Once upon a time (although not very long ago when one considers the age of the universe), there lived a girl named Betsy.
Betsy was raised by loving parents, family, and friends. She was also raised by old movie musicals and Harlequin romances, by elves and fairies, by creatures in the woods with a variety of temperaments, by impoverished gentility and single men in possession of good fortunes, by little people who lived in the walls of houses, by aliens from other planets, and by teenage girls and boys who went around solving mysteries. She was raised by the soundtrack of The Sound of Music, A Chorus Line, and Brigadoon, and by fables where knights go on quests or the person who saves the world is the least likely hero imaginable.
Eventually, the Muse showed up and said to Betsy, “Hey, come on and let’s hang out.” So Betsy shrugged, and did, and started writing stories of her own.
Nobody should have been surprised by this turn of events. What else did they expect with that kind of a scandalous upbringing?
These days, when Betsy is not navigating the tumultuous waters of the so-called “real world,” she can be found sitting at her desk, singing show tunes and writing novels or short stories or vignettes about, well, anything that strikes her fancy.
Her cats like the stories, but they’re not crazy about the show tunes.
Neither are the neighbors.
But what do they know?