Writing a Science Fiction Novel

What makes science fiction so powerful? And why do these stories stay with us long after we’ve finished them?

In Episode 103, we explore the minds that helped shape the genre. From early works like New Atlantis and Somnium to the groundbreaking stories of H. G. Wells, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and Philip K. Dick, this episode dives into the ideas, predictions, and strange realities that define science fiction.

Then, for the first time, I share my own journey into the genre—what inspired me, how the story developed, and what it took to bring my first novel to life.

Featuring a live reading from Drawn to the Stars: Book One — The Exchange.

Two planets. Two wars. One connection that could decide everything.

Transcript

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There’s something about science fiction that feels… different.

It doesn’t just tell stories.

It asks questions. Big ones. Dangerous ones.

What happens when machines think?

What happens when humans don’t?

What happens when we go too far… or not far enough?

For centuries, writers have tried to answer those questions.

Some of them predicted the future.

Some of them warned us about it.

And some of them… might have understood it better than we ever will.

Science fiction didn’t start with spaceships.

It started with ideas.

Long before the genre had a name… writers were already imagining new worlds.

In the early 1600s, Francis Bacon imagined a hidden island.

A place called Bensalem.

It wasn’t ruled by kings or armies.

It was ruled by knowledge.

Scientists studied nature.

They experimented.

They pushed boundaries.

Bacon described inventions that didn’t exist yet.

Submarines.

Advanced laboratories.

Artificial environments.

It wasn’t just a story.

It was a vision of a future shaped by science.

And more importantly…

It asked a question we still wrestle with today.

What happens when knowledge becomes power?

Then came something even stranger.

A story about traveling to the moon.

Written in the 1600s.

Johannes Kepler—an astronomer, not a novelist—wrote Somnium.

It follows a dream.

A journey through space.

A view of Earth from the moon.

That alone is incredible.

But what makes it science fiction… Is that Kepler tried to explain how it would work.

Vacuum.

Motion.

Physics.

He blended imagination with real science.

And in doing so…

He helped lay the groundwork for everything that came after.

And then… everything changed.

In 1818, Mary Shelley published Frankenstein.

A story about a man who creates life.

Not with magic.

Not with myth.

But with science.

Electricity.

Experimentation.

Obsession.

It’s often called the first true science fiction novel.

Because it doesn’t just imagine the impossible.

It makes it feel… possible.

And then it asks the question that defines the genre:

Just because we can…

Should we?

We’re talking about the minds that shaped science fiction.

The strange stories behind them.

And for the first time… I’m going to talk about my own.

Welcome to Year 6 of the Curator135 Podcast, my name is Nathan Olli and this is Episode 103 - Writing a Science Fiction Novel.

Science fiction isn’t just about spaceships.

It’s about ideas.

It lives in the gap between what is and what could be.

Sometimes it’s hopeful.

Sometimes it’s terrifying.

Often… it’s both.

And the best science fiction doesn’t just imagine the future.

It reflects the present.

That’s what the writers we’re about to talk about understood better than anyone.

Isaac Asimov didn’t just write science fiction. He built systems.

Worlds that ran on logic. On rules. On consequences.

And maybe that’s because… his own life felt almost mechanical in its output.

He wrote—or edited—over 500 books. Let that sit for a second.

Five hundred.

He also wrote an estimated 90,000 letters and postcards. His personal archives at Boston University take up 464 boxes. That’s not just productivity.

That’s obsession.

Asimov was born in Russia in 1920, but he grew up in Brooklyn. His parents owned a candy store. And inside that store… were pulp magazines.

Cheap. Flashy. Disposable. But for Asimov, they were everything.

He taught himself to read at the age of five. By his teens, he wasn’t just reading science fiction… He was writing it.

At 18, he sold his first story—Marooned Off Vesta. Just a couple years later, he published Nightfall. A story about a world that had never seen darkness… until one night, everything changed.

In 1968, it was voted the greatest science fiction short story ever written. He was still barely getting started.

He went on to earn a Ph.D. in chemistry from Columbia University. A scientist.

A professor. A writer who understood the world at its smallest levels…

And then imagined it at its largest.

But if Asimov is remembered for anything… It’s this.

