Betty Adams lives in a particularly damp and remote corner of the Pacific Northwest and like a hobbit enjoys visitors so long as she knows them in advance and knows when they are coming. She was born sometime last century and will likely die sometime this century. She works winters on a small organic research farm when not writing and spends most of her time herding eccentric genius scientists (she is absolutely certain cats would be easier) with the help of her Great Pyrenees mix.
