For five years, when he wasn’t working as a technical writer in the software industry, Chiang read books about linguistics. A linguist, Chiang thought, might learn such acceptance by deciphering the language of an alien race with a different conception of time. The idea for a story emerged, about accepting the arrival of the inevitable. Chiang thought back to certain physical principles he had learned about in high school, in Port Jefferson, New York, having to do with the nature of time. A little later, a friend had a baby and told Chiang about recognizing her son from his movements in the womb. He attended a one-man show in Seattle, where he lives, about a woman’s death from cancer. In the early nineteen-nineties, a few occurrences sparked something in Ted Chiang’s mind.
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