For those of you unfamiliar with the rather esoteric world of short story markets, Asimov’s is one of the oldest and most prestigious science fiction magazines in the world. Some, such as this site, rate it as the best. 
Whatever the case, it’s a hard market for a writer to crack – for every acceptance, Asimov’s deals out hundreds of rejections.
So as I recently sold a story to this venue, you’ll understand me when I say: fuck yeah Asimov’s.
The story, Flame Trees (6k words) was written in 24-hours at the Writers of the Future workshop in Los Angeles, though the idea had been burning a hole in my thoughts for a few weeks before that. It’s about a Vietnamese refugee living in Australia, struggling with memories from his country’s war against China (and whether or not to have those memories wiped).
Living here in Vietnam, I realised that for all the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder stories I’d read or watched over the years, pretty much all were about US soldiers, and none were non-western. I was somewhat ashamed to realise that I’d never fully considered the trauma suffered by Vietnamese people during the virtually endless series of wars they fought in the 20th century (the French, the Japanese, the French again, the US, Cambodia, and finally China). I’d subscribed to the dogma put forward both by the Vietnamese government and the US entertainment industry: that of the Vietnamese as a stoic, self-sacrificing, resolute foe; automatons fighting various Imperialist invaders (with the exception of Cambodia, where the Vietnamese invaded in 1978 and overthrew the Khmer Rouge, thereby ending the Killing Fields and one of the most barbaric regimes of the last hundred years).
In particular, The Sorrow of War, a brilliant novel by Bao Ninh, opened up my eyes to the enduring psychological damage dealt to those who fought the US during the Vietnam War (or the American War as it is known here). Bao Ninh served in the Glorious 27th Youth Brigade – of the 500 who set out in 1967, he was one of only ten survivors. Many believe the novel is a thinly-veiled autobiographical account of his experiences. The Sorrow of War was initially banned by the Vietnamese government, though is widely available here now.
That novel and my other research indicated that the Vietnamese response to suffering is both very familiar and very strange at the same time to a Western audience. Vietnamese superstition and cosmology plays a key role in the aftermath and in the experience of deeply traumatic events. The spirits of the land and of the dead in particular haunt the living.
In one section of The Sorrow of War, for example, the ghosts of the main character’s slain comrades are condemned to wander the jungle as they were never prayed over: “…here when it is 
dark, trees and plants moan in awful harmony. When the ghostly music begins it unhinges the soul.”
And later, when he returns to Hanoi, the protagonist watches an American movie about the war: “…once again I’m ready to jump in and mix it in the fiery scene of blood, mad killing and brutality that warps soul and personality… I sit dizzied, shocked by the barbarous excitement of reliving close combat with bayonets and rifle-butts. My heart beats rapidly as I stare at the dark corners of the room where the ghost soldiers emerge, shredded with gaping wounds.”
As an aid worker I’ve seen a lot of colleagues suffer from the more well-known consequences of PTSD, and so came to it with that knowledge. The difficult part was ensuring the cultural aspects were present and credible as well. As you’d imagine, the story is quite dark.
Anyway, that’s all rather bleak. Selling the story isn’t – it’s the biggest sale thus far of my writing career, to a magazine that’s been number one on my list since I decided to become a writer.
I hope – and believe – I’ve done the subject matter justice. The story will be out later this year.
