Beth McCue

Much like the heroines of my novels, my own origins are shrouded in mystery. Adopted at an early age, I have no memories of my first 18 months of life. The aged, black and white photos I was given show a smiling child in unfamiliar surroundings. Random arms and legs jut into the picture at strange angles.

Growing up, I created fantasies about my heritage. I was an alien abandoned on this strange planet at birth. I was a gypsy princess stolen from her family; the daughter of a famous scientist...and on, and on.

The truth turned out to be much more mundane. But the tales I told myself have become the basis for most of my writing.