Three Laws of Robotics: 

1.  A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

1. A robot must obey orders given by humans, except where such orders conflict with the First Law.

1. A robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Simple rules. Clean. Elegant. Logical. And completely flawed. Because Asimov didn’t write stories about robots breaking the rules. He wrote stories about the rules breaking themselves. What happens when two humans are in danger? What happens when obeying an order causes harm indirectly? What happens when a robot interprets “harm” differently than we do?

His I, Robot stories aren’t action stories. They’re puzzles. Philosophical traps.

And every solution creates a new problem.

Then there’s Foundation. A series that might be his most ambitious work.

In it, Asimov created something called psychohistory. A fictional science that could predict the future. Not of individuals… But of entire populations.

Empires rising.

Empires falling.

All reduced to equations.

Probability.

Behavior.

Mass human movement.

It’s cold. Almost unsettling. Because it suggests something dangerous—

That free will might matter less… When you zoom out far enough.

And yet, for someone so focused on logic… Asimov was full of contradictions.

He was afraid of flying. So afraid that he only did it twice in his life.

But at the same time… He was a claustrophile. He loved small, enclosed spaces. Elevators. Tiny rooms. Places most people would avoid.

He was a member of Mensa. A staunch Democrat. A man deeply engaged with the world… But often more comfortable inside his own mind.

And then there’s the part of his story that stayed hidden. For years. Asimov died in 1992. The official cause was heart and kidney failure. But that wasn’t the full truth.

He had contracted HIV from a blood transfusion during heart surgery in 1983.

His family kept it secret for over a decade. Not out of shame… But out of fear of how the world would react.

Asimov didn’t just write science fiction. He wrote everything.

History.

Biology.

Chemistry.

He even wrote a two-volume guide to the Bible—over 1,300 pages long. Explaining it.

Contextualizing it. Making it accessible.

He also loved humor. He wrote collections of limericks. He wrote about why things are funny.

Because to him, understanding something meant taking it apart. Even laughter.

At one point, he realized something. His book The Intelligent Man’s Guide to Science became so successful He no longer needed academia.

So he left. And became a full-time writer.

From that point on… He never really stopped. For nearly 35 years, he wrote a monthly science column. 399 entries. No interruptions. No breaks. Just a steady stream of thought, explaining the universe to anyone willing to listen.

And here’s something strange. For someone known for science fiction he avoided aliens. Almost entirely.

Early in his career, he wrote a story where aliens were superior to humans. It was rejected and that stuck with him. So instead of making aliens weaker…

He removed them completely. Until later. When critics started to notice.

They said his work lacked emotion. Lacked sex. Lacked humanity. So he responded with a book called The Gods Themselves. It had all of it. Aliens. Sex. Even alien sex.

And he considered it one of the best things he ever wrote.

Asimov didn’t just influence science fiction, he helped define how we think about the future.

The word “robotics”? He coined it. The ethical framework for artificial intelligence? Still rooted in his ideas. There’s even an asteroid named after him.

5020 Asimov.

And Honda’s humanoid robot? ASIMO. A direct nod.

And maybe the most telling thing he ever said was this, he didn’t want to be remembered for one book or even many books. He wanted to be remembered for the totality of his work. The quantity. The quality. The range.

Because he believed that no one else could replicate it.

Asimov gave science fiction structure. Rules. Logic. Systems. But the next writer tore all of that apart. And asked a much more unsettling question. What if none of this is real?

If Isaac Asimov built systems, Philip K. Dick tore them apart. He wasn’t interested in clean rules or predictable outcomes. He was interested in what happens when reality itself starts to slip. When nothing can be trusted—not your memories, not your surroundings, not even your own mind.

Philip K. Dick was born in 1928 in Chicago, but his life unfolded in California, where he spent most of his years writing, struggling, and trying to make sense of a world that often didn’t feel real to him. Over the course of his career, he wrote more than thirty novels and multiple short story collections, though his output came in waves. Periods of intense creativity were often followed by deep personal struggles, shaped by addiction, failed relationships, and an ever-present sense of paranoia.

That instability wasn’t separate from his work—it was his work. His stories feel fractured because, in many ways, he felt fractured. And that fracture may have started at the very beginning of his life. Dick was born with a twin sister, Jane, who died just forty-one days later. It’s a detail that echoes through nearly everything he wrote. His stories are filled with doubles, split identities, and people who feel like they’re only half of themselves, as if something—or someone—is missing.

