Romance Invading SF… or Saving It?
Romance in science fiction isn’t a takeover. It’s an infusion. A graft that’s thriving—and in some ways, it may be what’s keeping the heart of genre fiction beating.
Romance in science fiction isn’t a takeover. It’s an infusion. A graft that’s thriving—and in some ways, it may be what’s keeping the heart of genre fiction beating.
Ever felt that gut-punch of inadequacy scrolling past yet another impossibly slender model? I’ve spent years battling that feeling—until I stumbled upon a dead-simple image hack that flipped the script on photoshopped perfection. This post dives into the body distortion we’re fed daily, and the oddly calming trick that helped me reclaim a little peace (and joy in fashion again).
I adored Season 1 of The Last of Us—not because it echoed the game (I’ve never dared touch the game), but because it gave us that rare, aching dynamic: a broken man given one last chance to do right, and a broken girl who just might live through it. Then Season 2 came along and killed Joel with a golf club. In Episode 2. And just like that, the show lost its soul.
Mark Manson recently released a 4.5-hour video on how to stop procrastinating—which sounds like a great way to procrastinate for 4.5 hours. At The Productive Indie Fiction Writer, we’ve tackled this beast from every angle. This post pulls together some greatest hits, a few uncomfortably true quotes, and a flexible mindset to help you find your way around the monster.
Who should control space? As satellites multiply and commercial players crowd low Earth orbit, the old question of ownership gives way to something trickier: governance. From traffic control to peacekeeping, enforcing rules in orbit isn’t just hard—it may be impossible in the traditional sense. But if no one can own space, does anyone have the right—or responsibility—to police it? This post explores the real-world state of space management, the challenges of enforcement, and how science fiction—from Star Cops to The Ptolemy Lane Tales—offers unexpected insight into the future of orbital order.
Can we talk about the death grip serial killers have on romantic suspense?
Ah, “high production costs.” The new “it’s not you, it’s me” of the streaming world.
First it was Andor, quietly sliced from five seasons to two. Now it’s The Wheel of Time, which spun valiantly for three seasons on Prime Video before the thread was abruptly severed—despite critical acclaim and a devout fanbase. “Too expensive,” they say. “Too complex.” As if they didn’t know, going in, that adapting a sprawling 14-book fantasy epic might require some…commitment?
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.