Hilary Moon Murphy

"...Uh... Okay. I do spend most of my time here talking about me."

"Exactly," Ganpati says. "You are rather self-absorbed. At least this way, you can pretend to false modesty by having someone else do it."

Good point. Take it away, Frank!

Hilary Moon Murphy: The Untold Story

I first met Hilary Moon Murphy at Joliet State Penitentiary in 1998. A riot was in full progress; amid the tear-gas and the gun-fire and the howl and wail of riot klaxons, I could just make out Hilary's lone form, seated on the torso of a recumbent guard, biting her lower lip and crossing out words scribbled on the back of a parole-board hearing form. I dodged a ricocheting hail of rubber bullets, kicked a hissing, fuming teargas cylinder into the warden's office, and sauntered over to her. "Hiya," I said. "Weeding out that passive voice, huh?"

Hughie and Louie, the so-called Chicago Cannibals (five consecutive life sentences each for a private re-enactment of the Donner Party wilderness menu), charged past. Louie looked down at Hilary's paper, spat out a glistening metacarpal, and grinned. "Amazing use of metaphor," he said. A rubber bullet struck him squarely in the forehead, and he went cross-eyed and slumped to the floor.

Hilary looked up then, annoyed at the interruption but, as always, the very soul of courtesy. "Hello," she said to me. "Are you a writer too?"

None of which, of course, is true. Hilary and I met via the internet (specifically, the Rumor Mill, long may it grind) more than a year ago. I lurked. I saw her posts. Here, I thought, is a Writer, with a capital W. Someone who knows what theme is, and how it differs from plot, and how to use both for full effect. Someone who knows voice and point-of-view and can probably pick dangling participles out of a lineup.

Frankly, I was intimidated. Most of the Rumor Millers struck me that way -- I knew I was, for the first time, among real writers. Not the dabbling posers all too common on the ‘net, but the genuine article; these people were working and selling or soon to sell.

So I lurked, mostly. After all, who was I? I'd had one sale, to Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine. I felt like I'd crashed an uptown party, and was fearful that if I made too much noise, attracted too much attention, that I'd be mistaken for a serving lad and told to get back in the kitchen where I belonged.

Which was silly. The Millers are a warm, engaging bunch; the arrogant and the mean-spirited don't generally stick around long. I posted a few times, found myself welcomed, eventually became a part of the gang. That's when Hilary and I became friends, and that's when I got to know my very first writer (with a capital W).

I learned a lot from Hilary. Turns out many of the things I thought I knew about writers simply weren't true. For instance, I thought real writers always knew the last words of a story before they ever wrote the first ones down. I didn't always know every bend and twist in every story I wrote; most of the time, I made things up as I went, and I felt like a cheat somehow, every time I did things that way. "Real writers have the story in their heads before they get started," I'd hear a smarmy little voice say. "But of course, you're just faking it, aren't you?"

And then there was The Gift. We've all heard that one, those of us who write – "Good writing is a gift, and you've either got it, or you don't." Real writers, I thought, just turn on the PC or roll paper in the typewriter, adopt a pained expression, and then click-click-click, Art magically pours forth.

Real writers don't agonize for hours over mere sentences, I thought. Real writers don't have to. The Gift takes care of that!

But then came Hilary. Here is a writer, I realized. But she sometimes starts a story and then has to work to find the right ending. And as for the gift – well, there's no question she has a gift, but it is equally apparent that she works, and works hard, to wrest art from mere ether.

Some stories do leap into a writer's head, complete with an ending and page numbers and proper punctuation. But most must be mined, explored, followed to exhaustion down cramped little tunnels that wind amid false starts and dead ends. And no mythical Gift can take the place of time and honest labor. That's what it means to be a writer. You've got to set your jaw and follow the story, leaving words behind you like a trail, hoping your reader can – no, hoping your reader will choose – to follow you all the way to the end.

That's what I learned from Hilary. We've traded stories back and forth; I've watched her shape and mold and build tales, seen the scaffolds and the props behind the neat, clean narratives. She's helped me see my own literary shortcomings, and now that I see them perhaps I can stamp them out. In fact, I think every writer should have a friend who is a better writer. I'm not at all ashamed to admit it, either – one day, maybe, I'll catch up.

And it all started that day in Cell Block A-7 at Joliet. You should all ask her about the days that followed – about her cross-country flight to Arizona in a stolen El Camino, her time spent with the Stark Fist militia group, her mysterious ties to organized crime and rodeo clowns. Be prepared for denials, but never forget this:

The lady can write, folks. You'll be seeing her name in book stores pretty soon. I suggest you buy her works.

You won't be sorry.

Frank Tuttle's stories have been named "Best of Issue" in two leading fantasy magazines, Weird Tales and Adventures in Sword and Sorcery. Frank works as a computer programmer deep in one of the subbasements of a prominent southern university. I don't think that any of his co-workers have ever seen him. When asked to provide a picture to accompany this guest entry, Frank thoughtfully provided the one in the top left corner of this screen. For all we know, he may even look like that.

The January Web Rat Name Your Own Dare! (700 Words a Day on Fire of Genius) Pre-Dare Dare Total Today 14,498 5553 0 Other Dare Participants: Anne | Jennifer | Jim | Karina | Marti | Rob | Sam | Trey

Back to dares and life and such:

I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who wrote me about my car crash. I'm okay, though it's been a really rough week. I've been sick, Andy's been sick, and Cassie's been sick. Both Andy's and my jobs went into overtime multiple times last week, and by the end of each day I was too burned out to write anything.

I'm hoping that this week will be better. I did receive good news from my El Salvadorian friend: his family is okay, though the situation is ugly down there. In the spirit of good news, I'd like to recommit to the Dare for my last week. I'm shooting for 700 words tonight. I'll let you know in the morning if I make it.

Recently, Trey wondered aloud in his journal when he was going to be profiled here. Trey, did you think that I was going to forget you? I was kind of tempted to hold you to the very end of these profiles, but since you asked for it...

Trey decided to do a revision dare. He had too many stories sitting on his desk, waiting to be fixed up and sent out. And boy, has he been going at it! He said that he has been somewhat narrowly focused on his dare. Perhaps, but the narrow focus has obviously been working for him. Keep on going, Trey!

His journal is a quick read, and very focused on writing in general. I love reading it because Trey is such a good cheerleader for everyone he knows. Second only to the efforts of our Big Cheese, Trey is the chief community builder for the Rats. Drop in on his site to see his famous all-in-one web design, which is so cool that other web journalists cannot help but rip it off.

I also want to express my heartfelt awe at Benjamin Rosenbaum and Jim Hines for successful completion of their dares. I already profiled Ben, and will be profiling Jim later this week.

Hmm