There’s a question that haunts a lot of indie fiction writers, particularly after the third burned-out book in a series they don’t even want to read anymore:
Am I selling out if I quit this genre and write what I actually want to write?
Short answer: No, you’re not selling out. You’re probably saving your sanity.
Longer answer? Let’s get into it.
Why am I talking about pulp fiction? (No, not the movie — which got its name from Tarantino’s inspiration for the story.)
Two reasons: Classic SF got its start in the pulp magazines. And my Ptolemy Lane Tales series was my nod to classic hardcore pulp fiction.
Classic pulp stories are often decried for their simplicity and dependence upon erotic elements to move copies. The criticism overlooks one of the primary functions of pulp stories: They were written to entertain.
And my god, they did that in spades.
At their peak of popularity in the 1920s and 1930s, the most successful pulps could sell up to one million copies per issue. In 1934, Frank Gruber (writer) said there were some 150 pulp titles.*
Today, SRP author Tracy Cooper-Posey has released the second book in her paranormal women’s fiction series, Witchtown Crossing.
Sometimes, a setting sneaks up on you. It’s not the glittering castle or the misty forest that sparks the story,
So, I’ve been in a bit of a spiral lately. You know how it goes. You start off with “What happens if the economy tanks?” and four hours later, you’re elbow-deep in a John Michael Greer blog post about catabolic collapse and wondering if it’s time to start hoarding seeds.
I haven’t posted here in a couple of weeks, and there’s a good reason for that. Actually, there are several.
So, Worldcon 2025 is making headlines, but not the kind you’d put on the back of a Hugo-winning novel. The organizing committee decided to use ChatGPT to help vet over 1,300 panelist submissions. They intended to streamline the flood of applications, maybe catch a few red flags, keep things moving.
Except it’s not going well.
SRP author Cameron Cooper today released a new alternative history, near future SF novella, Quiet Like Fire.
Hot plum pudding with brandy sauce. Pumpkin pie, fresh out of the oven, melting into the custard. Home-baked cookies, or a cake cooling on the counter. You can smell them before you even see them.
Or maybe it’s red wine steeped with cinnamon and cloves—the siren song of mulled wine calling you home on a winter’s night.
Croissants in Paris, still warm, with real butter and even more real European coffee—dark, rich, and blessed with that smoky caramel scent you only get from beans grown halfway across the world.
Roasts. Gravy. Toasted bread. Spiced fruit. Deep-fried anything.
Where ancient evils, dark sorcerers, and disgruntled viziers gather to vent, plot, and maybe—just maybe—heal.