That sense of incompleteness fed into his obsession with reality. Dick didn’t just explore the idea that reality might be false—he believed it might be. In 1974, after a routine dental surgery, he had an experience that would change him permanently. A delivery woman arrived at his home wearing a necklace with a fish symbol, an early Christian sign. As he looked at it, he claimed he was struck by a blinding pink light—not physically, but mentally. He described it as an intelligence, something alive, something vast. He later gave it a name: VALIS—the Vast Active Living Intelligence System.

After that moment, Dick became convinced that he was living in two realities at once. One was his everyday life in 1970s California. The other, he believed, was first-century Rome. He began to see déjà vu not as a coincidence, but as evidence—a glitch in a programmed reality. A brief moment where the illusion broke just enough to reveal something underneath.

And then there are the moments that make you pause. At one point, Dick called a doctor and insisted that his infant son had an undiagnosed inguinal hernia. The doctors initially dismissed the concern, but after Dick pushed, they examined the child more closely—and found it exactly where he said it would be. It’s one of those stories that sits right on the edge. You can explain it… but you can’t fully dismiss it either.

His paranoia extended far beyond personal experiences. Dick believed he was being watched. He suspected that his home had been broken into by the FBI or by what he called “commie spies.” He even accused fellow author Stanisław Lem of being a fabricated identity, possibly part of a larger political or intelligence operation. In his mind, his work wasn’t just fiction—it was brushing up against something real, something that others might want to control or monitor.

There’s a strange, almost symbolic story from his life that captures everything about him. At one point, he became obsessed with his stereo system, convinced that one of the speakers was malfunctioning. The sound felt off, distorted, wrong. After investigating, he discovered the truth—the speaker wasn’t broken. He was going deaf in one ear. It’s the kind of moment that feels almost too perfect. Reality wasn’t failing him. His perception of it was.

To keep up with his writing, Dick used amphetamines for years. At first, they helped him produce more work, faster. But over time, they fed into the paranoia, the instability, and the increasingly blurred line between what was real and what wasn’t. And yet, from that chaos came some of the most influential science fiction ever written.

His stories don’t offer answers. They take them away. In Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, he asks what it really means to be human. Is it memory? Emotion? Empathy? Or is it simply the belief that you are human? In The Man in the High Castle, he imagines a world where history took a different path, forcing readers to question how much of reality is shaped by circumstance. In A Scanner Darkly, identity itself begins to dissolve under the pressure of surveillance and addiction.

Dick once said that the job of a science fiction writer is not to create one universe, but many. And that’s exactly what he did. His work constantly shifts beneath your feet, forcing you to question not just the story, but your own understanding of reality.

The event he referred to as “2-3-74”—that moment with the pink light—marked a turning point in his life and writing. After that, his work became more philosophical, more introspective, and more entangled with his personal experiences. The VALIS Trilogy blurred the line between fiction and autobiography so completely that it’s often hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Philip K. Dick died in 1982, before many of his works reached mainstream audiences. He never saw the full impact of what he created. But today, his ideas are everywhere. Artificial intelligence, simulated realities, surveillance, corporate control—these aren’t just science fiction concepts anymore. They’re part of our everyday lives.

Asimov gave us structure. Rules. Systems.

Philip K. Dick showed us how fragile those systems really are.

If Philip K. Dick questioned reality…

Arthur C. Clarke expanded it.

He didn’t just wonder what the future might look like.

He mapped it.

Arthur C. Clarke was born in 1917 in Minehead, England, and from a young age, he was already looking up. As a child, he built his own telescopes, scanning the night sky and teaching himself the language of the stars. While other kids were grounded in the world around them, Clarke was already thinking beyond it—beyond Earth, beyond atmosphere, beyond anything humanity had yet touched.

That fascination followed him into adulthood. During World War II, Clarke served in the Royal Air Force as a radar technician and instructor. Radar was cutting-edge technology at the time—an invisible system that could detect objects at a distance. It’s hard not to see the connection. Even then, Clarke was working with ideas that extended human perception beyond its natural limits.

After the war, he studied physics and mathematics at King’s College London, grounding his imagination in real science. But Clarke wasn’t just a thinker—he was a visionary. And in 1945, he published an idea that would quietly change the world.

In a paper titled Extra-Terrestrial Relays, Clarke described a network of satellites orbiting Earth at a precise altitude—about 22,000 miles above the surface. From that position, they would remain fixed over one spot, relaying signals across the globe. Television. Communication. Instant connection.

At the time, it sounded like science fiction.

Today, it’s reality.

