Britt Skrabanek

Beneath the Satin Gloves is Free!

My first book, Beneath the Satin Gloves, has been reworked, polished, and rereleased.

And…you can have it for free until Sunday on Amazon! (Promo runs 2/25 – 3/1, midnight P.S.T.)

If you can be so kind as to leave a quick review when you finish the book, that would be very awesome of you. As an indie author, we depend on you, the beautiful people, to help get our names out there.

One reader described Beneath the Satin Gloves as “a little bit romance, thriller, time travel, and historical fiction”.

Here’s all of the info for the newbies around here…

A modern-day woman torn by her illusive dreams awakens to a strange life in 1943, hurdled against the throes of destruction in wartime Berlin. Following a haphazard trail of clues, she discovers her new identity as Alina Feuer, code-named Sparrow, a famous entertainer seducing a high-ranking SS officer to gather vital information for the Allies.

But Alina is an amateur in these incessant spy games. She relies solely on her wit and instinct to make her next move, while frantically hiding her erratic behavior from the watchful eyes of her suspicious liaison/love interest and her pestering socialite gal pal along the way. A reluctant heroine, she must use charismatic glamour as her weapon of choice to fulfill her deadly mission before the week is through.

GRAB IT NOW AT AMAZON

GRAB IT NOW AT AMAZON UK

Thank you for supporting the indie author movement.

The Rerelease of My First Book

Nothing compares to the sweet love we writers have for the very first story we write.

Ah, man. The vast unknown we explore, the sincere concentration it takes, and the melancholy that blankets us when the story is finished…well, it’s unmatched.

I’ll share a little secret with you guys.

I didn’t grow up wanting to become a writer. Archaeologist, dancer, veterinarian, and fairy were all in there. But never writer.

I never dreamed of writing a novel. Hell, I certainly never thought I would write three.

Why?

Because I never thought I could do it.

I’d always loved reading and writing, but I never saw myself on the other side. As an architect of stories, building something that never existed before, something that would actually speak to people.

I was in my mid-twenties, lost and confused, working a high-end retail job that was the opposite of me, and partying any chance I got.

There were so many blurry years from working and playing way too hard that I realized something.

I had no purpose. My life was sailing by without me, while I was drowning in a meaningless sea.

Then one day, my husband Mr. H dared me to write a novel. I had a dream that inspired me, then I took out my little journal, and started writing gibberish on my lunch breaks.

It took me three years to write my first book. I didn’t know what I was doing. But, I created something and set it free.

And still to this day, I don’t really consider anything I put out there “a novel”. I also struggle with calling myself “a writer”.

Some of you may remember my crazy ass going back to my second book, Everything’s Not Bigger, and reworking the entire damn thing.

You probably thought I would move on from my past works at this point, right?

Well, I didn’t.

I went back to my first book, Beneath the Satin Gloves, and for the past three months, I have reedited the work with tireless energy during my bit of free time I cherish for these creative obsessions of mine.

I must admit, I really enjoyed reconnecting with Alina, my lounge singing spy—and WWII Berlin, an era and city I have forever been captivated by.

Anyone new around these parts should know that this book isn’t just another WWII thriller. There’s a time travel thing going on, since the main character is actually a woman from modern-day who wakes up in the past.

I shouldn’t play favorites, I know, but I do adore this story. It’s my firstborn, and there is no way to change that kind of undying love.

So even though the new version is already on Amazon, obviously I’m going to put this out there free of charge.

Beneath the Satin Gloves will be absolutely FREE next week 2/25-3/1 on Amazon and Amazon UK. So, stay tuned!

Until the rerelease, I’ll leave you all with a scene I like…

Haunting whistles blew in the train station. The mechanical scents brought her back to reality after being in deep thought for many hours. Steam eclipsed the scene while the crowd hurried to board for unknown destinations across Europe, with frayed clothing and worried hearts.

Alina’s short time in the United States must have been an eternity for the people here. Everything had aged and there was an undeniable heaviness in each footstep. Laughter and gaiety had been decimated by an unfathomable fear of what was to come. Even the departing hugs were different, exuding a phantom touch instead of a comforting embrace.

Everything was dark and unsettling. The fearful train station validated her decision to throw herself into unforeseen danger.

She had strict instructions to board the train without a word to Emil. But she had one last thing she had to say to him, and the risk was worth taking.

Perched on a bench, one leg crossed over the other, he flipped through a newspaper in his simple suit, trench coat, and black hat. He was supposed to blend in, and Emil was an expert at being inconspicuous. Yet his striking looks worked against him, making him stand out in the drab crowd.

