My Story
Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine
Winter, 2003

I started writing fiction in 1996 when my father died. I'm not sure why—perhaps it was my way of dealing with grief. I emerged from my basement four months later with, arguably, one of the worst novels ever written. It was a police procedural—sort of. But I'd been bitten, and I kept going. Over the next two years, I wrote two more procedurals that featured a pair of male cops on the North Shore of Chicago. Neither were published.

During that time, however, I was lucky enough to join a mystery writers' group based at Scotland Yard Books in Winnetka, Illinois. I needed to learn the rules, and the group, many of whom were already published, weren't shy about teaching me. I got bloodied pretty well the first year or so—one evening, after receiving the group's critiques on the seven pages I'd read, I checked over the pages and wailed, "I don't think you guys missed a single sentence."

Which might have been why I turned to short stories. There's a freedom in short stories—the freedom to experiment with voice, characters, plots, and settings. But there's a limit too. It's short, so you can't get yourself in too much trouble

"The Day Miriam Hirsch Disappeared" was my first story. Set in the 1930s in a thriving Jewish community in Chicago, it featured a young man, Jake Foreman, who develops a crush on Miriam Hirsch, an actress at the Yiddish theater. Miriam, unfortunately, only has eyes for "Skull," a dapper young man who might or might not be a gangster. The story follows all three of them during the summer of Thirty-eight. On a whim, I entered the story in the 1999 Bouchercon Short Story contest. To my surprise, it won and was printed in the program book. Though it wasn't technically published, it was a thrill.

Babs entered my life soon after that through the Karen Besecker contest. Karen was a Fresno area writer who died of cancer just before her first short story was published. Under the auspices of Futures magazine, Babs agreed to sponsor a memorial short story contest in her name. Ten finalists would be published in an anthology dedicated to her, and the anthology proceeds would be devoted to a scholarship fund in her name. I entered "Miriam"—and came in second.

As any struggling writer knows, the affirmation that comes with that kind of recognition is much more important than money. Someone liked my writing—they really did! And it couldn't have come at a better time—I'd been considering giving up writing. But with a fresh shot of confidence shoring me up, I opted to give it a little more time.

It ended being more than "a little."

As it became clear that my novels weren't setting the world on fire, my agent suggested that I change genres. Change characters. Change everything. And then he dumped me. When I calmed down, I realized he might be right. And even if he wasn't, what did I have to lose?

The problem was finding something new to write about. Nothing seemed right. Nothing turned me on. Until, one day, I reread "Miriam" and had—as they say—a Eureka moment. What if I brought Jake into the present? He'd be an old man—but—what if he had a daughter? If he happened to marry relatively late in life, his daughter might be somewhere in her forties.

Hmm. I started to imagine what kind of person Jake's daughter would be. Where she would live. What she would do. Whether she was married. Did she have kids? And, perhaps, the most important question—which I borrowed from a former boss who based her hiring decisions on the answer—would I want to go out to lunch with her?

The answers to those questions ultimately produced Ellie Foreman, a freelance video producer on the North Shore of Chicago. In a way, I'd come full circle—like that Liza Minnelli song where she goes to Dubrovnik only to meet her next door neighbor from New York.

An Eye for Murder was written, rewritten, and, with the help of an independent editor, written again. It marries past with present, and features Jake, Ellie, her daughter, Rachel, plus Skull (who returns in flashbacks). Apparently, it resonated—in April of 2001, I signed with agent Jacky Sach of Bookends; ten weeks later, she sold it to Berkley Prime Crime for a three-book deal. In July I learned that Poisoned Pen Press bought the subsidiary rights from Berkley and will release the book in hard cover in November, a month before Berkley's mass market version.

However, through all of this, I was still writing short stories, and once again, Babs and Futures touched my life. "The Last Radical," a story loosely based on the Sara Jane Olson story and marked the print debut of Ellie, was published in Futures in Spring, 2001.

The point of this isn't BSP—it is that I didn't do it alone. Not many writers do. Yes, writing itself is a solitary process. It's you and the computer screen, or a sheet of paper. But once your characters have come to life and have found their voice, a writer needs help getting those voices heard.

Which is why the support of Babs and the opportunities she provides have been so important—to all of us. In a publishing world that seems to shrink daily, Babs is trying to expand it. Showcasing new talent. Providing opportunities. Celebrating our success. Whether it's "A Picture is Worth...," the Karen Besecker, Kathy Cleary, or one of the many other contests, Babs is indefatigable. She's always thinking of new ways to give writers a chance to be published and heard.

And she's done this at considerable personal sacrifice. Futures isn't a money-making operation; she's subsidized some of it out of her own pocket. Why? Because she believes in the magic of stories—and our ability to tell them. She believes that there will always be new story-tellers, and that it is her mission to help nurture them. For all of us who have ever been touched by her, whose dreams have become reality through her efforts, we've received a precious gift.

So, what's the best way to return that gift?

Join with her. Ensure that Futures continues to have a voice. There's no question that the magazine has matured and evolved, but it still needs our help to survive. Help Babs develop new writers and bring us new stories. Subscribe to Futures. Tell your friends to. Give a subscription as a gift. And submit stories. Help Babs continue make the dream come true for others.

By the way, in the Jewish religion, it's customary during Yom Kippur to swing a chicken (naked of course) over one's head as a way to cast off one's sins. While you'd never call it a dance, and Babs' goal is to throw off recognition, not sins, we can help institutionalize her ritual by making sure Futures thrives. We all have a stake in seeing our chickens dance.

All content © Libby Fischer Hellmann.