Lisa Tuttle





Lisa Tuttle

Author profile


born
January 01, 1952 in Houston, Texas, The United States

gender
female

genre


About this author

(Wife of Colin Murray) aka Maria Palmer (house pseudonym).

Lisa Tuttle taught a science fiction course at the City Lit College, part of London University, and has tutored on the Arvon courses. She was residential tutor at the Clarion West SF writing workshop in Seattle, USA. She has published six novels and two short story collections. Many of her books have been translated into French and German editions.


Average rating: 3.66 · 4,859 ratings · 658 reviews · 91 distinct works
The Mysteries
3.35 of 5 stars 3.35 avg rating — 161 ratings — published 2005 — 4 editions
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The Silver Bough
3.32 of 5 stars 3.32 avg rating — 130 ratings — published 2006 — 4 editions
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The Pillow Friend
3.0 of 5 stars 3.00 avg rating — 41 ratings — published 1996 — 3 editions
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Lost Futures
3.13 of 5 stars 3.13 avg rating — 23 ratings — published 1992 — 2 editions
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Writing Fantasy & Science F...
3.05 of 5 stars 3.05 avg rating — 19 ratings2 editions
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A Nest Of Nightmares
4.1 of 5 stars 4.10 avg rating — 10 ratings
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Night Visions: The Hellboun...
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4.0 of 5 stars 4.00 avg rating — 60 ratings — published 1986 — 5 editions
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A Spaceship Built of Stone ...
3.62 of 5 stars 3.62 avg rating — 8 ratings — published 1987
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Skin Of The Soul: New Horro...
3.5 of 5 stars 3.50 avg rating — 12 ratings3 editions
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Ghosts & Other Lovers
4.17 of 5 stars 4.17 avg rating — 6 ratings — published 2001 — 2 editions
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“In the jumbled, fragmented memories I carry from my childhood there are probably nearly as many dreams as images from waking life. I thought of one which might have been my earliest remembered nightmare. I was probably about four years old - I don't think I'd started school yet - when I woke up screaming. The image I retained of the dream, the thing which had frightened me so, was an ugly, clown-like doll made of soft red and cream-coloured rubber. When you squeezed it, bulbous eyes popped out on stalks and the mouth opened in a gaping scream. As I recall it now, it was disturbingly ugly, not really an appropriate toy for a very young child, but it had been mine when I was younger, at least until I'd bitten its nose off, at which point it had been taken away from me. At the time when I had the dream I hadn't seen it for a year or more - I don't think I consciously remembered it until its sudden looming appearance in a dream had frightened me awake.

When I told my mother about the dream, she was puzzled.

'But what's scary about that? You were never scared of that doll.'

I shook my head, meaning that the doll I'd owned - and barely remembered - had never scared me. 'But it was very scary,' I said, meaning that the reappearance of it in my dream had been terrifying.

My mother looked at me, baffled. 'But it's not scary,' she said gently. I'm sure she was trying to make me feel better, and thought this reasonable statement would help. She was absolutely amazed when it had the opposite result, and I burst into tears.

Of course she had no idea why, and of course I couldn't explain. Now I think - and of course I could be wrong - that what upset me was that I'd just realized that my mother and I were separate people. We didn't share the same dreams or nightmares. I was alone in the universe, like everybody else. In some confused way, that was what the doll had been telling me. Once it had loved me enough to let me eat its nose; now it would make me wake up screaming. ("My Death")”
Lisa Tuttle, The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 16

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