Cat Rambo's Blog, page 41

Finishing a Novel

Today I finished Hearts of Tabat. Sure, I’ll go back and do some smoothing before sending it off to beta readers on Monday, but the book is done, the scenes are there, and (roughly) in the order they should be. The last scene took a lot of circling — I went out and walked five miles, came back, poked at it, went into the other room and made some notes, came back and kept pecking away.

I felt resistant to getting that last scene down on paper — I know that after a year and half with this book I am simultaneously exultant that it is, finally, done and sense has been wrestled from the seething mass of incoherence, and at the same time reluctant to let go of what has occupied a substantial part of my head for quite some time.

It’s an odd floaty but incomplete feeling. I feel as though I’m not sure what I should be doing, and a little anxious yet jubilant. There is a certain fear that beta readers will get something and go, “this is not a book”. Particularly when I’m trying something a bit adventurous with the structure, which I’ll save talk of for another time. I think they’ll like it; it’s as rich in Tabatian flavor as the first book and considerably more things happen in this one, to address the main criticism of that first.

Since I haven’t posted any stories on Patreon this month, I put up the first three chapters, but only for patrons. I figure they make the writing of the novels possible by supporting the stories. If you’re a patron, I look forward to hearing what you think.

I know that I need to read through the draft at least once and make sure all the names are correct; they shifted around a lot during the writing and most of the characters have gone through at least two permutations (Ariadne/Adelina, Skilto/Sebastiano, Crocofissia/Serafina) as have some of the surnames. There’s also some scraps of notes I’ve jotted down: loose ends to tuck into the narrative here and there.

But it feels as though there are a lot fewer redundant passages in Hearts than in Beasts, mainly because this manuscript hasn’t, like its poor counterpart, had multiple editors and agents leave their mark on it.

I’m also reassured that being SFWA President will not destroy my career; I wasn’t sure I would be able to finish a book while in office, but here you go. I promised Wayne if I didn’t get two done this year I wouldn’t run again; now I’m halfway.

At seven, I’ve got a Mandarin lesson via Skype, but I’d rather play Fallout. However, I will be good, and make poor Grace listen to my vowels and exhort me to “practiss, more practiss” before I will go indulge. Tomorrow I will plunge in the other big project due at the end of the month and frantically plow through that, but for the rest of the night, I get to play video games and not feel a gram of guilt for doing so.

May is for getting the YA novel finished; it’s currently about half written. I finally figured out the title, which is Conflagration.

How I Use Instagram

My instagram features household cats Raven and Taco plus downstairs restaurant cat Maggie. This is Taco.

Still working frantically on the update for the Creating an Online Presence for Writers book, plus prepping for this weekend’s online class. One big change since the last version is Instagram‘s rocket upward in popularity. Here in 2016, it is the number two social media network in number of users, second only after Facebook.

It lets you post pictures, often with some sort of caption, and see what other people are posting. Unlike Facebook, it doesn’t play fast and loose with what you see, but gives you a stream composed of everyone you’re following.

Instagram features a number of filters as well as some basic editing tools that can be applied to uploaded photos. You can add extra filters with the 100 Cameras in 1 app or if you would like to edit the image extensively, try Pixlr-o-matic (http://pixlr.com/).

Random thrift store objects make great Instagram pictures.

For me, the two major advantages to Instagram are that a) it’s accessible via my cell phone, which I have with me far more often than my computer, plus b ) it connects with several other social networks, so I can grab a picture at an event, post it to Instagram, and have it autopost in turn to Facebook and Twitter. Similarly, I use it in the kitchen or at restaurant to snap pictures of food.

What do I post overall? Here’s a breakdown of the last 100 Instagram photos on my stream. Only five categories (event, books, and writing process photos) might be considered promotional; you’ll note those pictures occur roughly one in five times; even there, none of them directly sell a book, just mention it, and many are focused on other people and/or their work.

things that amused or delighted me: 17
food I’ve cooked: 12
the cats: 10
miscellaneous travel photos: 7
miscellaneous household photos: 7
miscellaneous event photos: 6
books: 5
my writing process: 5
birds: 4
flowers: 3
photos from the cat calendar Aunt Nona gave us for Christmas with sundry amusing handwritten additions: 3
refrigerator poems: 3
restaurant food: 3
sunsets: 3
clouds: 2
dioramas constructed of household objects: 2
my shoes: 2
rainbows: 2
the foam on top of my latte, hashtagged #seattle: 2
photos of friends/family: 2
other people at events: 1
selfies with people at events: 1
selfies: 1
things that creeped me out: 1
holiday collage: 1

For Writers: How to Blog Without Really Trying But Still Managing Not to Be Half-Assed About It

This cat isn’t blogging. Should they be?

I’m teaching my Creating an Online Presence Class this weekend and also going through a madcap rush to update the accompanying book. The class and book are aimed at helping people tame the bewildering timesink of social media, website, pocasts, search engines, and other facets of online existence for writers. One of the things I try to teach how to use online time efficiently, because writing and editing time is precious and time spent doing other things is time you’re not writing or editing. So here’s some things about blogging.

Is A Blog Mandatory?

No. But it’s advisable. You do want readers to be able to find you online and, more importantly, to find your work. You do want a website (and a mailing list, but that’s another post), but your website can be a static presence, something you put up and don’t update very often. In fact, if you have very minimal time to invest or otherwise want to limit your online presence to the bare bones, don’t include a blog. Few things look sadder than a blog with a single entry from five years ago, usually about trying to make oneself blog.

Something You Can Always Blog About

One reason to blog on your website is that it means the website is being updated frequently, which makes the site more likely to turn up on search engine results. So here’s two ways you can generate a weekly post. The first depends on having a social media presence; the second does not.

