Fargot Password? / Help

Tag: novels


New Book Cover Unveiled for Romantic Fantasy "The Chamber of Curiosities"

A new book cover has been created by Design for Writers for Romantic Fantasy, The Chamber of Curiosities by Anastasia Blackwell.

The novel, set in a carnival in an ancient land, is scheduled to be published in early Spring. The story begins the night of a full blue moon when a beautiful aerialist breaks into the cage of a carnival freak, known as The Human Beast. Obsessed to see his face, she entices him to to allow her to shave him  His remarkable transformation inflames the superstitions of citizens, and sets the stage for revolution in the seaport town where they are held captive.

dfw-ab-tcoc-cover-3d-nologo copy


A Woman on the Wildside - A Dance of Fate in Argentina

'He made me comfortable in a manner usually signifying eminent intimacy.  Sometimes such people are guideposts, stationed by destiny to lead you to the next phase of your journey, or as agents of transformation.  On occasion, a stranger appears to offer a passionate night or two, a dance with danger, when traveling away from the homeland.'

Please Note:  "A Woman on the Wild Side" is a series of blogs chronicling author Anastasia Blackwell's experience traveling in Argentina, and features a mysterious young man named Tamerlane Rivera There are plans for the blogs to be compiled and and published when her adventure is complete..

Tamerlane Rivera removed his overcoat and used it to shield me from the torrential downpour.  He guided me from the Recoleta Cemetery to La Biela, a lovely restaurant on the square, known for the common presence of American actor Robert Duvall, whose movie, Tango Assassination, was filmed in Buenos Aires. The restaurant manager greeted Tamerlane as an old friend and offered a prime window table, with a view of the entrance to the cemetery and pedestrians passing beneath colorful umbrellas.  It was August, winter in Argentina, but it would soon be spring and the weather was mild

     Our conversation began formally, with mutual questions about our backgrounds. The chatter of guests and the soothing sound of rain beating against the rooftop afforded a homey intimacy.  He made me comfortable in a manner that usually signifies eminent intimacy. Sometimes such people are guideposts, stationed by destiny to lead you to the next phase in your journey, or as agents of transformation.  Occasionally, they offer a passionate night or two, a dance with danger, when traveling away from the homeland.

     “I followed the family tradition and went to law school,” he told me. “I come from a long line of attorneys and politicians. But, when I experienced first hand the corruption, in the government and courts, I was disgusted.  It is my opinion that there is no justice for the underprivileged in this land, or any other, from my experience.  Institutions are created to earn capital, create fear, and control the masses.

     He paused and looked out the window pane, streaming with rain.

     “Last night, as we stood facing the Tribunal, I saw in your eyes that you had suffered an injustice,” he said.

     “To be driven by fear is to ride in the trunk of your own car. You will never arrive at your destination,’ you told me.

     He offered an enigmatic smile and the reflection of something else.

      “Sometimes the courts will dole out a good result, often published it in the media.  It operates in the manner of a lottery or a slot machine, giving people hope and reinforcement that the system works to their benefit. But even then, the attorneys are the real winners,” he told me.

     “Do you still practice law?” I asked, and held his provocative gaze.

     “I occasionally take cases, to assist those who do not have access to a defense. But, mostly my efforts are centered on working with activists to create an underground social movement that operates both inside and outside the system. Our beliefs are rooted in the sovereignty of the individual.”

     "Are you a revolutionary?” 

     “I am a Transformationalist.”

     “I’m not familiar with the ideology.”

     He paused for a moment and drew a forefinger across his lower lip.

     My group organized the demonstration you attended. We provide political speakers and the trucks used to haul stage set-ups, video and audio equipment, and banners. I keep my eye on the spectators to make certain the crowd remains in control and the police are kept at bay. That’s how I found you, although you would not be hard to miss at any vantage point.” 

     I blushed at the compliment, though not entirely convinced his beguiling manner wasn’t universally administered, as heir to the machismo porteño culture.

     “I presumed your appearance was more than serendipity,” I said.

     “What path led you there?”

     “I asked the ticket seller at the train station what stop to take to arrive at Arenales and Suipacha. He told me to get out at the Tribunals exit.”

     “Then it was fate.”

     “How so?”

     “You got off at the wrong stop.”

