The craft tools are the same, but the difference is in the promise the writer makes to the reader.

Creative nonfiction says: this is true to your lived experience. It is rooted in memory, fact, observation, and the writer’s honest understanding of what happened.

Fiction says: this story is imagined, even when it borrows from life.

That sounds like a clear line. In practice, it rarely is.

Memory Is Not a Transcript

Anyone who writes memoirs or personal essays knows we do not remember life as a perfect chronology of events. We remember fragments: the way the room smelled, the sound of a voice, a feeling in our body.

So, if a writer reconstructs a conversation from memory, is it still nonfiction? If time is compressed, has it become fiction? If several people are distilled into one composite figure, is it the truth?

Both forms may begin in the same place: memory, feeling, image, and meaning. However, in fiction, a fear can become a ghost, a wound, a haunted house, and a person can be a composite of several people. The emotional truth remains, even when the events are transformed.

The same experience might become a memoir piece in one draft and a fiction short story in the next. Neither is less true. They are simply reaching for different kinds of truth. As writers, we must decide which form will best carry what we need to say.

One of the clearest distinctions I’ve read between the two forms is this, from Writers.com:

Creative nonfiction is an exploration of the truth. And, as all writers know, the truth is far, far messier than fiction. Few truths are absolute. As such, an author’s integrity and dedication to honesty matters much more.

Truth is rarely neat. Memory is not linear. Our experiences do not arrive with clean beginnings, middles, and endings. They come in fragments, sensations, contradictions, and revisions.

That is why creative nonfiction asks for integrity rather than perfection. The writer’s task is to remain honest in the rendering.

While writing nonfiction involves organizing factual information into a personal story that some readers will connect with, fiction writing means crafting a story that touches on shared human experiences.

For those of us who move between memoir, fiction, and mythic storytelling, that line can feel especially porous.

Where do you draw the line? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Welcome, New Subscribers! And thank you all for being here.

At the beginning of 2026, I set a 3-part goal:

1. Review the fiction I’d posted on Substack for the past two years

2. Revise, edit, and polish the best stories

3. Refocus on how I present the finished products

I’m currently editing favorite stories from the past two years, and thinking about the next phase for those tales.It’s easy for me to write in episodes during the draft stage because I naturally write in scenes. Later, in revision, the work becomes one of discovering where the deeper connections already exist and strengthening them so the novel reads as a unified whole.

I’m revising the first act of The Truth About Sadie Wilkins: East Shady Grove Cemetery. What I’m really doing is reshaping episodes into a novel rather than a sequence of linked stories.

The story already works in pieces. The scenes have atmosphere. The voice is there. The emotional moments land.

Still, while each scene holds its own weight, the story doesn’t yet pull the reader forward with enough force to make the next moment feel inevitable.

So the work in revision becomes a question of connection.

In East Shady Grove Cemetery, the dead girl is a reflection. She mirrors something in Sadie that hasn’t fully surfaced yet. She carries knowledge Sadie doesn’t have access to, but is moving toward.

The spirit appears at the threshold with a message:

“Go home.”
“It’s not safe.”
“Follow me.”

Each time the message becomes clearer.

What Echoes?

The episodic draft is a series of events. Scene follows scene. Something happens, then something else happens. Now, I have sequences to suss out.

An echo does three things at once:

• It recalls an earlier moment.

• It reframes that moment with a new context.

• It adds pressure by suggesting meaning without stating it.

So instead of asking only what happens next, I’m asking:

• What has happened before that this moment can answer?

• What can return, slightly altered, to deepen meaning?

• What can the reader recognize before they fully understand it?

When something echoes, it carries memory with it. The reader doesn’t experience the moment in isolation. Ideally, they experience the moment alongside everything that came before it.

Recognition creates continuity. This is where echoes give way to the concept of doubling.

Doubling as a Revision Device for Story

Doubling is a structural device where one element of the story reflects another: character to character, scene to scene, image to image. It’s one way a narrative can build meaning without explaining itself.

A double can take many forms:

• Two characters whose lives run in parallel.

• Two settings that carry the same emotional weight.

• A repeated gesture or line of dialogue that returns in a different context.

The goal is recognition. Because once the reader begins to recognize a pattern, the story starts to gather force.