Social Media version: If you’re posting links and observations on social media, you can collect the best of those into a post. They don’t have to be related to writing; you’re allowed to have other interests. Five to ten links with one or two sentence explanations as to why you picked them. There you go. Shazam, you have a post.
Non Social Media version: Every week, pick an interesting chunk (I suggest 300-700 words) from what you’ve worked on the past week and post it.

Your own writing is something you can speak about with authority. Pull out a passage that you’re particularly proud of, or that you definitely want input on. Pick an interesting moment or intriguing scene.

If you want to be thorough with that second approach, you can place it in context for readers. Here’s some possible questions to answer.

What is the project, the genre, the inspiration?
Are those the final character/setting names or placeholders?
What’s the title and how does it relate to the story?
What’s the setting based on? What are you trying to accomplish in this bit?
What are you particularly fond of?
What do you definitely plan to go back and fix in the revision?
What aren’t you sure about?
What do you intend to do with the piece when you finish?
What would you compare the piece to, either in your own work or that of others?
What do you want readers to get out of the piece?

Certainly there are ways to get the most bang for the effort out of these posts: include an image, have a good tagging system, make the most of keywords. But those are advanced techniques, and unnecessary to this basic effort.

If You Only Hate Writing about Writing

As I mentioned above, you do not have to blog about writing. In fact, the world is full of posts about avoiding adverbs, and you probably do not have anything to say on the subject that has not already been said. So blog about something else.

Blog about your adventures in learning how to pickle vegetables or speak Mandarin. Document some longterm project like your garden remodel or the bookstore your partner is opening. In a pinch, you can always fall back on writing about the books you’re reading. The most interesting and effective blogs out there don’t just show you the writer’s writing, but something about them as a person.

Always Be Closing is NOT a Good Axiom for Writers

While all writers need to think about how to help readers find their work, if they are too pushy about forcing them to it, those readers will balk and go no further. Don’t make your website all about sell sell sell. Don’t make it your social media focus nor what you blog about over and over again. You will be wasting your time and driving away fans.

That’s why showing readers scraps from your writing is effective. You are giving them something that is (hopefully) genuinely interesting here and now. If they like it, they may look for it later on when it comes out. Let your writing and its quality do the work of selling for you and don’t worry about the set of steak knives. Just write.

Was this writing advice useful? Subscribe to my mailing list for more tips and market news as well as information about my online writing classes and a monthly giveaway.

#sfwapro

This Weekend’s Classes: Beginnings & Endings (Saturday) and Character Building Workshop (Sunday)

Taken at last year’s con, but I don’t know the gentleman’s name, unfortunately.

I’ve still got room in this weekend’s classes, Beginnings & Endings (Saturday morning) and the Character Building workshop (Sunday morning). In the first, I’m going to talk about a number of things, including how to use your beginning to create your ending and vice versa, what your beginning sets up for your reader, what your beginning and ending must contain, how to most effectively use title + beginning + ending, and various other tips and tricks. There will be 3-4 quick writing exercises over the course of the class designed to help you apply what we’re talking about in order to effectively add it to your writerly toolbox.

The Character Building Workshop is familiar to some of you, and I always love teaching it because I come away with at least a couple of wordlumps that end up being part of the current WIP as well as better insight into the characters I’m working with. Come join us if you want a little inspiration for your current project.

Register by mailing me at catrambo@gmail.com or cat@catrambo.com with the name and date of the class you’re interested in. And please feel free to pass this newsletter along to friends and fellow writers you think might be interested!

April Classes

April 16 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Beginnings and Endings

April 17 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Character Building Workshop

April 23 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Creating an Online Presence for Writers

April 24 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Description and Delivering Information

April 30 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Flash Fiction Workshop

May Classes

May 1 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) First Pages with Caren Gussoff

May 14, (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Moving from Idea to Finished Draft

May 15 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Literary Techniques for Genre Writers

May 21 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Retelling and Retaleing with Rachel Swirsky

May 22 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Literary Techniques for Genre Writers II

June Classes

June 3 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Writing Your Way Into Your Novel

June 4 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Moving from Idea to Finished Draft

#sfwapro

Answers to Some Galaktika Magazine Questions

I’ve been following the controversy with Galaktika with particular interest because there are a number of SFWA members involved. My thanks to A. G. Carpenter for graciously sharing what they found out. In the process of talking to people, I dropped Istvan Burger a mail because I had these questions:

Would all writers be paid, preferably without their having to contact Galaktika?
Would all translators be paid? (my understanding was that the same lack of payment has happened with them.)
For any online stories, would authors be able to request that the story be taken down?
Would a process be put in place to ensure this never happens again?

Here’s the reply:

Dear Cat,

I’m writing on behalf of Istvan Burger, editor in chief of Galaktika.

We’d like to ask authors to contact us directly to agree on compensation methods. You can give my email address to the members. mund.katalin@gmail.com

The short stories were published in a monthly magazine, which was sold for two months, so these prints are not available any more. So Authors don’t need to withdraw their works. As we wrote in our statement, there is no problem with novels, as all the rights of novels were paid by us in time.

Also let me emphasise again that all the translators were paid all the time!

You can quote my reply. Thank you for your help!

Best regards,

Katalin Mund,

Manager of Galaktika Magazine

Next week SFWA will be sending Galaktika a list of affected SFWA members who need to be compensated. If you’re a member whose work was published in Galaktika and want to make sure you’re on the list, please drop me an e-mail, message me, or leave a comment here.

Later addendum: I requested clarification about the magazine not being available for longer than two months since there seem to be digital editions for sale on the website, which would seem to contradict that statement. I was told that authors will be able to withdraw their stories from the electronic editions if they so desire.

Patreon Post: Web of Blood and Iron

This is the short story that I read from at Norwescon this year; many thank yous to the people who turned out to listen on the last day of the con when many of us were tired and hungover and ready to go home and gorge on Easter candy.

This is part of the Altered America steampunk series, even though it takes place on the European continent. If you’re curious about the others in the series they fall in this chronological order:

Clockwork Fairies

Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, Where Do You Wander?

