It was a wonderful collaboration. Eugen is first, very patient, and second, very dedicated. She sent me, I think, two or three versions of the first part in its growth, in which I could see the character and story develop. It was beautifully crafted and written, and I was very afraid of not being at her level! Then we discussed the homonculus/spirit role and identity and it became clearer and clearer, and I did my part.

In this world, all magic comes from faith, which provides a great story engine because it forces power and purpose to stay intertwined. Somewhere along the line I created the North Star, goddess of prophecy, hope, motivation, and travel-towards. This story was my chance to give the North Star her moment in the light, elusive but clear.

There’s a lot about identity in this story—when fairies steal your name, what does that mean?—and tattoos are a way to tie yourself to yourself, to mark your sense of yourself and your history on your skin. Flowers also felt right for these characters; flowers are the rock stars of nature—flamboyant, dramatic, and unexpected, which was the vibe I wanted for the world of faerie they inhabited—a punk rock version of the natural world. Flowers are also incredibly genderqueer.

In one of the earliest golem stories, the Golem of Chelm is destroyed because its creator fears it will eventually consume the whole world. However, in Jewish stories, the creator of the golem isn’t an all-powerful figure who has succumbed to hubris, like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, summoning magic he cannot control. He is a member of an oppressed community trying desperately to protect the people he cares about. I think the golem myth is one example of how we can reimagine our relationship to the things we create.

I wanted to do a story that had a joyful, positive spirit for once. Usually, I like to tell dark stories, so it was a nice change. The idea itself came from my attempt at finding “the source” of a powerful, positive feeling. I thought of and gathered things that have been good in my life, and my mother was top of the list.

With Ankuin I wanted a protagonist who was intelligent, powerful, and savvy. I wanted the reader to find pleasure in watching her work, as she outmaneuvered an enemy who ostensibly had every advantage. Sure, Ankuin raises ethical questions, but her story is so heartbreaking and her revenge so intoxicating that those questions don’t really land until the story is over.

One of the main themes of this story is how our feelings about ourselves are intrinsically tied to that self and are not something we can separate. While Sarah undergoes this inexplicable transformation, her feelings about it seem to parallel the transformation somewhat. But how much of her numb acceptance at the end is because she’s mostly sand, and how much of is her actually coming to terms with it, whatever that even means? I don’t think there’s an obvious answer to that.