The Dead Girl Is a Double

In East Shady Grove Cemetery, the violence in one household reflects the violence in another. The buried dead in the cemetery parallel the buried truths inside the family. A setting begins to mirror an emotional reality. A relationship reflects the protagonist’s internal conflict.

If a girl runs through the cemetery once, it’s an event. If she runs the same path again, with different stakes, it becomes a pattern. If someone else runs that same path later, the story starts to take on layers.

Now the reader isn’t just following action. They’re tracking meaning.

That’s why the question shifts in revision.

I’m no longer building the story by adding new material. Now, I’m strengthening it by aligning what’s already there.

The echo is what turns a sequence into a structure. Without echoes, scenes sit beside each other. With echoes, they begin to lean on each other. And that’s what creates the feeling that the story is moving toward something, even before the reader knows what that something is.

By the time it all becomes clear, it feels inevitable, like something that was waiting to be discovered.

Paid subscribers get access to the original draft of East Shady Grove Cemetery and the full Sharon Stories—First Draft Fiction archive.

Welcome, New Subscribers! And thank you all for being here.

At the beginning of 2026, I set a 3-part goal:

1. Review the fiction I’d posted on Substack for the past two years

2. Revise, edit, and polish the best stories

3. Refocus on how I present the finished products

I’m currently editing favorite stories from the past two years, and thinking about the next phase for those tales.

When I started my Substack two years ago, I wanted to post serialized episodes of a story I had started writing on Kindle Vella. I fell in love with Substack because it gave me almost everything I dreamed of in a platform. It beat Vella because I could connect directly with my readers. I could post story episodes and send them out in a newsletter. There were even people who wanted to know about the process.

And best of all, it’s free! What’s more, Kindle Vella no longer exists.

Here’s what I’ve learned about writing on Substack in my two years of experiments.

What I’ve learned in Two Years Writing on Substack

At its heart, Substack is a newsletter platform, though it’s easy to forget that because it feels so much like straight-up social media.

Keeping the basic newsletter in mind, consider how many emails subscribers get daily.

Would sending fewer emails make yours more valuable?

I’ve found that less is more. In other words, the fewer emails I send, the higher the open rates. Of course, I’m more concerned about whether my subscribers read my work than how many people are subscribing. Working for numbers feels soulless, and that’s not why I’m here.

Anyhoo…

Consistency matters, but maybe not as much as you imagine. It’s really about what you want from this platform. As far as serial writing goes, story aside, other things may matter more to readers, like how long it takes to read an episode, and how easy it is to navigate to other episodes.

Short Reads: Five to Fifteen Minutes

At its core, serial writing is about structure. You’re releasing a story in pieces. Each installment has to hold its own while still serving the larger arc.

Some Substackers recommend treating your serial like a TV Series. My background is in creative writing, with a focus on screenwriting, so I’ve come to think of story in terms of scenes, beats, and pacing.

For the first drafts of my Substack serials, I concentrated on using short installments, with a hook into the episode and a cliffhanger at the end. I also experimented, posting microfiction pieces in Notes and releasing episodes every Tuesday. The notes posts got the most reactions. However, looking at the stats, it seems more people read the episodes sent as emails.

So far, everything on this Substack has been an experiment. I’ve retired most of the drafts for now, but later we’ll compare the experiment and the finished work.

Need Some Serial Inspiration?

A lot of writers on Substack are experimenting with serialized fiction right now. It’s exciting to see the various approaches and reasons we embrace this format. Here’s a live talk from three popular Substack writers: ,, and.

Tell Me a Mystery

The Substack Serialize Test

Listen now

2 months ago · 55 likes · 23 comments · Tell Me a Mystery, Scoot, and Eric Falden

It’s funny how, as creators, we think we’ve hit on something new and different and then suddenly realize, no, there’s a bunch of people doing the same thing. Not only that, this concept of serial writing is old.

Like, really old.

Serial Fiction Is Nothing New

The format became popular in the 17th Century to cater to a growing demand for reading material among the middle class. The stories were entertaining and offered ways to explore and question society’s values and norms.

Sound familiar?

Publishers could reduce prices, effectively expanding the market by producing low-cost installments. These installments also allowed time to gauge a work’s popularity before spending money on large print runs.