Her Windowed Eyes, Her Chambered Heart

Snakes on a Train

Rappacini’s Crow

Rare Pears and Greengages (contained in Eyes Like Sky and Coal and Moonlight)

There will be more; I’m finishing up another Artemus and Elspeth story, this time set in Matamoros, Mexico, which should go up next month. I’m also collecting these in an ebook that will go out free to Patreon subscribers within the next two months.

As always, I’m releasing this for free due to the support of my Patreon followers; please check out Patreon if you want to help fund creators doing what they (and you) love best.

So here you are:

Web of Blood and Iron

The Hotel Gevaudan put manservants and maids up in their own rooms, one attic below the hotel staff: housekeepers, valets, clerks, kitchen help. The manager lived on-site as well, his family taking up half the floor below that. I’d heard his children more than once playing blind man’s bluff and squeak piggy squeak in the back stairwells.

I wouldn’t have minded a room to myself, but instead I had a cot in his Lordship’s suite, down on the third floor. I was lying there enjoying the Cannes sounds of birds and street bustle and funeral rumble of the trains and reading when I heard the door fumbled open and Lord Albert lurch in.

Alive for another day.

I was up quick, and went in to help him off with his tuxedo, ripe with boozy sweat and cigar smoke and the hyacinth scent the siren whores wear. He was so drunk I was surprised he’d made it home at all, that none of the vampire gamblers had decided to take him home as a nightcap instead of selecting a whore.

He chattered away as I sponged his forehead. He always slept nude. Every lycanthrope I’d served – and I’ve served six so far of his Lordship’s family, the deVulfs – has shared that trait.

“Made enough to keep us here another week,” he said with a grin.

I doubted that, given the size of his weekly liquor tab. I took care of his bills as well, so his ideas of money were usually far off the mark. But his father would supplement that well enough that we could stay.

His cleaning bill was as large as my wages, and I’m better paid than most. The Yorkshire coalmines make the De Vulffs a lot of money.

The question was not how long he could stay. Rather, it was how much longer till one of the vampires discovered his ruse?

I decided to save that for a later argument, when he would be soberer.

Stubble sprouted on his chin a mere hour after each time I’d shaved him with the bone and steel razor so I didn’t bother now to do more than wipe his face. He could go to sleep shaggy and untroubled, smelling only of wolf.

We gnomes have senses almost as acute as theirs. It’s one way we read the earth: metal tang and mineral salts, loam and chalk and bland sandstone.

He fingered his forearm, the silver charm soldered to an iron band, sliding it down to dangle loose around his wrist, then laying it on the end table.

“You still want to leave, don’t you?” he asked me, voice harsh.

“I think it would be wisest, sir,” I said without looking at him. “We could drive up along the coast, swing through Paris, then Calais. We’d be at your club for dinner and some good mutton.”

He huffed amusement. “Appealing to my animal appetites.”

“Appealing to your common sense,” I said, this time meeting his eyes.

They shifted from brandied amusement to muted chocolate. “Not until I know what happened to Marguerite.”

“She wouldn’t have wanted you to endanger yourself.”

He turned away, fists bunched at his sides. “I know those bastards can tell me what happened to her. Whether she’s alive. My father still has enough influence that they listen to me.”

Perhaps. But I didn’t say that aloud. While the vampires held social ascendancy right now, they hadn’t always. At one point they’d reckoned the werewolves’ opinions into their choices. But I didn’t think his title would prevent them from tearing his throat out if – perhaps just when – they discovered he’d been cheating for two weeks now. The charm’s silver burned at him, but it would ward off any vampire’s touch. But that was a flimsy defense – if it happened to slide out from beneath his cuff, any vampire catching sight of it would know it for the luck-cheat it was.

He padded over to his bed and collapsed on it, sprawling on his stomach.

I pulled the crisp linen sheet over him and went to prepare his evening clothes for yet another night before returning to the pages I’d been wading through, Marx’s Critique of Hegel’s Doctrine of the State.

***

Marguerite. I’d been tired of her from the very beginning, but no servant gets to pick who their master falls in love with. An American girl with delusions of following in the footsteps of Nellie Bly or Jennie June. A war correspondent, here in Europe to cover the wars and convulsions. Back in the States, they’d preserved their freedom, to a degree. Here the vampires, fairies, and their ilk owned the continent, had ever since they’d stepped in to end the World War.

What would have happened if they hadn’t? Who’s to say it would have been as bad as they claimed?

He’d met Marguerite in London. Mixing with a human was bad enough, but when she’d gone off to the French Riviera in search of some story, he had told her he’d meet up with her here and had, only to have her vanish the next day.

I hoped that she’d simply found someone else, some other wealthy pigeon to pluck. But given how she’d vanished out of sight, I thought it might well be the wrongdoing that lord Albert believed it to be.

Two weeks now without much clue. People had seen her. But ask where she had gone, and they looked vacant, unknowing.

Out in the courtyard, Jean asked if I wanted the Delahaye brought round, as he did every day, and as always, I shook my head. But I went into the garage to see it nonetheless, as though it were a horse I meant to comfort. It sat there in the shadows, which washed out the robin’s egg blue of its sides, turning them gray. Sleek and ready. My favorite of all his lordship’s cars, barely two months off the assembly line.

I ran my palm over the sweet silver trim, wishing I had some reason to drive it away now.

Wishing I had some reason to leave altogether. That the courage of my convictions would let me leave his lordship, the foolish child of an unfair class system, behind.

But despite all my feelings about the aristocracy – as Marx said, their parasitic nature had always existed, even before the vampires had claimed them – whenever I looked at Bertie, I saw him as the boy he had once been, full of fancies about knights and chivalry and quests.

He might not acknowledge it right now, but that was what he was doing right now, being a perfect knight riding off to rescue his damsel, armed with ancient tradition.

