I wrote this one at 35,000 feet, in economy, on a China Eastern A350 somewhere over the darkness between Moscow and St. Petersburg on my way to Shanghai. While everyone around me slept, I was thinking about Shanghai — not the Shanghai of now, but the Shanghai of the 1930s, the one that lived mostly in the heads of people who would never go there. That Shanghai was a genre before it was a place. It was where the competent man operated, where the threat was real and exotic and geopolitical, where the woman in the hotel bar was either an asset or a liability and the wise operative knew which before he finished his drink.
That genre still has a name. We call it pulp fiction. Not Tarantino’s — though I’ll note, as a fellow Knoxvillian, that he and I came out of the same city, which may explain a few things about both of us and our relationship to genre and violence. When I say pulp, I mean the thing itself: the wood-pulp magazines, the writers who built narrative machinery inside them, and the machinery that is somehow still running.
A river, not a family tree
The cleanest way to understand a genre is to stop thinking of it as a family tree and start thinking of it as a river system. Multiple tributaries, shared sediment. The water at the mouth is the water of everywhere it’s been.
The globetrotting intelligence thriller — the competent man in foreign terrain, the moral-consequence action narrative — does not begin with Ian Fleming. It begins, for our purposes, with John Buchan and The 39 Steps in 1915: Richard Hannay, a mining engineer who stumbles into a plot, finds a corpse in his flat, and runs for the Scottish countryside chased by police and spies. Buchan gave the form its grammar — the chase, the capable loner, civilization under threat, the landscape as both obstacle and character. His heroes aren’t invulnerable; they’re capable, which is different, because capability admits the possibility of failure, and failure is where stakes and story live.
From Buchan the line forks. In Britain it runs through H.C. McNeile (”Sapper”) and Bulldog Drummond — Hannay with the complexity drained out and the violence cranked up, but he sold, and he set a flavor that would resurface in Fleming with better prose attached. In America it runs through the magazines, especially Adventure, and writers like Talbot Mundy, Harold Lamb, and Arthur O. Friel, who understood the world as a system of places, each with its own history and danger.
That American current is where F. Van Wyck Mason comes in, with Colonel Hugh North — a G-2 officer working a world of embassies, ballrooms, and backstreets. The North novels ran from 1930 to 1977, nearly five decades, which is not a thing formula alone can do. Mason wasn’t original in the flattering sense of that word. He was working squarely inside an established tradition and producing competent, consistent work within it. What he contributed was longevity and reliability — and that, whatever you make of the prose, is craft.
Then Fleming, where the lineage becomes famous, which is both its vindication and its distortion. Fleming read all of these men — Buchan, Sapper, Mundy, Mason, the Mr. Moto novels of John P. Marquand — and synthesized them with three things none of his predecessors had combined: a journalist’s sensory precision (Bond never simply drinks; he drinks a specific thing, prepared a specific way), the Cold War (Buchan’s grammar reloaded with nuclear anxiety, SMERSH and SPECTRE as Fu Manchu scaled up to the hydrogen bomb), and sex handled with a frankness the older tradition had coded or avoided. The components were inherited. The recombination felt new. That’s what good genre synthesis does.
Did Fleming plagiarize? Not exactly, and once — Thunderball, built on material developed with Kevin McClory and Jack Whittingham, a dispute he settled in court and that trailed the franchise for the rest of the century. The rest of his debts aren’t plagiarism. They’re genre. Everyone writing in a tradition is downstream of the tradition. The only question is what you do with the water.
The genre that runs ahead
Which brings me to Tom Clancy, because Amazon just dropped Jack Ryan: Ghost War, John Krasinski back in the role. Clancy’s contribution was technical specificity — where Fleming had luxury brands, Clancy had weapon systems and submarine propulsion and the org chart of the Soviet naval command. The detail was the proof of seriousness.
I used to buy his novels from a newsstand near the Pentagon while I worked at the Navy Annex — the American military-intelligence apparatus as protagonist, sold fifty yards from the actual apparatus, and nobody found it strange. That proximity is the whole point. In Debt of Honor (1994), Clancy put a pilot flying a 747 into the Capitol during a joint session of Congress, killing the president and most of the government and leaving Jack Ryan sworn in inside a CNN studio. Seven years later, Condoleezza Rice told Congress that no one could have imagined terrorists using aircraft as weapons. Clancy imagined it, and sold it to millions.
This is what the tradition does at its best. It runs slightly ahead of reality — not because the writers are prophets, but because they pay attention to systems: how power works, what the failure modes are, what happens when the machinery breaks down. The genre has always been systems thinking dressed as entertainment. That’s not a bug. That’s the engine.
The illustrator’s argument
I keep coming back to my great uncle, John Alan Maxwell, one of the significant commercial illustrators of the mid-20th century. He illustrated Steinbeck, Ferber, Huxley, Conan Doyle, Costain, Yerby, Forester — and Van Wyck Mason. He even appears, as himself, inside The Bucharest Ballerina Murders. He illustrated the first edition of Anthony Adverse, the book that knocked Gone with the Wind off the bestseller list; N.C. Wyeth got the second.
And he moved between all of it without apparently drawing a distinction or giving much of a damn. Steinbeck on one commission, Mason on the next. The pulp/literary divide was enforced not by quality but by venue and price point — hardcover with a dust jacket and a review in the Times was literature; cheap paper was pulp; the same story by the same writer could cross that line depending on where it landed. My great uncle’s forty-year career is one long argument that the distinction was always a distribution question, never an aesthetic one. The craft was the craft.
What “Premium Pulp Fiction” means
I named the imprint deliberately. It’s a provocation and a position: we take the pulp tradition seriously as a tradition. We treat genre as a working tool, not a marketing category. We know where the form comes from, and we publish work that knows it too — noir that remembers its debts, historical fiction that treats the past as lived rather than staged, speculative work that understands systems before it imagines their collapse.
The catalog reflects it. The Southern Civic Noir trilogy — Defiance, The Darkwater Gospel, Bloodwater — knows its debts to noir, to the Southern Gothic, to the grammar of civic corruption that runs from Faulkner through Ellroy. Ghost Emperor, set in Babylon in 323 BCE, treats ancient politics as a system rather than costume drama. And Maksym Van Shamrai’s Science of the Last Hope comes out of the Eastern European science-fiction tradition, displacement literature, philosophical anthropology. It knows where it comes from. That’s the criterion.
Genre fiction was always collaborative in ways literary fiction prefers not to admit — writers, illustrators, and editors working together at speed, each contributing to something none could finish alone, the collaboration carried in the DNA even when one name lands on the cover. That’s the tradition I’m publishing inside, and the lineage I want to carry forward.
Now I’m going to finish this coffee and get on a plane to Melbourne — another city with a story it tells about itself — and think about what gets built when people decide the stories worth telling are the ones that know where they come from.
If you’ve got a manuscript that knows its debts, send it our way. And join the Substack — there’s more coming.
— Douglas Stuart McDaniel, Citizen One: Exploring Our Urban Future