Today, indie publishers have a similar goal.

Traditionally, literary magazines, periodicals, and newspapers provided avenues for serial publication. The format introduced new forms and styles that appealed to a diverse audience.

Charles Dickens was one of the most influential authors popularizing serial fiction. He first published all of his novels in serial form, starting with The Pickwick Papers in 1836.

Dickens used serial fiction to create social commentary while experimenting with different genres and styles. His most famous serials include Great Expectations, published weekly from December 1860 to August 1861.

Dickens wasn’t the only author who used serial fiction to significant effect. Many other writers followed his example. Wilkie Collins serialized The Woman in White and later, one of the first detective novels, The Moonstone, published in Charles Dickens’ magazine All the Year Round.

French writer Alexandre Dumas released The Three Musketeers in serial form in 1844. The story gained instant success. Elizabeth Gaskell explored social issues and regional differences between the North and South, and Gustave Flaubert scandalized the public with his realistic portrayal of adultery in Madame Bovary.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created the iconic Sherlock Holmes stories for The Strand magazine between 1892 and 1893. Then he killed off the detective and would have been done with it. However, Sherlock Holmes fans took it personally and protested. In 1902, Doyle published The Hound of the Baskervilles. A year later, he published The Adventure of the Empty House. There are 56 short stories and four full-length novels in the Sherlock Holmes adventures.

Serial fiction became popular with American writers such as Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mark Twain, Henry James, Edith Wharton, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Harriet Beecher Stowe published Uncle Tom’s Cabin in 40 weekly installments from 1851 to 1852 in The National Era, an abolitionist weekly in Washington, D.C.

Serial Fiction Authors of the Old West

In the Western United States during the 1700s and 1800s, these short episodic stories provided a cheap and accessible form of entertainment for the settlers.

Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote a series of autobiographical novels based on her childhood experiences as an American pioneer. Her novels were first published as serials in magazines such as The Saturday Evening Post and McCall’s. Some of her most famous works are Little House in the Big Woods, Little House on the Prairie, and On the Banks of Plum Creek.

Zane Grey was one of the most famous writers of Western novels, many of which were serialized in magazines such as Argosy and Adventure. Grey’s stories featured rugged cowboys, outlaws, Indians, and frontier romance. Some of his best-known works are Riders of the Purple Sage, The Lone Star Ranger, and The Last Trail.

James Fenimore Cooper was one of the first American novelists to write historical Fiction. Cooper is best known for his “Leatherstocking Tales” series, which follows the adventures of Natty Bumppo, a frontiersman who interacts with various Native American tribes. Cooper’s novels were serialized in Graham’s and Putnam’s Monthly magazines. Some of his most famous works are “The Last of the Mohicans,” “The Deerslayer,” and “The Pathfinder.”

20th-Century Authors Who Used the Format

By the 20th Century, authors including Isaac Asimov, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert Heinlein, and Ray Bradbury published serials in pulp magazines. Like many of his peers, Bradbury later compiled the stories into short collections or published them as novels. (Good plan!)

Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot was initially published in science-fiction magazines between 1940 and 1950, before the collection became a novel. In all, there are nine stories. These tales link through a reporter’s interview with Dr. Susan Calvin, a former robo-psychologist who worked with dysfunctional robots. Asimov and his mentor, John Campbell, Jr., developed a set of ethics for robots that are still used today.

Alan Moore published “The Watchmen” from 1986 to 1987.

Stephen King published his supernatural serial thriller, “The Green Mile,” in six monthly paperback installments from March to August 1996. King set his story in a small Southern prison, Cold Mountain Penitentiary, in 1932. “The Green Mile” refers to the lime-colored linoleum leading to Old Sparky, the penitentiary’s electric chair. Paul Edgecombe, the former block supervisor, narrates as an older man looking back on the events. As with many other serial novels on this list, the story eventually became a movie adaptation in 1999.

Digital Media: An Ideal Format for Serials

Like its predecessors, modern serial fiction allows for more complex and immersive narratives. In the 21st Century, the stories spread across various media, such as blog posts, printed novels, podcasts, and video web series.

Digital media offers aspiring writers audience engagement and more creative freedom and experimentation. Writing online has taught me a few things.

