Meet Murphy

What follows is the text of newsletters I wrote to my Murphy Chase mail list, providing a little background on how I got started writing motorcycler club (biker) romance.

The Room I Wasn’t Sure I Belonged In (published 2/28/2026)

I don’t usually talk about my past or my personal life in these newsletters, but several readers have asked “Why write MC romance? It’s a world away from your other author persona.”

That made me take some time to reflect on that. Why did I love to read biker romance? And why am I writing and publishing a series now?

The answers surprised me, and maybe will interest you, as well. So here goes—a look behind the writer’s curtain!

Back in my twenties, I was a little wild. (Giving my parents gray hair, exasperating my older sister, you get it.) I DJ’ed at my college radio station in Maine, and later at “Northern New England’s #1 Progressive Rock Station.” (Yep, that was their slogan.) I handled ticket sales for a major Boston promoter, and interviewed rock stars after the concerts, both the indoor and outdoor ones (think Woodstock-at-Maine-ski-area).

I envisioned a career working shoulder to glittered shoulder with rock stars. Seriously. That’s what my parents paid good tuition money for. 😉

My senior year of college, I drove 250 miles to Boston in hopes of interviewing my absolute favorite composer/producer/recording artist, Todd Rundgren. I weaseled my way into a backstage pass by arriving way early at the venue and chatting up a popular local DJ, Ron Robin, who it turned out was a good friend of Todd’s.

So there I was, nervous as hell but putting on a good face, inside Todd’s dressing room with a cassette recorder and list of questions in my sweaty hands. Just picture it: naïve kid with big dreams, brilliant and eccentric rocker who’s doing a favor for a friend.

Good thing I had that recorder, because I was too starstruck to remember most of it. What I do remember?

His shoulder-length hair was dyed like a rainbow.
His tiny coati mundi (talk about an exotic pet!) was racing around the room, knocking stuff over.
He mentioned ambitions of running for President (yes, really).

Bottom line? He was gracious, well-spoken, and friendly. And I wanted to work for his record company (Bearsville Records) even more after I graduated. (Of course, that didn’t work out, but that’s another story.)

That was the first time I realized that I didn’t need to feel intimidated by powerful men. After all, underneath all the exterior trappings (whether stage makeup, biker leather or Saville Row suit) they’re only human.

I drove home, tapped away on my Smith-Corona Selectric, and published an article in my college newspaper that was so gushy it’s embarrassing. (Now, it is. Back then it was simply the musings of a superfan.)

I still have that article, as well as photos of Todd with his multi-colored mane.

Next week I’ll tell you about the rock star who refused to start our interview until he made sure I was fed.

A question for you: Have you ever found yourself in a room you weren’t sure you belonged in? Hit Reply and tell me about it!

Until next time,

Murphy

* * *

A rock band, a couch, and a crossroads (published 3/6/2026)

Last week I told you about meeting my rock hero, Todd Rundgren — coati mundi and all.

But the moment that almost changed the entire direction of my life didn’t happen in that dressing room. It happened a few years later, when a late-night conversation with a country-rock band led to an invitation I definitely wasn’t expecting.

I grew up in a typical suburban family who were very conservative, in both politics and values.

But I had a creative bent. And sang in school and church choirs, studied piano, acted in amateur plays, emceed talent shows. Most of the time these conformed to my parents’ views, but not always.

And certainly not how I elected to spend my time after college graduation, cobbling together a full-time job from three part-time ones that all connected somehow to rock music. I ate a lot of PB&J and ramen, couldn’t afford a vacation, and drove an old car. I typically made rent with $20 to spare.

One summer the small company I worked for co-managed a four-day outdoor rock concert at a ski area in Maine. As co-promoters, we were provided a large, standalone condo up the mountain from the stage and the large field where attendees watched the performers, hung out around their tents and did whatever hippies did back then. 😉

On the program were Seals & Croft, John Prine, Richie Havens and Poco. Maybe others; I can’t remember.

Now, my boss was kind of a wild man. A don’t-stand-too-close, the-cops-are-coming sort of guy. The living room smelled of more than tobacco and booze, so I headed to the balcony. I knew the performers had most of the other condos, so I wasn’t surprised to see Rusty Young, pedal steel guitar player for the popular country rock band Poco, on the adjacent patio. We called across the twenty feet or so, and he invited me to hang out so I could get away from a bad situation.

We talked for hours. Turned out that he’d recently returned home to surprise his girlfriend, and walked in on a scene that broke his heart. Obviously, he was still reeling. I spent most of the time comforting him in a purely sisterly way. (Really.) Soon it was after midnight and we were both yawning. We hugged and I returned to the condo and my private bedroom.

Except the door was locked. Nobody answered my frantic knocking. Alrighty then.

I returned next door and rang the bell. Rusty answered, showed me to the living room sofa, and gave me a spare pillow and blanket. “The guys will be back soon, so don’t freak out.” By that time, I was too exhausted to care.

In the morning I joined the band in the ski lodge's backstage dining room. The other guys were surprised Rusty had invited a young woman to dine with him. (I imagine they misinterpreted our “relationship.”) Sitting next to me was bass player Timothy B. Schmidt, who wound up replacing Randy Meisner with The Eagles a few years later. The guys discussed their next gig, another outdoor concert on Cape Cod (Massachusetts). Rusty said, “Hey Madeline. Why don’t you join us? It’ll be fun!”

The other guys rolled their eyes and shrugged. “Sure, why not.” But I could tell they suspected Rusty and I were more than friends. Rusty looked at me encouragingly. Clearly he needed his little sis along for the ride. “I don’t know…” I murmured.

While we enjoyed our omelets and the guys shared Insider stories, I thought it over as my talent agency boss watched from across the room. What are you doing? his expression said. I probably made a face that said I’m winging it.

Ever find yourself at a crossroads?

Looking back, that was probably the first of many moments where I stepped away from the wild road and back toward the life my parents had always imagined for me—the white-picket-fence, married-with-2.4-kids version.

In the back of my mind I could almost hear my mother asking the practical questions. How will you get home if things don’t work out? What about your jobs? And what will people say?

It wouldn’t matter that the “honored groupie” invitation came with absolutely no funny business. Everyone I knew would assume otherwise.

And those three scrappy little jobs weren’t glamorous, but they did keep the rent paid.

So I took the safe road. For a long time, that’s the road I stayed on.

But the funny thing about crossroads is that sometimes the wild road finds its way back to you. In my case, it just took a few decades — and a completely unexpected outlet.

Now I’m curious… What would you choose? Tour bus or safe road?

Hit Reply and let me know. (I read every reply, even the one-word ones!)

Until next time,

Murphy