My writing process is pretty simple: I think about something for a long time, and then I jot down my thoughts, and then I revise them about a hundred times until I’m satisfied with my own (now clearer) understanding of whatever it is I’m trying to articulate. That way, if no one else reads it, I’m rewarded for my effort just the same. In the case of Termites, I’d spent a while wandering around Cambodia and was still mulling over the things I’d seen. I’d flown from Incheon to New York the night before, arrived at an overbooked hostel and ended up sleeping on a cold, brown tile floor. I was sitting with my laptop in Morningside Heights, staring out the window at the rainy street, sleep-deprived and mildly pissed, just sort of toying with the notion of how to get kicked out of my PhD in Philosophy program. A repellent faux-story that relied upon pseudo-sequential logic seemed like the best way to meet these objectives.