Consistency matters, but it doesn’t have to happen at breakneck speed. I don’t always write in a straight line, and I don’t always write every day, but I keep returning to the work, even when it’s messy.

For me, first drafts are fun to write. It’s all discovery and inspiration. However, revision is where the story reveals its layers. Foreshadowing settles in. Subtext sharpens.

I’ve learned not to rush the draft stage. Some pieces need to sit for a bit. Some need to be printed out, marked up, and moved around physically. There’s something about holding the pages and seeing the edits in red that makes the work feel solid.

All the fragments, abandoned scenes, small experiments, they don’t get abandoned. They resurface and might find their place later, in a completely different story.

Nothing is ever just a draft.

Stay tuned for Flash Fiction Friday, hitting your inbox this week. I’m bringing back a story I wrote in October, newly revised and prepping for its next life as a contained screenplay.

At the beginning of 2026, I set a 3-part goal:

1. Review the fiction I’d posted on Substack for the past two years

2. Revise, edit, and polish the best stories

3. Refocus on how I present the finished products

I’m currently editing the best stories from the past two years, and thinking about the next phase for those tales.

Hello, Dear Readers. Welcome, New Subscribers.

I’m thrilled you’re here! Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time reviewing 2025 drafts and deciding which of these stories needs to move into the next phase.

I bought binders for the revisions, so I could have something physical to hold. It feels more real that way, and I do love using a red pen.

Here’s what’s currently on my desk.

Since I can’t finish everything at once, I’m starting with the story that has been with me the longest.

The Truth About Sadie Wilkins

This project blends psychological horror with the supernatural.

Sadie Wilkins experiences the world in ways no one seems to understand. Silence is rarely empty. Memories surface, but they feel like nightmares.

The Truth About Sadie Wilkins doesn’t arrive all at once. It unfolds slowly, through hauntings, questions, and memories that refuse to stay buried.

I’m currently revising the story to eke out foreshadowing leading up to the reveal.

In East Shady Grove Cemetery, Sadie encounters a young girl who drags her into a murder mystery that runs deeper than Sadie realizes. This early chapter sets the stage for everything that follows.

East Shady Grove Cemetery is in its final revision and will be available on May 15, 2026, complete with hand-drawn illustrations. (PDF download).

At the beginning of 2026, I set a 3-part goal:

1. Review the fiction I’d posted on Substack for the past two years

2. Revise, edit, and polish the best stories

3. Refocus on how I present the finished products

I’m currently editing the best stories from the past two years, and thinking about the next phase for those tales.

In 2025, I wallowed in the discovery (AKA developmental) stage of the writing process. Discovery allows time to experiment, play, and explore until a story fully emerges. If I permit myself to linger in this stage for a while, I usually end up with several stories.

What I discovered in 2025 is that many of the tales connect to others. Together, they form a more complex world.

Admittedly, I could probably sit around starting stories for the rest of my life. It’s a comfortable and happy place. However, I am, and have been working intentionally.

In January, I revisited existing drafts and examined their underlying purpose, reflecting on their themes, tensions, and relationships to the larger body of work.

Shaping the Story

Writing short episodes as part of the discovery stage gives a sense of the story’s shape because of the parameters I set when writing episodic tales.

The basic idea for each episode is to write a hook into the story and a cliffhanger at the end. Episodes range from 300 to 1,000 words.

Using this process helps me create a first draft that already has structure and momentum.

Structural Editing

This is where I’ll spend most of my time from April through December; although, I‘m sure I’ll write new stories because if the spirit moves me, I’m not saying no.

During structural editing, the focus is:

• Pacing and momentum

• Scene order and balance

• Expansion

• Tighten the beginning and ending

Here, language and subtext add texture. Atmosphere sharpens. Psychological tension tightens. The prose hums.

This is a stage I care deeply about. Writing, for me, is as much sensory and rhythmic as it is narrative. Line editing doesn’t erase personality; it amplifies it.

With Subterfuge, Structural editing is going to be key in eking out the best reveals. The story’s psychological pressure depends on rhythm and release, and structural decisions now determine how that tension lands.

I am moving carefully, publishing new episodes, which is why you won’t see them weekly, at least for a while.