I hoped she appreciated it. At least, that she was alive to do so.

***

By six PM, his lordship had roused and was ready to be shaved and dressed. I had sandwiches sent up, something to tide him over till he went out. His eyes sagged as though he hadn’t slept.

“Where to tonight?” I asked as I stirred the lather, smelling of bay rum, and spread it over the black shadows on his jawline.

“Jenkins,” he said. “He’s set up some sort of game in his car on the train. Says it will be novel.”

“Novel” is not a word one likes to hear from an older vampire. So often their ideas of novelty involve pain.

And of course a train. The vampires were obsessed with the trains. Before their occupation, travel had been idiosyncratic: carriages and the occasional automobile. Now their trains thundered through the night, every night, great black things whose whistles called back and forth like hunting hawks, a network of iron connecting every city and town in this area, always spreading, a spiderweb claiming this country and all beyond it.

“Have the front desk call me a cab.” My lord studied his lapels, fingering the wide black expanse, before he held out an arm and I placed his watch, freshly wound, on his wrist. Syrupy gold, not silver. A showy piece, but one vampires would appreciate. They like gaudy on other people.

He looked at me. “Do you want to come, Toby?”

He hadn’t asked me that before. It wouldn’t be anything new to have me there waiting on him while he gambled, but previously I’d avoided the vampires. They like nonhuman blood more than human and they’re not hesitant about feeding on servants. Would his presence keep me safe?

But tired blue shadows sagged under his eyes. He needed backup. He needed a friend there.

His servant would have to do.

***

He didn’t speak in the taxi, just stared out with knitted brows. Already stubble darkened his jaw, and his Adam’s apple worked as he swallowed.

Not my place to speak, so I stared out the opposite window, running through my inventory. A good manservant is always supplied, from the mints, handkerchief, and comb in my waistcoat to the Bangalore Torpedo, all chambers loaded, secured along my calf to match the dagger’s weight on the other side.

When we pulled up at the station, I fell in line behind him, my boots crunching along the gravel. Jenkins – Lord Jenkins, the Earl of Westumber, to be precise – had a private train, resting on a sidetrack right now. The only other train was Le Train Bleu, getting ready to depart in a few minutes. Not one of the new vampire models, but an older passenger train, elegant and appointed, carrying passengers in true continental style. Coal smoke hung heavy and unavoidable in the briny sea air.

Lord Albert didn’t speak as we walked towards the train car. I could see him preparing himself, squaring his shoulders, putting on his fatuous face. A simple English werewolf interested in a little gambling and a lot of drink. All surface.

Some sleek fellow, hair slicked back and smelling of Cassie pomade, fell into step beside his Lordship. “Fine evening,” he drawled. The slight slur betrayed him as vampire; they prefer not to hide their teeth, no matter what.

Beside me, the vampire’s Renfrew, a silent servant like myself. I stole a sidelong glance: human, far-gone, staring straight ahead.

Inside the train car, cigar and incense smoke tinged the air blue and battled it out for supremacy, ending in a tie. A subdued clink of crystal and cutlery, the ruffle of cards, dice clatter, came from the various tables scattered throughout the room, augmented by the murmur of voices.

Vampires almost always speak softly. I’ve always thought it a way of demonstrating their power. Forcing listeners to strain their ears is more effective than shouting sometimes.

The sleek man tugged his Lordship over to a table; the Renfrew and I moved to the antechamber filled with other servants. No one spoke there. The Renfrews stared ahead silently; the two others, myself and a harried looking human, exchanged glances. Everything was hushed as velvet, opulent and curlicued.

We stood there pretending to be furniture as the gamblers played. Now and then a player would signal, and his servant would dart out from the crowd, wipe his brow, fetch a new drink, or whatever small service was necessary.

My lord’s table was nearby, a cluster of vampires and him, sitting like a terrier amid a crowd of smiling cats. I couldn’t hear them at first, but I nudged my way through the crowd to stand nearer. None of the Renfrews objected, though one sneered as I shouldered past him and another smiled and licked his lips at me, a sneaky little taunt that would have earned him a punch in the face out in the street.

Three of the vampires at the table were of little account: hangers on, the inconsequential scum at the edge of this pond. But the vampire my Lord sat across from was Wilfrid von Blodam.

Von Blodam was slight, turned at an age when his trim little blonde beard was barely past peachfuzz. He dressed immaculately, expensively, and had not one servant in attendance, but two, a pair of matched twins, who stood ready to anticipate any need. The most powerful vampire in Cannes, rumored to be working his way up the power chain as the vampires solidified their hold on the continent.

Before they spread out over the world, I thought, and then thrust that thought away as quickly as I could. Some of them are telepaths.

But how can any of us avoid thinking about the covert war? Great Britain, where the fairy strongholds are based, holds out, and the various African power groups have worked together to do so as well. And the vampires will have to work hard and long to take America, with its vast stores of phlogiston. But already the vampires, aided by a few renegade dragons, have spread so far from their origin point that some have gone eastward to nibble at Russia’s edges.

My lord signaled. I refreshed his whiskey. The air at the table felt grave-cold, despite the heat in the rest of the room, and the smoke seemed to clear around the table, rendering it a clear bubble in the hazy interior.

My Lord studied his cards.

“Do you know,” von Blodam drawled, “where the little journalist went to, the Miller girl? I kept seeing her around the station, asking questions about the trains.”

The twitch of my Lord’s shoulder would have been as apparent to the vampire’s keen perceptions as it was to me, who only saw it because I knew him so well.

“That one that always wore that little blue hat?” he said lightly, still studying his cards. “I was wondering that myself. Took her out for a drink and thought I’d do it again but the bitch vanished on me. No one seems to know where she went to.” He glanced at me. “Don’t hover, Smith, it’s damned annoying.”

I retreated to my cul de sac.