Emil sensed she was moving toward him. He walked away, expecting her to give up on the futile chase and board the train.

Maybe she was flirting with disaster as she seemed destined to do, but Alina yearned to see his face once more. What if it was the last time?

The distance grew between them. A heartbreaking emptiness washed over her, and she felt like she was drowning. Alina took bigger strides to catch up with him.

He stopped to look at the schedule on the board.

She pointed at a time, standing close to him, feeling his welcoming heat between their thick coats.

His gloved finger pointed next to hers, sneaking one last touch. “Entschuldigung, Fraulein.”

“I want you to know I’m not afraid.”

Emil snickered. “You’re fearless, but I’m battling my own demons over here.”

“That’s why I came over.”

“Needless to say, but you shouldn’t have. You were distinctly ordered not to.”

“I really don’t care what your orders were.” Alina smiled, glancing at her watch.

He looked around, pretending to search for the appropriate departure track.

“Do you believe in past lives, Emil?” She scanned the schedule, drawing her finger down the time options.

“You disobeyed my orders to have a damn philosophy discussion?”

“Answer the question.”

Emil bent down to adjust his shoe laces, which were already tied. “I’d rather have this debate with a glass of brandy, lying naked with you, anywhere but here.”

“Would it surprise you if I said being a spy is the easiest thing I’ve ever done? Almost like I’ve done it before.”

He sighed and stood up, squinting at the schedule. “Are you just saying this gibberish to make me feel better? Because it isn’t working. The longer we stand here, the greater chance we have of getting killed.”

“I also wanted to say I love you, if that’s alright.”

He swallowed, then his eye twitched.

She realized he didn’t know how to deal with the sentiment. A man as attractive as Emil had been loved plenty of times before. But, had he ever loved anyone in return?

“I want to spend my life with you after this is over.”

Alina snuck a peek at his face to try to search his eyes for an emotional reveal. But, there wasn’t time.

Emil did the unthinkable—he walked off.

She watched him for a second, then turned her attention to the train. Crushed, Alina fought back tears as she meandered up the narrow steps of the entrance.

What was she expecting? He couldn’t exactly sweep her into his arms.

She supposed it didn’t matter in the end. She wanted to confess her feelings in case it was her only chance. And confess she did, humiliating as it was.

Alina sank into the musty train chair, trying to shake off her feminine emotions. This wasn’t the time for an outburst. She needed to focus on the dangerous road ahead.

Shutting her eyes, she detained her tears behind their eyelid barriers. Her finger ran across a torn patch on the bottom of the chair.

To calm herself, she imagined sitting on a mountain overlooking a vast valley. She almost had the serene image set in her mind when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Her heart beat faster as she opened her eyes. She almost released a loud sigh of relief when she saw it wasn’t the Gestapo but a helpful train attendant.

“Entschuldigung, Fraulein. You dropped this?”

Declining with a smile and a shake of her head, she changed her mind after recognizing the same newspaper Emil had been reading.

“Danke.”

He nodded, then continued down the aisle.

As if it was a bouquet of roses, she inhaled the newspaper, a peculiar act which roused the curiosity of the two old ladies sitting across from her.

Alina grinned. “Don’t you just love the smell of newspapers?”

One woman tipped her bright blue hat at a chic angle, leaned in and lowered her voice. “Not with the filth in them these days, my dear. But I used to.” She began gossiping with her friend, pretending like the daring comment had never been spoken.

The train whistled to signal their departure—away from neutral Switzerland, into Nazi Germany.

Alina turned each page, longing to find something inside. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but somehow the man who delivered the newspaper seemed out of place. Almost like he didn’t work on the train at all.

On the last page, she saw Emil’s handwriting…

I do believe.

I do love you.

And I will wait as many lives as it takes.

The Fate of the Lovers Bench

I didn’t have any master plans to write this particular post on Valentine’s Day.

To tell you the truth, I’ve never been much of a fan of the holiday. As a young girl, Valentine card rejections and those gross chalky hearts made a cynic out of me.

Some might actually see this as a cruel story to tell on a romantic holiday, but it depends on how strong your belief in love is.

For some, love is about happy endings. For others, the true romantics, they know that real love never ends.

The story about the lovers bench began last year in May, when I wrote The Bench Where Lovers Had Been.

This spot with the bench is my favorite place to rest after a long hike. The view of Portland is absolutely stunning.