Plot & Structure

I’ll look for plot holes, logic gaps, pacing problems, and scenes that don’t move anything forward.

Character Development

I’m looking at what each character wants, what they fear, and how those forces collide over time. The focus is on whether the characters feel alive, consistent, and internally motivated.

Theme

Track recurring images, obsessions, conflicts, and questions. What keeps resurfacing and why?

Is the central idea clear beneath the surface? Is it supported by the story’s events, not just stated outright?

Are there competing themes that need to be clarified or let go?

Organization

The organization looks at the shape of the work as a whole: Chapter order, section breaks, and the flow of information. Sometimes the story just needs some rearranging to hit its sweet spot.

Point of View

POV is emotional. In this phase, I confirm that the chosen perspective is consistent and effective. I’m watching for accidental shifts, distance where intimacy is needed, or closeness that undermines tension.

The Circle Dance

If you’ve been here for the rawness, the curiosity, the sense of work unfolding in real time, you’re still in the right place. You’re just stepping into a different phase with me, and I will continue to experiment because my brain demands it.

There will still be first drafts, fragments, and exploratory work. But there will be less of it, and more intentional movement through the later stages of editing.

2026 is about returning to what already exists and carrying it through completion with care.

Naming the Phases Matters

Naming the phases creates boundaries. It prevents editing too early. It stops polishing work that doesn’t yet know what it is. It allows unfinished pieces to stay unfinished without apology, while giving completed work the care it deserves.

Most importantly, it protects the developmental stage.

In a culture that rushes toward output and optimization, developmental editing often gets skipped. But that’s where my most honest work happens.

The work doesn’t lose its soul when it’s shaped carefully.
It loses its soul when it’s rushed.

Paradox: A statement or situation that may be true but seems impossible or difficult to understand because it contains two opposite facts or characteristics. ~ Cambridge Dictionary

The concept of paradox isn’t just a narrative device. It’s a fundamental aspect of the novel’s world. Rather than presenting a one-dimensional critique or endorsement of AI, Paradox uses its sibling protagonists to explore AI's utopian promise and dystopian perils.

Woudenberg draws the map. We’re left to navigate the moral complexity for ourselves.

A Familiar World

Paradox blends elements of hard sci-fi, psychological intrigue, and speculative technology to create a familiar yet unpredictable world. Woudenberg grounds these elements with his knowledge of advanced technology, quantum mechanics, and neural sciences.

Developing an entire world while simultaneously attempting to educate his readers in the nuances of AI is no small feat. Woudenberg does it well. I felt as if I was in an AI 101 course. He explains the tech in a way that makes it accessible to non-techies.

The novel invites readers to consider difficult questions:

What does it mean to be human in a world where technology can replicate or surpass human capabilities?

What happens to our emotions, memories, and identities when machines mimic them?

Visceral Imagery

One of the most striking elements is the book’s intensely sensory, often jarring, and always purposeful imagery. Rather than leaning on abstract sci-fi jargon or sterile descriptions, Woudenberg writes action depicting the raw physicality of the experience. There's a tension in the sensations of heat, pressure, vertigo, and confusion. This physical tension grounds the more cerebral concepts in something we can feel and relate to.

Woudenberg's imagery also reflects the characters' psychological state, like the palpable disorientation when the line between body and mind blurs.

No doubt, six years of service in the U.S. Army helps the author's ability to convey such vivid, embodied experiences. His military background provided firsthand exposure to high-stress environments and the complexities of human perception under pressure. In his article "Lead as if You Won't Survive the Engagement," Woudenberg reflects on the humbling aspects of military leadership, noting that in combat, factors like physical prowess or courage cannot deflect the trajectory of a warhead. ​

Believable Characters

Woudenberg uses sibling dynamics as a device to illustrate opposing opinions on artificial intelligence. A close brother-sister relationship transforms into a microcosm of the broader societal debate on AI ethics. Personal relationships are an efficient way to illustrate contrasting ideas. Brother-sister dynamics adds layers to work with.

One sibling’s intense emotional struggles and scientific mindset, contrasted with the other’s resistance to AI, could be more clearly reflected in their early interactions. Supporting characters tend to blend into one another with one voice. Understandable, considering they are essentially there to educate us on various scientific concepts.

