Britt Skrabanek

Everything’s Not Bigger is Now Available in Paperback

“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.” Albert Camus’ words came to mind as I prepared my third novel, Everything’s Not Bigger, for its rerelease as a paperback edition. (In case you’ve been waiting around since the ebook published WAY back in 2012, today you can finally grab a print copy.)

Fiction is just as real as non-fiction in so many aspects. What makes fiction impactful are the real moments and people we infuse into each story. Even when I wrote my historical fiction novels, Nola Fran Evie and Beneath the Satin Gloves, I brought in life experiences to make the stories more authentic.

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Beneath the Satin Gloves is Now Available in Paperback

Excited to share the rerelease of “my firstborn” as a paperback edition. I wrote Beneath the Satin Gloves in 2012, a time when I didn’t know squat about writing fiction. Because I knew I could do better with my work, a few years ago I re-edited and rereleased my first book. Flash forward to present day, I’m overjoyed to finally bring Beneath the Satin Gloves into print.

As many of you know, I have been painstakingly turning my three ebooks into paperback editions since last summer. Last month I rereleased Nola Fran Evie in print. Just last week the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League shared the book with their 11,000+ Facebook fans, which was a starstruck experience for me. I dedicated the novel to the AAGPBL, so it was wonderful to connect with their organization and their fans.

Although my books have been out for a while, they didn’t seem real until now. Paperback editions of novels are truly an unbeatable reading experience. Holding each book in my hands has been a special moment for me, especially when I held my baby…my oldest…Beneath the Satin Gloves.

There are many WWII stories of brave women who fought to protect peace, freedom, love, and the continuation of the human race. But, we don’t hear them enough. I wanted to do my small part in celebrating these women when I wrote Beneath the Satin Gloves.

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Nola Fran Evie is Now Available in Paperback

Holding a book in your hands is an unmatched feeling. The pages are filled with letters, words, sentences, and paragraphs that collaborate tirelessly until they become an entire story.

Holding a book that you wrote in your hands is sort of an out-of-body experience. The weight of the story becomes scary real. You think to yourself: No matter what I do with the rest of my life, here is something I made from nothing. And, it will always be a part of me.

It’s a bit jarring to think about, but last night I realized I’ve been writing fiction for a decade. Throughout that time I self-published three books. In ebook format, they never felt quite real. I knew it was because my books weren’t in print.

I started working hard to reach my goal of turning all three of my books into paperbacks last summer. Silly me thought it would be easy, but it took a lot of time and tinkering. I suppose the paperback release timing was all copasetic as I round out my decade of fiction.

I’m happy to say that Nola Fran Evie is finally available in print. If you so desire, you can hold this story in your hands too.

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Rebels of Writing

Her parents were rebels of writing. They both had the most beautifully off-kilter handwriting that ever graced the blank canvas of a page. Yet, a revolving door of teachers and bosses reprimanded her parents for their uniqueness. Bee would later undergo the same disciplinary fate.

Bee’s dad was the meticulous creator. Every letter felt like a patch on a handstitched quilt—with its own color scheme, its own pattern, its own material, its own story to tell.

He wrote in all caps…

WHEN HE WROTE POETRY, IT WAS LIKE HE SHOUTED AT THE WORLD. PERHAPS THAT WAS THE ONLY WAY ANYONE WOULD LISTEN TO HIS INNERMOST THOUGHTS. HER DAD RARELY WORE HIS HEART ON HIS SLEEVE UNLESS HE WAS WRITING. THIS WAS THE QUIET SPACE WHERE HE COULD SCREAM.

Bee’s mom was the elegant trailblazer. Every letter felt like a figure skater practicing her spiral—one leg extended behind her, leaning the other way for balance as she glided across the ice.

She wrote in backwards italics (slanting left, instead of right)…

When she wrote essays, it was like she was pulling away from the world. Perhaps that was the only way anyone would notice her innermost thoughts. Her mom rarely broadcasted her intelligence unless she was writing. This was the sitting room where she could stand.

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Dreaming About Breakfast with Anthony Bourdain

She knocked three times with one of those brass handles you only see on ancient doors in obscure European towns. Bee touched the deep ridges on the worn wooden door. They were like wrinkles formed by a lifetime of highs and lows.

When Anthony Bourdain opened the heavy door, barefoot and dressed in a long Kaftan, Bee knew she was dreaming. The smell of stale cigarettes and booze overpowered the scents of baked goods already permeating the air.

In real life, Tony hung himself in a town in France—much like this one in her subconscious mind. Yet there he was, hungover in his nighty.

Bourdain never asked Bee who she was or why she stood on his doorstep like some groupie. He stared back, an inquisitive brow raised high above his brown eyes.

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