Von Blodam kept playing on the theme throughout the night. “As the Commandant of this zone,” he said, “I should be tracking these sorts of people better. I tell you, what, Lord de Vulff, I’ll let you know if I hear anything of her.”

My lord kept playing, but he was losing steadily despite the medallion at his wrist. You could practically see the money flowing through his fingers, all that labor, hours of coalmining, transmuted into coins that he spent like water, without even thinking of it.

The rich don’t think themselves rich. They count themselves hard up to practice economies such as a single carriage instead of two, or foregoing buying more land or another factory to make them richer. It’s easy to hate them for that, and nowhere had I seen it played out so excessively, so freely, shows of wealth that would have been vulgar if they didn’t manage to subdue that quality through sheer amount. One man was beggared and dragged away after he bet what he should not have.

Von Blodam saved his taunts for when my lord was about to make decisions, and while my lord’s face remained impassive, I could read the emotions there, the confusion and fury. Von Blodam wanted him to attack, I thought, wanted to taunt him into action so he’d have an excuse.

With that realization, I tried to will my lord to come away, to keep calm, tried to put my own thoughts in his head, though there wasn’t a chance of that, as though through sheer force of will I could somehow make him do what he should and back away.

Cold sliced through my heart as von Blodam turned ice blue eyes towards me, studying me like a half-dissected specimen. “Your servant came with you from England, did he not?” he asked my Lord.

My Lord’s back could have been a steel rod, but his voice was leisurely. “Smith of Smithfield. Their family has been serving mine for generations now, haven’t they, Smith?”

“Yes, my lord.” My voice creaked from disuse. He gave me a dismissive nod before turning back to the table and pushing the conversation down a different alley. “I understand you’ve got one of the new Bentleys, von Blodam. How does it run?”

But von Blodam was not done with me. He beckoned, and I went to him, not looking at my lord.

“Good English gnomish stock,” he mused, reaching out to trace a finger along my cheekbone. “Tell me, Smith, is there anything that would shake your faith in your master?”

“No, sir,” I said. What else could I? The fingernail on my skin was dagger sharp; it sliced the flesh and I felt blood spring to it as he withdrew his hand.

“No? Nothing? But what of English honor, Mr. Smith? What if you discovered your lord had been trying to cheat at cards?”

The air pushed in on me and his eyes were like stars. I focused on my breathing.

“My lord would not do such a thing, sir,” I said, forcing the words out.

“Not for money or…love?” he pressed.

“Never, sir.”

He chuckled, slouching back in his chair. “Very well. Let us resume our game.” The vampire beside him began to deal as I retreated.

The evening wore on. Fortunes were squandered and re-won, and then squandered again. The cigar smoke haze thickened to the point of oppression, and the air grew stuffy except when someone entered or exited the car, bringing in a night breeze that cut through the heat like a saber stroke.

I tried to keep any thoughts from betraying us, but I could not help but wonder. The vampire knew my lord was cheating, he was threatening to say it openly, and there was only one end to it if he did make that accusation: they would kill my lord then and there.

But my lord seemed oblivious to his impending fate. He sat there playing and chattering away, an endless stream of blather that was his damned-silly-English-peer act, playing to the crowd with a touch of whimsy now and then. But underneath it all, he and I and the vampires knew, he was a werewolf, and while they had the numbers, he could at least account for some.

Lost in these thoughts, I swam back as the Renfrew beside me stepped forward to provide and light a cigarette, then retreated into his former position. My lord was talking about cars.

“Rover claims their new model goes faster than le Train Bleu,” von Blodam said.

“That’s nothing special,” my lord asserted. “I could leave with the train from here and my car could get me to my club in London before the train hits Callais.”

Von Blodam raised an incredulous eyebrow. “A bold claim.”

“It’s good English technology,” my lord said, and the edge to his voice was the same as though he’d bared his teeth, by the way the tension jumped in the room. Two Renfrews sidled closer.

But von Blodam laughed. “Then perhaps we should bet on it. You will race le Train Bleu, and if you win, I will give you the prize of your choice.”

“And if that prize was to answer a question truthfully?” My lord’s eyes burned but could not melt the room’s ice.

Von Blodam smiled, and I could feel disaster looming like an iceberg. “Very well. Three questions even, answered with absolute truth, on my honor. What would you put up against something like that, my Lord?”

“Name it,” said my Lord softly. “For it’s clear that you are angling at something.”

The toothy smile broadened. “Very well. A reward of my choice, if the train reaches Callais before you are at your club.”

“A reward of your choice,” my lord said.

The vampire’s eyes lingered on me.

***

Outside, I piled him into the cab and started speaking even as the door swung close.

“What were you thinking?” I demanded. “They won’t let you win.”

“They don’t know anything about cars,” he said contemptuously. “They make their Renfrews drive them about. They won’t be able to catch more than the dust we leave in our trail. And I’ve driven that route two, three dozen times now, half of that in the Delahaye.”

He was flush with alcohol and triumph. He was young and rich and callous. How was he different, battening on the labor of honest workers, than any of the vampires?

And how could I possibly change his mind on this? No.

No, I would let him go to his fate. And, as was my hereditary place, I would accompany him.

I could do no less than that.

At 5:45 PM, we heard the whistle of le Train Bleu, departing. My lord set down his drink with a leisurely smile, saluted the watching well and ill-wishers, and sauntered over to the waiting car, gleaming in the late afternoon sunshine’s warmth.

He straightened his jacket and wound a white silk driving scarf around his neck. I could have killed him. We were losing precious time.

But as soon as we were out of eyeshot of the crowd, his entire demeanor changed. “Here we go, old fellow,” he said. “Hang on.”

The French countryside is beautiful, they say. I caught little of it in the mad rush to Muchy Breton, where we had to search for the pharmacy in order to secure petrol. It took some amount of explaining to the clerk, who was the pharmacist’s assistant, and bemused at the idea that our car would require anything at hand in his storeroom. At last, he fetched the pharmacist, who turned out to be an automobile enthusiast, with a shed full of petrol, old tires, and a blacksmith shop’s worth of tools.