Still, there’s room to expand the characters for a richer read. As the series develops, the author could find additional ways to make the characters distinct. Dialogue is a tool that would help differentiate them. For example, variations in speech patterns, word choice, and non-verbal cues (like using your hands when you talk) would set characters apart.

More to Come

Despite the mild critique, I'm enjoying Paradox. It sets the stage for a compelling exploration of the future of humanity and AI. Woudenberg’s vision of a world shaped by artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and ethical dilemmas is timely and thought-provoking.

The second book, Integration: Book Two of The Singularity Chronicles is out. Look for an in-depth review later in the year. (Available to paid subscribers).

Group therapy is supposed to help us feel like someone understands. Like we're part of a community or somethin'. But it never seems like it helps to me.

Charles Cheswick, a squat, balding middle-aged man, observes as Nurse Ratched starts the group session with Dale Harding. No one looks like they want to be here, except maybe Ratched. She seems to enjoy watching everyone squirm.

"All right, Mr. Harding, you've stated on more than one occasion that you suspected your wife was seeing other men," says Ratched.

Cheswick thinks, No, nope. It's more like accusations. Nobody understands. Nobody ever gets it. Uh, I feel bad for Mr. Harding. He's like me. Yeah, we're a lot alike, just, I don't have that kind of education-type learning he has. Ratched is so cold. She's like a popsicle. No, no, not, not a popsicle. That's sweet. She's cold and icy like a, uh… 

It's hard for Cheswick to maintain a train of thought, and his attention drifts back to the conversation.

"The only thing I can really speculate on Nurse Ratched," says Harding, "is the very existence of my life with or without my wife in terms of the human relationships, that juxtaposition of…"

When he talks, it sounds so smart, thinks Cheswick. I could learn so much from him. Like I'm in school. I need a, uh, a dictionary.

Taber's annoyed voice pulls Cheswick from his philosophizing. The man reminds him of his stepdad. "Big bully," he whispers. 

"Harding, why don't you knock off the bullshit and get to the point," Taber demands.

Oh boy, here we go. I coulda bet on it. Huh! McMurphy WOULDA bet on it. He sneaks an admiring glance at his new hero, who looks like he can't quite believe what's happening to Harding. Nobody ever messes with McMurphy. He's a special kinda guy. He's what they call a man's man. Me and Harding, that's not us. 

Cheswick hears Harding from somewhere in the distance.

"I'm not just talking about one person. I'm talking about everybody. I'm talking about form. I'm talking about content. I'm talking about God, the devil," Harding preaches.

Cheswick blinks. God and the devil. Big, scary things. He was raised on that. Sunday school, the preacher's warnings, the pictures in those little books with fire and angels. He never quite got it, but he knew it was serious, knew it was something to be afraid of.

Fear.

Fear everywhere.

Always.

Cheswick’s heart speeds up. His muscles tighten like strings on a guitar.

Careful, too much more, and they're gonna SNAP.

"Peculiar, peculiar, peculiar." They sound like a pack of parrots.

Cheswick pulls it together enough to give them a piece of what's left of his mind.

"I'll tell you guys something," says Cheswick, "you just don't want to learn anything. You just don't want to listen to anybody. But with him, he's got intelligence!" 

Proud of himself and relieved too, Cheswick takes a breath and waits for Harding to finish telling the others off. He feels a kinship with Harding.

The brotherhood of the misunderstood. Yeah, that has a nice ring to it, thinks Cheswick. It sounds like something Harding would say.

"They're all crowding in on you, Mr. Harding. They all ganging up on you," says Cheswick.

"Is that news?" asks Harding.

"No, they think… they sometimes want to gang up on me too, but, but I…"

Harding cuts Cheswick off. "Chez, do me a favor, huh? Take it easy. And stay off my side."

"I. I just wanna help! Just. Just listen, okay? I mean, don’t you want, don’t you need…"

"Please." Harding’s voice is sharper now.

"But I always. Always wanted to…"

"Please, Cheswick." This time his voice is a warning.

Cheswick’s breathing is short. "But. But I only want to…"

Exasperated, Harding raises his voice. "Chez! Just. STOP. Take it easy. Stay off my side."