That orbital band is now known as the Clarke Orbit.

Clarke had a rare ability to see the future clearly—not in vague terms, but in specifics. He predicted home computers, global communication networks, video calls, and wearable technology long before they existed. Not perfectly—he famously thought humans would reach Mars by the 1990s—but close enough that it’s hard not to take notice.

But unlike some science fiction writers, Clarke didn’t dwell on dystopia. His work feels… different. Larger. More patient. Less concerned with fear, and more concerned with possibility.

That sense of wonder is at the heart of his most famous work: 2001: A Space Odyssey.

The story began as a short piece called The Sentinel, written in 1948. Years later, Clarke would collaborate with filmmaker Stanley Kubrick to turn it into something much bigger. Unusually, Clarke wrote the novel and the screenplay at the same time, allowing both versions to evolve together.

The result was something unlike anything that had come before it.

A story about humanity.

About intelligence.

About something… beyond us.

In 1969, Clarke and Kubrick won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay. But more importantly, 2001 became a defining piece of science fiction—quiet, mysterious, and deeply unsettling in its scale.

Clarke’s other works carried that same sense of vastness.

In Childhood’s End, humanity evolves into something unrecognizable.

In Rendezvous with Rama, explorers encounter an alien object that doesn’t care about them at all—it simply exists, massive and indifferent.

In The Fountains of Paradise, he explores the concept of a space elevator—another idea that still lingers on the edge of possibility.

But Clarke’s life wasn’t just spent looking up.

In 1956, he moved to Ceylon—modern-day Sri Lanka—and stayed there for the rest of his life.

Because while he was fascinated by space…

He was just as fascinated by what lay beneath the ocean.

Clarke became an avid scuba diver.

In his first year there, he helped discover the submerged ruins of the ancient Koneswaram temple—over 2,000 years old.

He went on to write books about diving.

He even opened a diving school.

And even later in life, confined to a wheelchair, he continued to participate in smaller dives whenever he could.

It’s a strange, beautiful contrast.

A man known for exploring the stars…

Also exploring the depths of the Earth.

Clarke received nearly every major honor in science fiction.

Hugo Awards.

Nebula Awards.

The title of Grand Master.

He was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame.

He received the UNESCO Kalinga Prize for popularizing science.

A Marconi Fellowship for his contributions to engineering.

And in 2000, he was knighted.

But perhaps his most lasting legacy isn’t a single story.

It’s a way of thinking.

Clarke believed that the universe was far bigger than we understood…

And that humanity was still in its infancy.

He once wrote:

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

And in many ways…

That’s what his work feels like.

Not fantasy.

But something just beyond our current understanding.

Asimov gave us logic.

Dick gave us doubt.

Clarke gave us perspective.

But the next writer…

Was there before all of them.

And his stories didn’t just imagine the future—

They terrified people into believing it had already arrived.

Before Asimov built systems…

Before Dick questioned reality…

Before Clarke mapped the stars…

There was H. G. Wells.

And he didn’t just imagine the future.

He made people fear it.

Herbert George Wells was born in 1866 in Kent, England, into a lower-middle-class family. His early life wasn’t particularly remarkable—at least not at first. But one moment changed everything. As a child, he broke his leg and was confined to bed for weeks. To pass the time, he read. Constantly. Books from the local library, stories from every genre, ideas from every corner of the world. That period of stillness became the beginning of something much bigger. It didn’t just entertain him—it reshaped him.

That love of learning carried him into science. Wells earned a scholarship to the Normal School of Science, where he studied biology under Thomas Henry Huxley, one of the most influential scientific thinkers of the time. That education gave Wells something most writers didn’t have—a deep understanding of how life works. And more importantly, how it could be changed.

Wells would go on to become one of the most prolific writers of his era, publishing dozens of novels, short stories, and works of non-fiction. At his peak, he was producing roughly three books a year. His range was enormous. He wrote science fiction, social commentary, history, and even humor. In fact, his best-selling work during his lifetime wasn’t science fiction at all—it was The Outline of History, a sweeping account of human civilization.

But it’s his “scientific romances”—what we now call science fiction—that changed everything.

In 1895, Wells published The Time Machine.

And with it, he didn’t just tell a story.

He gave the world a concept.

A machine that could move through time.

He was the first to truly define it.

To give it structure.

Language.

Possibility.

Then came The Island of Doctor Moreau.

A story about experimentation.

About reshaping life itself.

