Our Research Notes series invites authors to describe their process for a recent book, with “research” defined as broadly as they like. This week, Caleb Tankersley writes about Sin Eaters, winner of the 2021 Permafrost Prize in fiction and published by University of Alaska Press.

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I want to describe the process of developing the first story in Sin Eaters, titled “Swamp Creatures.” This description is as much for me as for any reader, a reminder of how my creative brain — a separate entity from my own consciousness — can surprise me when I give it time and space. That there’s hope for this surprise in stories to come.

“Swamp Creatures” began — as many writing blips do now — with a few hasty tidbits in the Notes app of my phone (then an iPhone 3, which felt luxurious and still does if I give it some thought.) Just brief impressions. Detail debris.

My partner and I had moved to a new apartment in a small southern city. Our kitchen was tiny and a little dank. On the back wall by the dining table was a window that looked out onto an artificial drainage ditch, pools of muddy water sometimes connected and flowing, sometimes separate and stagnant. It became my habit to sit at the table with my morning coffee and watch the comings and goings of the ditch. There were plenty of weeds and plastic trash, but tiny fish lived there most of the year. The fish were active, constantly churning the water with their bodies. Over time, I learned each fish had a territory. They jockeyed and chased and fought each other to expand their own space. Snakes would swim through and the fish would scatter. Turtles visited frequently. Even muskrats and blue heron. The ditch was a little universe parallel to my own.

We’d moved to this southern city so I could go to graduate school and study writing. On arrival, I quickly felt myself behind the mark. I was surrounded by talented writers who had already accomplished much more than I had ever dreamed. My teachers motivated me to work hard and improve. One lesson I’ll never forget — from Steve Barthelme — was all about detail debris, those nothings we quickly jot in our phone apps: “Fill your stories with weird shit, little shit, any odd thing you find interesting. They’ll create depth and make the world of your stories more weird and wonderful places. And eventually — between your characters and the weird details — emotional connections will form.”

I started keeping notes on the ditch and the creatures who lived there. One morning I watched a heron swallow three fish. That afternoon there was a furious reshuffling of territories. Another day a black snake dragged a large fish up the bank. (Those poor fish led stressful lives.) On another afternoon I found two turtles locked in gladiatorial combat, clawing and snapping at each other for well over an hour. I found myself strangely enthralled: the territorial disputes, the battles, the life and death struggles. I wrote it all down.

Among dozens of notes, one struck me as especially interesting: “these fish are feisty yet translucent, their bodies darting around like little bits of cellophane, gutsy but barely there.” Hardly a story, but not a bad place to start.

So I had an image that seemed interesting to me. Then I needed a character. Who would be the character? What would be interesting about this character? What would her problems be? It took me a shockingly long time to realize that I was the character. One of the oddest things in my world was me, spending so much time watching the creatures of the ditch. Why was this so interesting to me? What was I gaining from it? What was I avoiding? I was the “weird shit” my story needed.

So I began writing about Karen. Karen loves watching the swamp. Virtually everything Karen observes in “Swamp Creatures” is some odd interaction I observed. She’s obsessed with all the little animal kingdoms, and she’s using it to escape her own life and problems. I had a beginning and a character.

The story didn’t exactly pour forth from there. In fact, I wrote two interesting paragraphs and then got stuck. Six months later, I picked the story back up, reached two pages, and felt stuck again. “Swamp Creatures” came together in slow layers, and it wasn’t until well after graduate school that the final version of the story came together, my ditch apartment long gone. The story evolved and changed considerably from that beginning image and character sketch. But I think part of what makes “Swamp Creatures” compelling is that initial kernel of weird truth, the obsession with the swamp and the imagery derived from my own fascinations.

In real life, we are surrounded by histories. Rubble. Strange Debris. And our reasons for caring are often even stranger. It’s good for fiction to pay attention, and it’s even better to consider why. “Swamp Creatures” emerged from the bizarre soup of my subconscious brain’s curiosities. I hope future writers — including myself — will remember that good stories can emerge from the tiniest oddities. And as much as any reader, I can’t wait to see what strange shit our collective brains (and Notes apps) decide to obsess about next.

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