Cheswick visibly crumbles. "I. I don’t understand. I just. I just wanna…"

"Please!" Harding snaps.

"…help," says Cheswick, barely audible.

Distraught, he feels as if his spirit is leaving his body. The scene below looks far away. And worse yet, it's as if he's trying to see what's happening through a thick fog. He hears more beautiful words from Harding, something about illusions, or is it aaaallusions? But it doesn't matter much now. Nothing does. Harding doesn't know that it's okay to be peculiar. Maybe it's not okay.

Taber starts yelling. His voice is overwhelming. It fills Cheswick's body the way fear used to when he was a kid. It's not from the bottom up. Fear comes from all sides and inside and out. The memories slap him upside the head as hard as his stepdad ever did.

The cacophony builds to the point that it breaks through the fog with a blast of fresh despair

"You been talking about your wife ever since I can remember. You know she's on your mind and blah blah blahhhh. GOD! On and on about my wife!" Taber's voice boom, boom, BOOMING like heavy steel-toed work boots pounding down the hall.  

Uh, ohhh. Ohhhh. Ohhhh! Cheswick's voice screams inside his head. He covers his ears, but it's loud inside and outside too. The guitar strings are too tight. You can't turn them tighter.

They're not going to stop.

It's never going to stop.

No one is ever going to understand.

I'll always be alone.

There is no heaven.

This is hell.

If you enjoyed this post and want to support my writing habit, become a paid subscriber, or make a buy me a coffee.

What if aliens were real and lived among us?

What if we were capable of space travel—what would we find?

What if scientists created a new life form in a Petrie dish or regenerated an extinct one?

Hard Science Fiction

I imagine hard sci-fi is what people think about when they think, science fiction. I could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Here’s the thing. Science fiction imagines futuristic concepts like advanced science and technology, space exploration, time travel, parallel universes, and extraterrestrial life. It’s been called the "literature of ideas," because the genre explores the potential consequences of scientific, social, and technological innovations.

Hard science fiction focuses on scientific accuracy and technical detail. It emphasizes the importance of scientific laws and principles, often weaving them intricately into the plot. Arthur C. Clarke's "The Sentinel" (1951) is an excellent example.

Like so many prose, Clarke’s short story was the foundation for Stanley Kubrick's iconic film, "2001: A Space Odyssey."

Clarke dives into many profound themes. From human evolution to interstellar travel, the narrative explores the idea of futuristic starships, artificial intelligence, and the possibility of encountering extraterrestrial life forms for the first time.

Hard sci-fi is often prophetic, maybe because of its foundation in reality.

In Clarke’s narrative, HAL serves as the cognitive center of the spaceship Discovery, employing its mechanical, sensory, and informational faculties. HAL, an abbreviation for Heuristically Programmed Algorithmic Computer, embodies the dual principles of "heuristic" and "algorithmic" intelligence, components of its operational framework.

Two types of thinking influence HAL and AI in the real world: quick and based on intuition (heuristic) and the other is more deliberate and logical (systematic). Both ways of thinking influence the way AI and humans interact.

HAL is highly intelligent and capable of making autonomous decisions. However, as the story progresses, its actions become increasingly erratic and dangerous. It also foreshadows something that is happening with AI today called AI hallucinations.

EEEK!

As tensions escalate, HAL's descent into malfunction and paranoia is a cautionary tale about the potential dangers of relying too heavily on artificial intelligence and the importance of using good judgement and being intentional when interacting with advanced technology.

Oh, HAL. You’re the OG AI. At least I think so.

Tech Horror (My Personal Favorite)

Tech horror is a subgenre of horror, closely related to hard sci-fi. Clarke’s “The Sentinel” could also fall into this category, which explores the frightening potential of technology and its unintended consequences for humanity.

Tech horror mixes sci-fi with the uncanny, or paranormal. It creates a sense of unease by revealing how the tools designed to improve our lives can instead harm or manipulate us.

This genre examines surveillance, artificial intelligence, the loss of privacy, and the merging of human and machine. It taps into fears of dependency, obsolescence, and the unknown.

My upcoming anthology, Opt-In is a series of tech horror stories, connected by AI sentience. I took inspiration from the Netflix series, “Black Mirror.”