When I emerged, I found my lord on his knees beside the rear wheel, cursing.

“Someone’s slashed the tire,” he said. “Dammit all. I turned my back to go take care of a moment of natural business. Low, to stoop to that sort of behavior while a man’s relieving himself.”

I fumbled with the trunk and took out the spare. “And this,” I said. A penknife pierced the thick rubber.

But we were in luck. I turned to the sleepy pharmacist.

***

The next obstacle presented itself a few miles further on. Fog covered the road, and the car swam in and out of it, a submerged salmon leaping through foamy water, curls and tendrils swirling in its wake. My lord drove slower, but barely, and more than once we swerved to avoid an incautious cow or deer. I tried not to think of how many things stood too low to be spotted through the fog.

We ascended to a hilltop and saw a basin of fog in front of us, an immense white bowl. I started to say something about the odd flapping noise that was just starting to creep up on my consciousness but before I could begin, my lord shoved me sideways, then rolled in the opposite direction himself. A massive claw flashed in the space between us and rasped against the metal before the dragon swooped back upward.

“Hold tight” We leaped down the hill and into the fog.

My lord steered with face tense, watching the road flash by mere feet from our front wheels, not slowing. Overhead we heard the flapping of the wings.

A train hooted off to the right, somewhat ahead.

“What are you thinking, sir?” I asked. “That’s not the Blue Train. It’s the train to the western coast.”

“I know,” he said. “But the crossing is up ahead, I can hear it.”

“But not see it.” Fog thickened and lessened around us; sometimes I could see his resolute face, other times he was lost to me. Overhead those wings flapped, and sometimes fire coiled, once a great wash of it directly overhead accompanied by a foul, sulfurous stench. My cap had blown off my head many miles ago, and I felt the hairs atop my head singe and vanish.

“Hold tight!” my lord yelled over the roaring of the wind and if he added anything to that, it was lost in the howl of the train and the sudden flap of wings and then somehow we were soaring through space just ahead of the train, so close I could count every bar in the cowcatcher in front of it and there was a vast scream and crash as the dragon and the train collided, and then a whoosh of flame, exploding outside, that cleared the world of mist and revealed chaos.

The train, one of the great black trains, lay folded and crumpled, intermingled with the thrashing of the dragon corpse, which reminded me horribly of a chicken I had seen once with its head removed, still dashing itself against a wall in search of the escape that it was far past. The train had been pulling three vast tanks; two had broken, and black liquid was spilling out, pooling.

Or was it black? The moonlight gleamed on it as black birds swooped down, a cloud of them, the ones that had been following us, transforming into humanoid forms, to kneel beside that vast pool. We both stood, speechless, at the spectacle of the vampires lapping up the encarmined landscape, the moon glowing emptily behind their eyes.

All those trains had a hidden purpose. Carrying tanks of blood, harvested from God knew where. Not just gallons of it – an immeasurable amount.

The parasitical rich, embodied, literally drinking the blood of the poor.

“Go!” my lord said urgently, pulling me towards the car.

Reunited with the Delahaye, we hurtled through the night. My mind raced. Supplies – the trains would allow the vampires to take the world. A group of them could overwhelm a city, and the trains would let them travel any distance to do so. Despair held my heart so tight I could hardly breathe.

We made it to Calais, scrambled aboard the ferry in the nick of time. My lord did not speak all the way as we moved over the sea, and the moon made nonsensical images with the froth atop each wave. I stared into the water as he paced back and forth, chainsmoking and unable to rest.

He was thinking of the lost girl, a face he’d only seen once or twice. He wasn’t thinking of anything or anyone else.

If we did not reach the club in time, the vampire would claim his prize. Surely my Lord understood von Blodam’s intent. He’d wagered my life without thinking about it, considering it just another commodity to be spent. A bag of flesh containing the good gnomish blood that had whetted von Blodam’s appetite.

Wasn’t he as bad as the vampires? At least they were honest as to how they saw us all.

***

How did von Blodam get there before us? Some trickery, or perhaps a direct train. But he did, even as we pulled up with five minutes to spare.

There was irritation in his gaze as he said, “It seems you have won, Lord von Vulff. I regret to say the French authorites intend to fine you for racing on public roads.”

Amusement in his gaze, but something else…anticipation, perhaps.

“Indeed,” my lord said.

“Then claim your reward.” Von Blodam’s teeth glinted in the moonlight.

“What happened to Marguerite?” My lord’s voice was hoarse as though he had run every step of the way here.

He stood there, the embodiment of the system I’d served all my life. How could I still care for him? But I did. I’d known him all my life, how could I not? And did it matter, that he’d risked my life, when he’d thought there was no question but that he would win? I wanted him to be happy, despite it all. And I thought to myself, oh maybe, maybe.

“I believe you might have seen her along the way,” von Blodam drawled. “Some part of her.”

My lord stared at him, the beard on his cheek ragged and unkempt, his clothing in shambles from the trip’s wind, as though willing him to say more. He was the abstract of what I hated and I could not hold it against him, standing there against its physical embodiment.

But all the further the answer the vampire gave was not in words: he simply licked his lips and smiled as the street traffic came and went around us and the webs of blood and iron spread and we stood in the future ruins of our world.

-THE END-

#sfwapro

WIP: No Clue What the Title Is Yet

A story in very rough form.

Working on a far future space story that is getting very complicated with its gender stuff. This is one of the things that annoys me sometimes about future space stuff — that it superimposes early 21st century (sometimes earlier) gender patterns in a way that I know is hard to avoid but which infuriates me when it’s unquestioned. I just reread The Pride of Chanur (OMG how is that out of print in hardcopy??) yesterday and love the way Cherryh handles the question.

Hence this story of two cultures clashing, and both the gender norms and the norms around the sex act are getting tangled up in interesting ways.

