Ah, poor Billy. The only girl between two boys who each have nearly a foot on her. Didn't stop her from starting physical fights with them. She still thinks she can take them. So while she used to hide away in her wardrobe to read a book or four, she started to question why the heroines in those books would just lie there and take it. No, not just sex, but downright James-Bond-backhand-slapping, do-as-you're-told-woman, inappropriate lie there and take it. She couldn't understand it. These women were just playing that mental woman from Coming to America, Miss "Whatever You Like" who barked like a dog and hopped on one foot. Billy didn't want to do that. Definitely not because one empty-headed fool with different anatomy told her to. So she started to create characters and worlds where the women could own their sexuality, their intelligence, their right to turn around and say "jog on, mate" without apology.
The small problem was that other people wanted to read what she was had written. "Er...why?" didn't cut it as an answer. After years of prodding and pleading and come on and for goodness' sake, what's the point otherwise, she closed her eyes and pressed "submit." Actually, she had Prosecco, limoncello and white wine, then pressed "submit." Who would have thought people would actually enjoy reading about the crazy characters who live in her head? But they have done, and Billy feels rather proud of that connection with her fellow man.
Billy lives in London with the most patient family in the world and doesn't forget for a minute how lucky she is. Well, she wouldn't mind a BBC adaptation of one of her novels... Ooh, with Richard Armitage!
Lychee martinis, the theatre, rubbing shaved heads of hot men, tea (I'm British it's more of a way of life), limousine shoes, my iPhone and writing about delicious and slighly unbalanced men.