The Ring (2002), Her (2013), Unfriended (2014), and Ex Machina (2015) are a few movies that fall into this category.

Mary Shelley’s novel, “Frankenstein” (1818) is a precursor to tech horror.

“The Circle” by Dave Eggers (2013) is a novel and movie adaptation depicting an all-too-real tech giant’s insidious influence over privacy and personal freedom.

Soft Science Fiction

Soft science fiction mirrors our world, prioritizing societal, cultural, and psychological themes over intricate scientific or technological details. These narratives often unfold in worlds with advanced technology or futuristic societies. They dissect identifiable human experiences and dilemmas.

Rather than fixating on scientific advancements, soft science fiction conceives the complexities of society, culture, and the human psyche. The plot illustrates issues deeply relevant to the human condition.

In soft science fiction, well-developed characters and their relationships take center stage. The characters’ interactions and personal journeys explore societal, cultural, and psychological themes.

That’s not to say there’s no base in technological exploration in soft sci-fi. Consider how many technological advances, such as the communicator and the holodeck, resemble today’s technology.

Which came first, the science or the fiction?

Cyberpunk

Cyberpunk is a sub-genre that combines high tech with low life, focusing on advanced technology juxtaposed with a breakdown in the social order. Classic examples include William Gibson's "Neuromancer, "Ridley Scott's “Blade Runner,” and Phillip K. Dick's “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?”

The novel “Snow Crash” by Neal Stephenson (1992) popularized the term Metaverse. It’s also considered a satirical and postmodern take on the genre. Unlike the grim and gritty tone often associated with cyberpunk classics like Gibson’s Neuromancer,” Stephenson uses humor, irony, and absurdity in his world-building.

Space Opera

A space opera emphasizes dramatic, romantic, and often heroic themes. It’s set mainly or entirely in outer space and usually involves conflict between opponents possessing advanced technologies and abilities. Famous examples are the "Star Wars" series and “Serenity,” a spin-off of the show “Firefly.”

Time Travel

This sub-genre involves stories in which characters travel to the past or the future. Time travel stories pose questions about the nature of reality and the fabric of the universe. They invite us to ponder the mysteries of existence and consider the myriad possibilities that lie beyond the confines of our present moment. H.G. Wells' "The Time Machine" is a pioneering work in this category.

Time travel narratives do more than transport us through history. They present us with mind-bending paradoxes that force us to reconsider the nature of fate and the consequences of our actions.

Multiverse and Alternate History

Besides traversing through time, these stories often explore the concept of multiple realities existing simultaneously, each with its own rules and possibilities.

Characters may confront alternate versions of themselves or encountering divergent timelines. Philip K. Dick's "The Man in the High Castle" offers an exploration of the multiverse concept.

The setting is an alternate World War II history where the Axis powers (Germany, Italy, and Japan) won and divided the US between Imperial Japan and Nazi Germany. In this reality, the characters grapple with the implications of living in a world where the Allies lost the war.

Beneath this grim reality lies a more profound mystery: the existence of a novel titled "The Grasshopper Lies Heavy," which depicts an alternate history where the Allies emerged victorious. This meta-fictional layer introduces the narrative's concept of parallel universes or alternate timelines.

The characters’ growing awareness of these alternate realities (through the novel-within-a-novel), raises questions reality and the possibility of multiple coexisting timelines.

Throughout the story, Dick explores themes of identity, perception, and the fluidity of reality. The characters grapple with the notion that their world may not be the only one, leading to existential uncertainty and philosophical introspection.

Dystopian, Utopian, Apocalyptic and Post-Apocalyptic

These stories depict a society that is the perfect ideal (utopia) or the extreme opposite (dystopia). They explore the implications of societal norms and structures, often as a critique of current trends. George Orwell's "1984" and Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World” are notable dystopian novels. Huxley also dabbled in Utopia with his last book, “Island.”

Apocalyptic and Post-Apocalyptic narratives deal with the aftermath and the struggle to survive in a radically changed world. It’s the end of civilization, whether through nuclear war, plague, or some other global catastrophe.

I’m sure there are science fiction sub-genres I didn’t cover. Let me know what you think. Why do you love sci-fi? Which sub-genre is your favorite?