I am Cat Rambo, and This is What I Believe

Wow, it’s been a long time since I last checked in. By now, pandemic existence seems somewhat normal. We have masks, plastic gloves, and sanitizer by the doorway; we’ve been out for fast food maybe once a month and felt quite daring about it. The move to Portland is on hiatus for now as we wait to see how the world shakes out.

I have a StoryBundle up today, focused on glitter and hope! Please check it out and spread the word.

Writing-wise:

• I’m wrapping up the final edit of Exiles of Tabat and am on track to hand that in to the publisher on July 31.
• After that I’ll spend August working with Devil’s Gun and getting ready to hand that in at the end of the month.
• I’m up to installment 12 of serial novella Baby Driver, have found a publisher for it, and am also working on a comics script, while thinking about eventually funding that via Kickstarter as a comic book series.
• Forthcoming stories include “I Decline” in Daily Science Fiction and “Crazy Beautiful” in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, as well as a story I co-wrote with my spouse in issue three of Dark Matter Magazine, “Stand and Deliver.” Anthology publications include “Snowflakes” in The Last Cities of Earth.
• I’m one of the three writers behind And the Last Trump Shall Sound, which appears in August, and I’m beyond the moon at the chance to work with James Morrow and Harry Turtledove. Thank you to David Boop for acting as our development editor.
• Also in the pipeline: an awesome space western collaboration; the final Tabat book, Gods of Tabat; book three of the space opera series, tentatively titled Flower Power; a 3/4s-written novella I’ve been tinkering with; at least three other novellas I would like to be tinkering; and a literary horror novel.

Other Non-Writing Stuff:

• I have an anthology project in the works and am establishing some of its structure. Stay posted for announcements and slush reader calls.
• I’m also thinking about a game module set in Tabat after having listened to Monica Valentinelli talking about adapting novels into games in her class last weekend.
• Continuing to build my Patreon, which is currently at 241 patrons (!), who are getting fiction, snippets, Zoom events, co-writing, chat server access, and free/discounted Rambo Academy classes.
• Finishing up the on-demand version of Writing Your Way Into Your Novel. There’s some other cool on-demand classes in the works from Evan J. Peterson and Jamie Lackey, along with others!
• I started some little bonsai trees and have named two of them, Groot and Augustus.
• Continuing to sous-vide all the things. Recently have been making homemade sandwich bread as well as my own butter. One recent success: garlic chili oil

There are so many of us who write, and so many voices that get drowned out. I want to tell you about one of them. I want to tell you about my friend K.C. Ball.

She wrote short stories as well as novels, and I edited her collection, Snapshots from a Black Hole. She was talented and terrific at including emotion, while at the same time she was capable of spinning out a shaggy dog story to groaningly effective length.

K.C. was always conscious of time nipping at her heels, particularly after a heart attack where her wife Rachael (literally) saved her life with CPR. At the same time, she was a private and introverted person, not well-suited to the sort of buy-my-book shilling that’s sometimes necessary to be heard over the crowd. She kept hoping for more support from the networks she saw supporting other people, particularly some of the young white males whose work was appearing at the same time that she first started getting published. I met with her a couple of times to go over stories, but as time passed, she seemed more and more discouraged, feeling as though she was flinging work out into the void and not hearing much back.

She was trans, and older than me by a couple decades, and sometimes seemed bemused by the times we live in. I kept urging her to submit her stuff to places like the Lambda Awards, but she was reluctant. “Those aren’t for me,” she said, and I left it at that, albeit reluctantly. She could be a little cranky, a little morose and pessimistic, and sometimes I’d tease her into a better mood, and sometimes I’d let her be. She’d worked as a prison guard, and sometimes her outlook on the world was as cynically informed by that as you’d expect, but her stories were full of heroes and people living up the idea of being better. She loved superheroes.

I ran into her two years back at the grocery store, on Christmas Day, and she seemed pleased that I ran over to greet her. Now I’m regretting not being better about keeping in touch after she fell away from the writing group we shared, despite the fact that we were living so much closer to each other now that I’ve moved to West Seattle.

And now she’s gone, fallen to another heart attack, and she never really got the chance to “break out” the way many writers do, which is through hard work, and soldiering on through rejection, and most of all playing the long game. If you want to read some of her kick-ass work, here’s the collection I edited, Snapshots from a Black Hole and Other Oddities.

I’m so sorry not to able to hear your voice any more, K.C. I hope your journey continues on, and that it’s as marvelous as you were.