About what happens when science ignores morality.

Then The Invisible Man.

A man who achieves the impossible—

And loses himself in the process.

And then The War of the Worlds.

An alien invasion story so vivid, so grounded, that decades later, when it was adapted into a radio broadcast, people believed it was real.

They panicked.

Because Wells understood something essential.

The most terrifying stories…

Don’t feel like fiction.

They feel like warnings.

Wells didn’t just write about the future.

He predicted it.

In his works and essays, he described aerial warfare, tanks, chemical weapons, and even something he called the “atomic bomb”—decades before it existed. His ideas didn’t just stay on the page. They inspired real scientists. Real engineers. Real discoveries.

Physicist Leo Szilard, one of the minds behind the atomic bomb, later said that Wells’s writing helped him understand what such a weapon could mean. That’s the kind of influence Wells had. His fiction didn’t just imagine possibilities—it pushed people toward them.

He also imagined something else.

A global network of shared knowledge.

A “world brain.”

A system where information could be stored, updated, and accessed by anyone.

Today, we call it the internet.

Or maybe… Wikipedia.

Wells was a vocal socialist and a member of the Fabian Society, though he often clashed with them. His ideas were bigger. More ambitious. He believed in the possibility of a global world state—a unified humanity guided by reason and shared knowledge. He advocated for human rights, helped influence early frameworks that would later shape the United Nations, and spent much of his life trying to push society toward something better.

But like many great thinkers…

His personal life was complicated.

Messy.

Filled with contradictions.

He had numerous affairs, including relationships with prominent women, and lived much of his life apart from his second wife. His personal world was as turbulent as the futures he imagined.

And yet, despite everything—

The controversy.

The ambition.

The scale of his ideas—

He was never fully recognized in his lifetime.

He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature four times.

He never won.

Still… his influence is undeniable.

He’s often called the “Father of Science Fiction.”

Not because he was the first to imagine the impossible—

But because he made it feel real.

Structured. Inevitable.

Wells had a unique ability. He would take one extraordinary idea—

Time travel.

Invisibility.

Alien invasion.

And place it inside an ordinary world. With ordinary people. And then he would let it unfold. Naturally. Logically. Terrifyingly.

Wells planted the seeds.

Asimov gave them structure.

Clarke expanded them.

Dick questioned them.

I don’t think anyone sets out to write science fiction overnight. It kind of… builds. Slowly.

A book you read. A movie that sticks with you. An idea that won’t go away. At first, you don’t even realize what’s happening. You’re just asking questions.

“What if?” “What would that look like?” “What happens next?”

And then one day… You’re not just reading those questions anymore.

You’re trying to answer them.

I began writing ‘Drawn to the Stars’ years ago. It began with the simple idea of what good kids could do if given the opportunity. There were a pair of middle schoolers at my school who were just nice humans. Two kids I knew were going to make something great out of their lives. From there, I drew inspiration from my love of Sci-fi, horror, the band, Radiohead, and my interest in any book or movie involving survival after the end of the world. By the time I was done, and after generous friends, and a patient father, edited the book for me, my ideas came to life. Then, I do that thing I do, where I get down on myself, tell myself that no one will like it, latch on to a new idea and forget about it. 

But recently, I’ve watched a good friend along with a couple of co-workers, self publish, and I decided it was time. You have to risk it to get the biscuit. And by the time you’re hearing this episode, I have self published the book and put it out for the world (or 20 close friends and family) to read. I hope they’re nice and tell me it’s great even if they stop reading after a dozen pages.  

The story goes like this…

There’s a moment… Right before everything changes. Where the world still feels normal. Where people are going about their lives…

Not realizing they’re standing at the edge of something much bigger. For humanity that moment comes just before a third world war.

Tensions rising. Lines being drawn. The kind of pressure that feels like it’s about to break. And then… Something appears in the sky.

Not a signal. Not a rumor. Something real. A massive alien ship.

Silent. Watching. It had been there longer than anyone realized.

Observing. Waiting.

And when it finally reveals itself the message is simple, humanity has been chosen.

What follows isn’t panic. Not immediately. It’s something stranger. An agreement.

A decision is made. Not to fight. But to connect. A student exchange between worlds.

Two students from Earth… Sent across the stars. To a planet called Majdoor.

That’s where we meet Elle Varris and Gabe Bridges.