The whole city—slender streets, busy cars, shiny buildings, expansive bridges—is surrounded by sleepy volcanoes and undulating mountains.

On a clear day your eyes hardly know what to do with themselves. It’s that gorgeous.

And the bench, worn by Pacific Northwest rain for many years, was covered in love carvings.

I used to touch these carvings, imagining stories of the lovers who decided to boldly tattoo their initials and hearts into the wood in this public place.

Perhaps these couples were still together, or perhaps they had grown apart, but the lovers bench allowed their tender moment to live on.

Until one October day, I walked over to the bench and my heart fell. There were no more professions of love embedded in the wood.

The wood was blemish-free, devoid of the beautiful scars which told so many stories.

When I wrote The Lovers Bench Is Gone, many of you were as heartbroken as I was. And like me, you all wondered what had happened to the old bench.

Had they repurposed it somehow, turned it into a piece of art for someone’s home? Or, had they done something else?

Well, I found out.

It took me about a month and I was thrown around to some different people before I got my answer. I have been sitting on this information for some time, but today I have decided to reveal the fate of the lovers bench.

Hi Britt,

Due to a combination of overzealous carvings and wear n’ tear on the bench you mention, Portland Parks & Recreation had to replace the bench with a new one. We reused the metal parts that were salvageable.

Hi Britt,

My colleague in maintenance just asked me to clarify. We actually re-installed the same, refurbished bench. Not a “new” bench. What you see up there is the same bench just with new boards, and we had the leg irons freshly powder coated. History lives on!

Hi Portland Parks & Rec Guy,

Thanks for the info. We writers are a curious bunch, so we were dying to know. Did anyone keep the carved boards, do you know? Seems like they would make neat art decor. Perhaps they were too beat up and ended up in recycling though.

Hi Britt,

The best guess is that the old boards were used for bark dust in our system. Had they been salvageable our guys would have repainted them and replaced ’em.

So, there you have it, folks. The bench is still there, but the boards of love carvings have become part of the earth.

Instead of being sad over the fate of the lovers bench, I remembered something that made me hopeful. On that October day when I discovered the new bench, I looked down and saw this on the shiny new armrest…

I haven’t seen the bench since last fall, but I know that new love stories have been created and carved. When I see it again, I will trace the carvings and smile.

Because love doesn’t have an ending. It lives on.

“The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” – Rumi

The Life Enthusiast Chronicles with Abby

Last month Dannie Hill reminded us that we should all open ourselves to the wonders of life, be humble, and keep loving. In my monthly series, The Life Enthusiast Chronicles, lovely humans from around the world talk about why life rocks.

Today I’m overjoyed to welcome my girl Abby Smith from VSVEVG (Very Simple Very Easy Very Good) all the way from Mexico. Abby’s quite the woman, an expat living on a farm with her husband Felipe, with many adventures and stories to tell. They left the US in search of a simpler, sustainable life.

As a lover of poetry, she talks about life with a passion and depth that I find captivating. Her survivor spirit is truly admirable, so she’s a natural as a Life Enthusiast.

Connect with Abby on Twitter.

First, I’d like to thank Britt, not only for the honor of writing a post for her blog, but also, for asking me—what makes you enthusiastic about life?

Honestly, I wouldn’t have considered myself a candidate for this project. Enthusiasm suggests optimism and, well, the charming energy of say, someone who posts “happy dance” videos.

I think of myself as more of a cynic with a desperately hopeful streak. Or a poet, one committed to exploring life’s paradox of beauty and pain. Adamant seems an accurate description of my approach to life.

So, as I often do when I’m trying to figure something out, like why Britt saw me as a Life Enthusiast, I went to the words.

Enthusiast = fan, fanatic, buff, devotee, supporter, aficionado

Adamant = unwavering, immovable, resolute, stubborn, steadfast

And that made me think of this story.

Once our well was flooded by heavy rains, and it filled with sludge: stinking, black, gooey mud full of sharp rocks, sticks and dead lizards.

My husband Felipe and I set out to clean it, with a bucket, a pulley and a wheel barrel. (We don’t have such things, as sucking machines or any real services to speak of where we live, in middle of nowhere, Mexico.)

He lowered himself up to his armpits into the slime, filled the bucket, and hoisted it over his head. I then pulled it out with the rope and pulley, filled the wheel barrel and heaved it away from the well.

The process took two days—two days covered in disgusting slime the wasps loved (we were both stung multiple times), working wet for so long, hunks of flesh peeled from our feet and hands.

