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A Wayward Wormhole Origin Story

Have you ever had a ridiculously lofty desire buried so deep in your psyche that you’ve never mentioned it to anyone?  That’s what the Wayward Wormhole is for me.

Immersing myself into a world of writers where everyone is as obsessed, driven, and crazy about language and story for weeks at a time is my ultimate happy place. That passionate kiss of at a three-day conference only stoked my desire for more. I applied to some of the greats: Clarion and Odyssey and vowed to apply to Viable Paradise and Launch Pad as schedule and finances permit, but I’ve yet to receive an acceptance from any of them. Is that a reflection of my writing? Maybe…but they’re all incredibly popular and competitive. The sheer talent from the other applicants is intimidating. I’m not a natural. I’m a writer who makes all the usual mistakes and has to fight my way up the rejection ladder. On the flip side, I love learning about writing, and I’m damn stubborn, so I’ll keep going as long as I’m having fun.

Tired of waiting for an acceptance and finding that I aged with every passing year, I started giving myself an education from the many instructors that graced the workshops I wanted to attend. That’s where Cat Rambo came in. Their Academy for Wayward Writers was the perfect training ground for my struggling career as a writer. They brought in Tobias Buckell, Michael Underwood, Sarah Pinsker, Ann Leckie, Kate Heartfield, and Jamie Lackey, not to mention all the classes put together by Cat themselves. And it was great.

But it still wasn’t the deep end I dreamed about. Then, one day all the time spent on Cat’s Patreon and Discord brought the opportunity of a lifetime—a month of November—an intensive workshop in Spain. Was anyone interested? I was. Did she have a location? No. So I looked for one. I found a castle (A CASTLE!).  The next step was financial viability—was a venture like this something that could at least pay for itself? Spreadsheet time. The numbers said it could. We wouldn’t get rich, but we could offer a new, high-level intensive writing workshop offering access to exceptional instructors, and bring together fellow writers who were as eager to help each other succeed as you are to helping them. That’s what it’s all about!

Cat received a good deal of flack over the location’s lack of accessibility, and that was my fault. To anyone who wanted to attend and couldn’t, I can only apologize and say we are committed to doing better with each upcoming workshop.

Spending last November with Cat Rambo, Ann Leckie, Sarah Pinsker, and Tobias Buckell, along with eleven excellent writers in their twenties, thirties, fifties, and up, from four different countries, gave my confidence a much-needed boost, and with that, my writing leaped forward. We’re kept the Ride or Die Writing Group together in 2024, and students are getting published!

Cat Rambo has an amazing array of friends in the SFF community. They’ve all experienced her kindness, generosity, and balanced sense of right and wrong.

We’re heading to New Mexico this November with Arley Sorg, Minister Faust, Donald Maass, C.C. Finlay, plus a slate of students eager to repeat the magic from last year.

I can’t believe this is my life. Maybe we’ll see you there one day!

One Response

  1. From Cat’s side of things: Janet made the Wormhole happen, and I absolutely couldn’t have done it without her. Wait till you see what we have cooked up for 2025 – I just got the email confirming one of the instructors and I am SO stoked.

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"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."

~K. Richardson

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When Betty answered the apartment door, the man standing there was one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen. Tall, muscular, aquiline nose, dark hair”¦ he looked like he should be riding a white stallion on the beach in a cologne ad.

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She faltered in the doorway, looking at him. You never know what to expect in New York, and surely this man wasn’t that out of the ordinary, except for the utterly expensive lines of his suit.

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She didn’t understand.

He smiled at her. “I’m your Prince. I’ve come.”

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***

Veronica said, “You say he’s a Prince?”

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Veronica’s eyebrow lifted. “You could have called the police.”

“He was just so”¦nice,” Betty said.

Veronica’s other eyebrow lifted. “So are you going to tell him?”

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***

On her daily phone call, her mother said, “You lucky, lucky girl!”

Betty tried to interject something but her mother went on. “I mean, we’re all promised that our prince will come some day, but most of them seem to get lost in transit. I don’t know anyone who’s actually gotten one.”

“Mom,” Betty said. “What do you mean, we’re all promised one? Who does the promising?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. “Well,” her mother finally said, “I guess I don’t really know. The world? God? Yes, that’s probably it. God promises if we’re good, someday our prince will come.”

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She was a tall woman with gleaming gold hair, obscured beneath a dark cloak. She tried to shrug the woolen fabric more securely around her shoulders, but it caught on obstructions beneath, and half swung away to reveal feathers the same color as her hair.

 

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