Anyhow, this is currently the story’s beginning (and is a good candidate to remain the beginning):

“It can’t be avoided, Tom,” Gayathri said to her spouse. “I know it’s Age-Come for Suzette and Bit, but they must deal with an outsider visiting. To keep Grace, they must be taken in by one of the Lines, and everyone else is dealing with emergencies right now. i can’t create a diplomatic incident over the feelings of two family members. They must learn to adapt.”

“It’s not the quarters that’s a problem,” they grumbled. “Since Bethany and Besa moved over to their new Line, we’ve had extra. But Gaya, this means adjusting all my meal planning.”

“A few more servings here and there…”

“Individualized cakes with names on them for the party, for one,” they said. “And the centerpiece was a fondant scene of the family. Now how will I incorporate them?”

“I’ll send you a couple of images from her press kit. Dress her in scarlet, that’s the Corps color for women.”

They frowned at her. “They dress in different colors? What do they do about in-betweeners or asexuals?”

“The Corps doesn’t allow them.”

They rolled their eyes. “One of those.” They eyed her. Her own insistence on keeping the same gender without ever attempting other forms or sexualities was a sore point in the relationship. While not unknown, it was eccentric enough that Tom found it embarrassing.

“A wealthy one of those, with money to invest on the behalf of her coalition. You will be nice.”

In the end the tiny fondant image of the Gräfin was easy enough. A little twiddling let Tom print a sugar face, which they affixed with a dab of icing. They’d been working on faces for the family members for a month: seven generations would be represented, which they privately thought a poor showing, but Gaya’s family was so much newer than the one they’d married out of. And cooking for that family on such an occasion had been making food for several hundred. Tom might have had more help in their family of origin, but there would have been considerably more work.

Still, the loss of Bethany, the most interested in kitchen work, had grated on them. Bethany had known how to help, how to clean up after Tom as they moved through the kitchen as well as how to supply whatever it was that was needed, prepping the mutual mise en place to perfection. And the pair known each other’s depth of perception, could tease each other with tastes, ask advice on building a sauce that reached past acid and sweet to take on other notes and textures.

They tapped air bubbles out and tamped the face down with a toothpick, then set it in the diorama to one side, clearly an onlooker. They relented and moved it a few inches further in. The poor woman couldn’t help it that she came at an odd time.

The diorama sprawled, a meter in diameter, on the kitchen’s center counter. They circled it, looking it over in the lime-tinted sunlight cast through the rear windows that overlooked slopes of garden leading down to the lake, an expanse that would have swallowed the massive house entire without a thought, its surface glutted with water-lilies.

In a week the swollen cream-colored heads would burst into blossoms, soft explosions that would happen as dusk settled, while the nightbirds sang, and the children would have an Age-Come that let them step into new roles and responsibilities if they chose. Sometimes children decided they did not want it yet and retreated. Tom didn’t think Bi would. They had borne the baby, carried it within their body till birthing time, and that gave the two of them a special knowledge of each other. Suzette had come into the family as a baby when one of their parents had married in, and the affection Tom held for them was the same as that towards most of the two dozen children: pride and affection, but perhaps not to the same fierce degree they experienced when teaching Bit — not cooking skills, to their chagrin, since the child expressed no interest, but other basics, like how to tie a knot or do daily chores.

Tom had been expecting them for a while, but they came late to breakfast and inspected the diorama dutifully, without focus or remark, before sitting down.

Turning from the heat counter, Tom slid a plate of pancakes in front of the child, who inspected it with the same lack of interest the diorama had evoked.

Jitters. “Having second thoughts? Should I move your figure to the sidelines? You wouldn’t be the first.”

A headshake in reply. You try not to press them, let them grow at their own pace, but they do it to themselves. “It’s only one change, one of plenty in your life. Take it at your own pace, however you like.”

Cat’s Schedule: Norwescon 2016

Fri 11:00 AM-12:00 PM – Cascade 7&8

Catching Readers, Hook, Line, & Sinker

Cat Rambo (M), Gregory A. Wilson, Leslie Howle, Jude-Marie Green, Tori Centanni

Fri 12:00 PM-1:00 PM – Cascade 3&4

The Language of Gender

Cat Rambo (M), Jason Bourget, Sar Surmick, Amber Clark, David J. Peterson

Fri 3:00 PM-4:00 PM – Cascade 7&8

That’s Not What My Teacher Said

Cat Rambo (M), Robert J. Sawyer, Tori Centanni

Sat 9:00 AM-10:00 AM – Pro Suite

SFWA Meeting

Cat Rambo (M)

Sat 11:00 AM-12:00 PM – Cascade 7&8

Why Fantasy Matters

Cat Rambo (M), Peter Orullian, Catherine Cooke Montrose, Carol Berg, Spencer Ellsworth

Sat 1:00 PM-2:00 PM – Evergreen 3&4

Finding Diverse Voices & Characters in SF/F

Marta Murvosh (M), Cat Rambo, J. F. High, Lisa Bolekaja

Sat 2:00 PM-3:00 PM – Grand 2

Autograph Session 1

Amber Bariaktari , Caroline M. Yoachim, Dave Bara, Dean Wells, Erik Scott de Bie, G. Willow Wilson, James C. Glass, Jennifer Brozek, John (J.A.) Pitts, Kristi Charish, Django Wexler, Frog Jones, Rhiannon Held, Sonia Orin Lyris, S. A. Bolich, Morgue Anne, Robert J. Sawyer, Spencer Ellsworth, Steven Barnes, Tori Centanni, Cat Rambo, Don Maitz, GregRobin Smith, Jeremy Zimmerman, Laura Anne Gilman

Sat 3:00 PM-4:00 PM – Cascade 2

Characters Bearing Witness

Cat Rambo (M), John (J.A.) Pitts, Laura Anne Gilman, Lillian Cohen-Moore, Sonia Orin Lyris

Sun 10:00 AM-11:00 AM – Evergreen 3&4

Stranger than Fiction

Cat Rambo (M), Jason Vanhee, Alex C. Renwick, Ann Shilling, Grant T. Riddell

Sun 1:00 PM-1:30 PM – Cascade 1

Reading: Cat Rambo

Cat Rambo (M) Still not sure what I’m reading, but I promise it will be something new.

