Debra Anastasia's Blog, page 73

Crazy!

What a wonderful and exciting few days I have had! Getting everything revealed for Crushed Seraphim's release was fantastic. It kind of felt like make believe until I saw the cover on Omnific's website.








I'm also now a Goodreads author and that is too much fun! I am such a big baby and keep on looking at both sites. You can find me here: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4831831.Debra_Anastasia

I have signed up for a giveaway so I will share the details of that soon. I do have a small quote from the story to share, spoken by our dirty Devil!


"There is something about me, doll face. It's between my legs, and I do believe a few minutes ago you were praying to it."

Until tomorrow! 

~Debra

POUGHKEEPSIE

Is a story that I have worked on in many different forms for a long time. Tonight I have the pleasure of announcing that the journey for POUGHKEEPSIE to find a home is over. Omnific Publishing will be publishing Poughkeepsie in October 2011! (tentatively)

I have such a fierce protectiveness concerning this tale, but after my amazing experience editing Crushed Seraphim with Omnific, I held my breath and submitted my big, ugly baby.

So this is it. It starts tonight, I will be re-editing it (again!) There will be a book trailer, a book and another life for my story. I am so very proud, thank you all for your support!

 ~Debra

CRUSHED SERAPHIM

Will be released by Omnific Publishing on May 17th, 2011. Are you ready for a foul-mouthed angel and a dangerously sexy devil?

The Hold

I keep coming back to you. I know I shouldn't. You're dirty, sometimes. Most times, you're a dirty filthy thing. This hold you have on me isn't natural.
I'm an adult, old enough to know better… and yet, and yet…I come back to you. Do I expect a different result? Haven't I been burnt enough to develop some sort of pavlovian response at the sight of you?
There are no smiles, no hints of human kindness. I could get that somewhere else and I have. Are you surprised? Don't be. Your grip isn't iron clad, though at times it feels that way. There are weeks when I know only you can appease me.
I'll wait for you, like I would with no other. I put up with things that no one should…from you. And I've tried to quit, I have. But how is it you make the most sense to me? The way you make your money isn't clean, people suffer and yet I revel in your bounty.
I've just come back from another tryst. With you. I can still taste you in the back of my throat. And yes, I want to shower. I want to unsee the things I have seen. I know I won't and despite the cries of the young, the curses of the old and the lingering stench of disappointment that surrounds you, I will be back. When the milk runs out, I know you'll give it to me the cheapest. The name brands that I would whore myself out to buy elsewhere, you have them for reasonable rates.
For you I need no airs. No bra, no razor even. You won't kick me out if I tuck my boobs in my skirt and call myself dressed. If I don't brush my hair or brush my teeth, still you give me what I need.
I don't love you Wal-Mart, but I can't hate you either. So I will stand again, with the screams of the tortured, bored babies while my ice cream melts and the checker ages in front of my eyes. In your vortex of crazy I will return.

Words

Words can be trapped and held hostage by a stalled imagination. Opening a blank word document turns a key, and the letters spill hurriedly, gaining speed and momentum as they fight to make themselves heard on the page. Together finally, glued to each other with passion and purpose, the words can tell their story. The journey must grab its reader and keep their precious attention until the end of the tale.  

That ending must stick, click, it must cause the curiosity inside the reader to sigh with contentment. Now the words can recede, seeking shelter in the mind that spilled them forth until they are called upon again to work their magic, to become a story entirely different.

So, let me tell you a story ...

DebraAnastasia.com

Email Cleaning

Is all I'm good for lately. I have the flu and although I'm passed the most...productive parts of the illness, I wound up pulling muscles in my chest which is making everything veryyyyy slow and painful. So it was a great day to sift through my inbox and organize it. I am stunned at the number of amazing readers that have found me through the breadcrumbs I have dropped to my new endeavors. I came across a message from a reader who had a desire to write but felt that she wasn't original enough.


So my response was:

 "Writing is the safest extreme sport there is. It's like jumping out of a plane but with no altitude to kill you. Open a word doc, crack out a few words and see what happens. You don't even have to show it to anyone if you don't want to. But TRY. You might just shock the shit out of yourself. Write just for you, write what scares you, write what you want to read. I would hate to think a voice was silenced out of self consciousness. If you want to try, try, come on, do it."

I hope that anyone that wants to try writing gives it a whirl. 

On the publishing front, I've been looking at so many angel pictures, I think I might sprout feathers. Spring is right around the corner and I am so very excited to see Crushed Seraphim fly.

Calling for help.

So I'm at Wal Fart preparing for the snowstorm (which thanks to me being prepared will now be a tepid, light rain) and I get all my shit and nonsense that I deemed necessary. Grapes and fucking waffles. And I make my way around the empty store (cause, damn I was there at 8:57 am Son). And get on the fucking line. Of course I have about 30 things, so I can't get on the express. And they have 450 registers butt only one open. So I get on a line seven deep and everyone else has their fucking nonsense and grapes and waffles and the checker? OMG so slow. Beep, bag slow pause. beep...........bag. Tie the bag in a fucking knot.. (why? who cares) beep.....chatty chat.....bag.

And I am dying in my head. Wishing I wasn't so damn paranoid of the snow. I used to be a New Yorker for fuck's sake! I drove in everything. And standing there for 15 minutes and NO ONE is moving. Grrrrrowwwwlll. Then I had an evil idea. I pulled out my cell phone and used my browser to look for the store I was in's phone number. Then I dialed the fucking number.