They leave everything behind, their homes, their families, their understanding of what’s possible. And step into something completely unknown. Because Majdoor isn’t just another world. It’s ancient. Layered. Full of things that don’t quite make sense…

Even to the people who live there. At first, it feels like discovery. Like wonder. Like the beginning of something hopeful. But that feeling doesn’t last. Because the mission isn’t what it seems. By the time they arrive, Majdoor is already unraveling.

War is spreading.

Alliances are breaking.

And something—

Something deeper—

Is moving beneath the surface.

And back on Earth, things are starting to change too.

Now, separated by light-years Elle and Gabe are pulled into conflicts they don’t fully understand. Forces they weren’t meant to face. And a connection that might be the only thing holding everything together. Two planets. Two wars. And one fragile thread…

That could decide the fate of both.

And this is where I want to bring you into that world…

Just for a few minutes.

This is a slightly shortened excerpt from Drawn to the Stars: Book One: The Exchange, adapted for audio.

Minutes later, the music cut out and a chime played from the speakers.

Elle glanced at her touchscreen. A Majdoorian stood outside their elevator.

She pressed the talk button.

“Come on up. We’re on the second floor.”

Gabe licked his lips.

“Good thing too… all that virtual dying got me hungry.”

The elevator hummed quietly.

But when the doors opened…

It wasn’t a delivery worker.

It was Ulrika.

The Council member stood there, balancing a tray of food in one hand.

She forced a smile.

“I wanted to check on you both,” she said softly.

“And… share some news.”

Her smile faded.

“Some very sad news.”

They sat.

Gabe stared at the food.

Hungry.

Trying to be polite.

Ulrika began.

She told them about Kabarn.

How he collapsed.

How he died.

Live.

On television.

She told them no one knew if it was murder.

But it didn’t matter.

Humans panicked.

Gabe asked to see the footage.

He regretted it immediately.

“Oh my God…”

His voice cracked.

“I’m so sorry…”

Ulrika continued.

Nuclear weapons had been launched.

First by enemies of the United States.

Then…

By the United States.

France.

The United Kingdom.

Thousands.

Elle ran to the bathroom.

They heard her vomiting.

When she came back…

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Ulrika said it.

“The firing has stopped… but as far as we can tell…”

She hesitated.

“…your planet is in complete technological darkness.”

“Our families?” Gabe asked.

Ulrika shook her head.

“We don’t know.”

She looked at them.

Carefully.

“Initial scans show… a population drop of nearly seventy percent… in your country alone.”

Silence.

“Is this a joke?” Gabe snapped.

He stood up.

Looking around the room.

“Are we on some kind of Majdoorian prank show?”

He raised his arms.

“Hello Majdoor! You got us! The joke’s on us!”

Ulrika didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

“I wish that were the case…”

That was a small piece of Drawn to the Stars: The Exchange.

And where that moment leads…

Is something much bigger.

If you’re wondering what happens next…

If you want to see what becomes of Elle…

Of Gabe…

Of Earth…

And what’s really waiting on Majdoor…

You can step into that world right now.

Drawn to the Stars: Book One — The Exchange available on Amazon.com 

That’s… just a small piece of Drawn to the Stars: The Exchange.

When I started this episode, we talked about writers like H. G. Wells, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and Philip K. Dick.

People who imagined things that didn’t exist yet.

Worlds no one had seen.

Ideas that, at the time… probably sounded impossible.

But they wrote them anyway.

And over time… those ideas spread.

They shaped how we think.

How we see the future.

Even how we live.

And I think that’s the point of all of this.

If you have an idea…

A story…

A world sitting in your head…

It matters.

Because you never really know where it might go.

Or who it might reach.

This book…

This story…

Is my attempt to do the same thing.

To take something that didn’t exist…

And put it out into the world.

So if you’d like to see where Elle and Gabe’s story goes…

Drawn to the Stars: Book One — The Exchange

Is available now.

And if you do check it out…

I truly hope you enjoy the journey.

Now that the book is released, I’ll have photos of characters, planets and more available on the website soon. Curator135.com

If you enjoy this podcast and want to be a bigger part of it, consider becoming a patron. Head to patreon.com/curator135 and join Dave, David, Jim, Marie, Laura, Vicki, Chris, Lori, and our newest Patron, Ross. Welcome Ross! He’s an author and maybe we’ll get to talk to him soon. There are three tiers of support or you can name your own donation. Thank you patrons, I couldn’t do this without you. 

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