skin, and placed the axe on the table. He hesitated—but only for a moment—and then thought nothing of it.

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