And then I spoke to customer service and said in a polite voice, "Can you please look at your registers? I'm the seventh person in line and my frozen stuff is melting. Can you send either another checker or a mop to clean up my ice cream? Thanks."

They sent a checker! I felt like I was calling 911 from the back of a cop car.

Wal Mart

We are looking at ice and snow so I faced Wal-fart to stock up.

Okay, going to Wal Fart is like getting type cast in a horror movie you didn't know you auditioned for.
Though I did put back the slim jim can because of it. #subliminalworksforme


Are you ready? I'm about to blow your mind with some prescription strength stupidity.

So today is kind of a sucky day for my self esteem. I have a Marilyn Monroe pimple. (You know, where she had her sexy mole)

Whatever, that shit happens, but then I decide to curl my hair with hot rollers and leave them on too long so I look like Orphan Annie. Then I decide to wear the velour sweat suit my mom gave me. It is the height of retirement community chic. But where the fuck am I going to ever wear it beside fucking Wal-Mart. Plus, I will match the natives. Whatever. Drop girlchild off at school, head to the DeathStar.


Now, the combination of velour pants and Wal-Mart carts is fucking deadly. I became electric with no control over what and where I would crack out another lightening bolt. I was a backfiring super hero. So that not only sucks, tit hurts. So as gorgeous as I look this morning I wasn't exactly expecting some male attention. Butt alas, Static Electric woman is hardcore sexy for swarthy, small serial killers.


So, I'm walking down the frozen aisle swinging my rock hard, picnic table wide ass like I always do looking for chicken nuggets when an alarm goes off in my head.

"Danger asshole, pay attention" says my reptilian brain.


So I snap up my gaze and lock eyes with a small, intense adult man. Bundled in many layers. And we hold each other's attention. And he has got the "bringing sexy back" come hither stare down--or so he thinks. That extra long eye contact is a dangerous thing. And in order to pull it off, dudes have to convey, "Hello pretty lady."

This guy could only communicate, "If we were alone in my basement you would be wearing nothing but monkey fur and handcuffs while I masturbated vigorously to the Teletubbies."

I refused to look away, spurring him on I'm sure with my sexy pimple and my need to make sure he wasn't carrying any Taser guns.



Could you imagine? The velour mixed with the taser? It would have been like a nuclear bomb. Chicken nuggets would be strewn everywhere.
 So I guess I accidentally flirted with a manic. I'm betting he thought I wanted him to nail me against the Buffalo wings and make me beg like someone on a fixed budget with an expired coupon at the check out counter.

Chin Hair

Getting older is hilarious.
Seriously. I'm now 36 and things are not quite what they were billed as before I had kids. I have laments.
But right now I am focusing on facial/head hair as I age. The truth is, when I was younger I could give a dead rat's ass about creams and wrinkle preventers. I didn't understand why my mother took so long putting on her make-up or why her mirror was mounted in a magnifying glass.
I get it now. Dear Heavens. What I want to know is how women morphing into Abe Lincoln is considered a win in the evolution process.
We got rid of the gills and the webbed feet, awesome. We stood up straight, fine. We created fire. Great.
Why do we need long chin hairs? I'm assuming that these hairs had some sort of beneficial use because…survival of the fittest and all that.
But don't ask me what function they performed for our middle aged ancestors.
Okay, fine. Now that I'm thinking about it, what could chin hairs do for us to enhance our primitive existence?
Scare attackers into thinking we were our bigger, burlier, male counterparts?
There's that.
Assuming food was scarce, maybe our goatee would catch any morsels that fell out of our mouths so we didn't miss a drop?
Weird, but possible.
Maybe they were handholds for our children so they didn't get lost in the dark before flashlights existed? (I'm picturing those long ropes schools in the city sometimes use to keep track of kids when the class has a walking field trip.)
I actually like that idea.

But I think the only possible, solid reason our cave sisters would have had long, beard-like chin hairs was to be used as a holster.
Wait, follow me for a second.
The hair on my head is getting thinner and wimpier with every year that passes. So if I had one perfect stone sharpened into a blade, I would need to carry it. My beard could be braided and the stone would be safe.
There's one flaw with that hypothesis. Or at least one constant that I'm assuming--that my foremothers were not wearing clothes because otherwise the beard holster would be insane. A lady would just tuck the knife into her pants or shirt or cavewoman bra.
So maybe the strongest, fiercest ladies ran around naked thus necessitating the beard.
I could totally get behind the idea that my ancestors were rampant, unapologetic nudists with chin beards that held their knives and children.
Not too close behind though, because they were naked and that gets creepy.
Another benefit!
I'm still going to be plucking my chin hairs but maybe I will be less angry with them if they have this, made-up, majestic, kick-ass heritage.

Today I made stuff.

Here is the recipe

I have been cleaning the fuck out of my house and dear heavens, there's a lot of fuck. This has been a process that started in the summer, with painting and neatening closets, etc. It was due to the fact that at this time of year I get very little time to bake the shit and do the special little nonsense that I want to do with the kids.

I have a few recipes in my arsenal of awesome. I will have to post them at some point. Usually they are some sort of bastardized versions of candy.


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So that's how it came out. I let the sugar boil a little too long in the oven, so I would watch it closer next time! Oh and there will a next time. A hard next time.

Tell me, what's your favorite Holiday recipe?