Online Writing Class News for March/April/May/June

This is Taco

Here’s the most recent class listing and important news about the Writing F&SF Stories and Advanced Story workshops.

I will be offering two sections of the Writing F&SF workshop and one of the Advanced Story Workshop, but they are dependent on getting at least five students in order to make it financially feasible for me. If you want to sign up for one, comment or drop me a line with the information about which class and what times work best for you, and I will be announcing dates as they solidify. Expressing interest does not commit you, but lets me gauge whether or not there is enough interest in a date/time slot to make it viable. You will not need to pay until the week before the class starts; the overall workshops will be six two or two and a half hour sessions, depending on the number of students enrolled.

Reserve a spot in a class by mailing me at catrambo AT gmail.com. Cost is $99 per one day class for new students; $79 for former students (this includes taking workshops with me at conventions or other face to face events.) Payment can be made by Paypal or check (if you need some alternate method, please mail me to confirm it’s okay.) I’m happy to answer questions here or in e-mail! I am also willing to entertain barter offers.

Alphabetical List of Classes Offered in March/April/May 2016

Beginnings and Endings

Character Building Workshop

Creating an Online Presence for Writers

Description and Delivering Information Workshop

First Pages Workshop

Flash Fiction Workshop

Literary Techniques for Genre Fiction

Literary Techniques for Genre Fiction II

Moving Your Story From Idea to Finished Draft

Re-Telling and Re-Taleing (with Rachel Swirsky)

Rewriting, Revising & Fine-tuning Your Fiction

Writing F&SF Story 6-Week Workshop

Writing Your Way Into Your Novel

March Classes

March 19 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Writing Your Way Into Your Novel

March 20 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Creating an Online Presence for Writers

April Classes

April 16 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Beginnings and Endings

April 17 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Character Building Workshop

April 23 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Creating an Online Presence for Writers

April 24 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Description and Delivering Information

April 30 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Flash Fiction Workshop

May Classes

May 1 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) First Pages with Caren Gussoff

May 14, (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Moving from Idea to Finished Draft

May 15 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Literary Techniques for Genre Writers

May 21 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Retelling and Retaleing with Rachel Swirsky

May 22 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Literary Techniques for Genre Writers II

June Classes

June 3 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Writing Your Way Into Your Novel

June 4 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Moving from Idea to Finished Draft

June 10 (Sat, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Description and Delivering Information

June 11 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) First Pages with Caren Gussoff

June 19 (Sun, 9:30-11:30 AM PST) Rewriting, Revising, & Finetuning Your Fiction

Can’t make it to a class but it sure looks tempting? Check and see if I offer an on-demand version here:

Character Building Workshop for Genre Writers
Description & Delivering Information for Genre Writers
Literary Techniques for Genre Fiction

Reading Aloud Workshop

If you’d like to receive my weekly newsletter, which features class information, market tips, news of stories and a monthly giveaway, please sign up below.

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WIP: The Ghost Installers

Here’s a bit from the story I’m trying to finish up today, a young adult piece tentatively entitled “The Ghost Installers.” It actually came out of a dream that I had – a good reason to be keeping a dream journal.

We talked about that recently in a class – the need to listen to your unconscious mind, to pay attention to dreams and serendipitous slips of the tongue. To nourish it with a variety of arts and make sure its senses are satisfied. To give it space in which to express itself. Sometimes when I’m drawing, that’s when a story that’s mentally knotted begins to untwist itself and show me what my mind is trying to do with it.

The dream was just a moment, an image/situation that I won’t describe for fear of spoilers. Talking to Wayne about it the next morning, I found a story idea emerging, which we batted back and forth, applying the classic try/fail, try/fail, try/succeed algorithm, until it was fleshed out to the point that I jotted down a 250 word outline. Now I’m working through that from scene one till the end, but I think if I get stuck along the way, I might try moving to the ending and writing it, advice from this excellent post about writing process by Kameron Hurley that I wanted to point to.

Here’s a bit from the beginning. Penny and her dad have just moved into their new house, so new that pieces of it are still being worked on. It’s two in the morning, and she’s just snuck in after hanging out with her friends in a nearby park.

She had a penlight in her pocket, although the battery was almost out from using it in the park. She crept towards the attic stairs. The solidity of the little light wrapped in her fingers reassured her, although it could hardly be used as a weapon.

Maybe some animal that wandered in? A raccoon or something. Maybe a cat?

She held her breath, as she crept up the stairs. Was that…voices?

“Goddammit, Mysa, hand me the calipers, this one’s a bitch,” someone said.

“Keep your voice down, Brian! There’s a family sleeping downstairs.”

“Who futzed up the schedule? These are supposed to go in before anyone arrives.”

“That’s why this one’s high-priority. They moved in three days ago.”

A mutter of Irritation. “Everything’s high priority.”

Penny swallowed down the lump of fear in her throat. Who are these people and what are they doing here? They sounded like the sort of people who’d been working on the house all along, but why were they installing something at two in the morning? She hesitated, then progressed upward a few more steps. A few more and she’d be able to see what they were doing. Speculations raced through her head, but she couldn’t figure out anything that would fit. This was all too weird.

But the pair, once she could glimpse them, seemed ordinary enough. They wore black coveralls and matching black stocking caps. The taller one was fiddling with something attached to the highest point of the roof. And then she noticed what wasn’t ordinary at all. His feet hung in the air. Unsupported, dangling just enough to show that he wasn’t standing on something that she couldn’t see.