On the second day I was panicky and exhausted. Every muscle hurt. I was covered in cuts and bruises.

I wanted to quit, but we had to have water, and I knew Felipe would never allow his discomfort to hinder us. He would work until we’d succeeded or all our options failed.

I grew still and acknowledged the sensations I was experiencing.

I didn’t think about them, I just noticed them: the pain, the grittiness, the slippery things, and the different layers of stink. I felt my muscles and I quit fighting the bugs.

I breathed deeply—until I was completely present.

The earth shifted. It was just me and sensation, and the sensations were neither good nor bad, they just were. Suddenly, I was awash with joy, outside of time. Transcendent.

A horrid mud bath had awarded me a glimpse of nirvana.

I changed in that timeless place. I am not always joyful, not even close. But there’s a truth that lingers and informs me.

This is a day I will never forget.

The day Felipe inspired me to really live, not to turn away from difficulty, and to know the joy of being because I was willing to experience it fully regardless of the pain. This lesson made me the adamant life enthusiast I am.

*Readers, please note…Abby’s responses may be delayed as she has internet difficulties in rural Mexico. But she will respond to your wonderful comments as soon as she can. – Britt

Moving Like I Used To

Besides writing a bunch of nonsense in my journal from a young age, there are two things I did without fail.

Dancing and swimming.

I first learned how to dance by watching Janet Jackson and Paula Abdul music videos when I was seven.

I mimicked every move they made and forced my poor dad to video tape solo performances I would choreograph in my bedroom.

Dressing as shitty as possible was the cool thing in ballet class.

Until finally, even though we totally couldn’t afford it, my dad asked me if I wanted to learn how to dance for real.

I was a complete disaster in class, out of control with no technique unlike the other girls who started dancing when they were five.

But, starting dance class was one of the happiest moments of my life. My enthusiasm was unstoppable.

I worked hard with my “bad feet” and “bad turnout” and used my non-dancer’s body to my advantage, often dancing with the boys because I could jump as high as they could.

I performed in every imaginable place—in parking lots, on football fields, in parks, in classrooms, on stages, on the Queen Mary, a Lakers game, some hotels, gyms, classrooms…I know I’m forgetting plenty.

I wore leotards that always rode up my butt and I was probably the buffest ballerina to ever wear a tutu.

Dancing was something I did while working through all of the bullshit of growing up.

I danced forever and taught for a decade until two years ago, when I got so burnt out that I stopped.

I got really into Yoga, got certified and taught quite a bit. It was an incredible experience, but along the way, I felt like something was missing.

I missed moving my hips to a gorgeous rhythm. I missed moving my feet faster than I ever thought possible. I missed moving my arms through the air like they were my special wings.

No, I didn’t get back into my pink tights and pointe shoes. About a month ago I started taking Zumba again.

What I love about Zumba is simply this…you just shut up and dance.

There isn’t a post-mortem after every combination, you’re allowed to laugh at yourself for messing up, and you get to shake your ass non-stop.

I don’t feel the negative effects I knew intimately in the dancing world, like perfectionism or an unhealthy body image.

I didn’t want that. I just wanted to effing move.

Since I starting dancing again, I’ve been overjoyed. I returned to a part of me that I tried to ignore, but I couldn’t.

I know, this dive is worthy of an Olympic medal.

I was one of the few Southern California kids who struggled with swimming.

Near-drowning moments and claustrophobia made me fear swimming. Hey, when you’re under water, you can’t breathe.

Kids made fun of me for being a bad swimmer and wearing my floaties well past the acceptable age.

More than anything, I was determined to swim, because I loved the feeling of moving through water.

Swimming was like dancing to me. It was tough and beautiful.

And, just like dancing, I threw every part of myself into swimming. I got over my fears and swam like an ambitious fish.

Then, I got busy with being an adult. Then, I moved to places where swimming was hard to come by.

Portland proved to be challenging as well, except for the gym by my work, which (cue angel singing) has a salt water lap pool. So, I bought a bathing suit, a goofy swim cap, and goggles.

I went swimming on my lunch break yesterday. I got water up my nose and felt like I’d been hit by a car after ten consecutive laps. But for the rest of the day I was serene.

Now I have it down. I’m moving like I used to.

Rockin' the velour and Dorothy Hamill haircut. So stylish. — Rockin’ the velour and Dorothy Hamill haircut. So stylish.

What about you guys? Are there activities/passions you used to do as a kid that you’ve revisited as an adult?