     Our waiter, who moved like an invisible puppeteer guiding him by strings, arrived with a silver platter of steaming coffee and dulche de leche dessert, a delicious Argentinean favorite. Tamerlane switched to his native Spanish tongue and engaged the man in a banter that accented the deep melodic tone of his voice.

     A melancholy drifted over me as the pouring rain beat the window, obscuring our view. The world dissolved into a blur, leaving only the security of the present. As he spoke with the waiter I admired his impressive physical attributes.

     He had intense, soulful brown eyes, a strong jaw with a faint cleft in the chin, full lips, and luxurious dark wavy hair grazing to his shirt collar, an expressive chest straining against cotton, long legs, and muscular thighs. His high cheek bones would have made him near model perfect, were it not for the horizontal scar below his left eye socket. I wasn’t certain of his age, although he was clearly younger.  Yet, he hadn’t flinched when I told him my boys were grown.  Tamerlane reclined in his chair, raised his cup of café con leche to his lips, and observed me with curiosity, as the waiter departed.  His skin held tawny color, yet was translucent, naked, like still water - tranquil, yet teaming with life. He was clearly a man who had never experienced rejection or failure.  His eyes held keen intelligence, a radar that searched for subtext and anticipated the next move. Deeply complex and masculine, there was a hint of vulnerability lurking beneath that charged him with the illusive aura of charisma. 

     “Is your family buried there?” I asked him, looking out the smeared window toward the gates of the Recoleta Cemetery.

     “Yes.  They lie next to the murderous general.”

     “Is there no other choice of destiny?”

      “Perhaps,” he said softly, and I saw the first crack in his resolve.

     I shifted my gaze to a painting on the paneled wall of a beautiful couple dancing the tango. The raven haired beauty wore a low cut red dress, slit to thigh, and a shapely long leg was wrapped around the leg of her sultry partner. They were either drunk on love or Malbec wine, and their infatuation was tantalizing.

     “Would you like to learn to dance the tango?”  He asked, and broke into a grin that revealed an enviable set of teeth

     “I’ve heard it’s very complicated,” I answered and cut into my dessert, oozing with warm caramel and chocolate.

      For the man it’s complex.  A woman only needs to learn a few moves. The man controls the dance and the woman follows his lead.”

     “It seems women will never break free from that blue print,” I said, with a dash of playfulness cutting through my sarcasm.

     “It takes discipline to understand how to get into the head of your partner, to learn how he thinks, to understand his weaknesses and strengths, while introducing your own spice and personality.  Done properly it transcends the partners and alters the essence of the dance,” he said.

     “I’m not good at following. I like to be in control,” I said, and met his gaze dead on.

     “To be in control is to be out of touch with your instincts,” he said, and I thought he might take my hand - but instead he motioned for the waiter.

     “I call Tango the Dance of Fate.  The man defines the nature of the journey and the woman uses instinct to follow him, while introducing her own stylistic accent.  At some point in the dance, the woman begins to influence the instincts of the man, and the dance takes on a life of its own.”

      “As the couple falls in sync, they inspire each other to create moves neither would have never imagined, if left to their own volition. Art is created when that happens, and sometimes the passion bleeds into the bedroom.  But not always,” he said with a seductive flicker of his eyes.

     “I have experienced what you describe as an actress working with a highly skilled partner. It’s what drives my passion for the craft. But I view it more as a duel.”

     "Duel implies a loser, " he said

    “A duel is a game of strategy," I answered.

     He flashed a charming smile to the women seated beside us, a quartet of coifed matrons with suits buttoned to the chin, primly sipping tea and taking dainty bites of flakey empanadas, who had ceased their casual chatter to eavesdrop.

     "There is an underground club where the greatest tango dancers in the world practice for championships, away from the eyes of the gawkers and those who steal choreography. If you like, I will take you there."

     “Do you dance?” I asked, and finished my espresso,down to the last drop.

     “I used to compete – when I was a student at the university. Now, I enjoy it for recreation.”

     “In that case, perhaps you can recommend a studio for me to learn a few basic steps before you introduce me to the dance floor.”

     “The rain has stopped.  Let me walk you back to your hotel,” he said. “It will be dark soon.”





Scene from Screenplay "The House on Black Lake" offers Shades of "Fifty Shades of Grey"

A scene from the Screenplay adaptation of Anastasia Blackwell's erotic thriller, "The House on Black Lake" was presented in a staged reading at Beyond Baroque in Venice California. The scene was written before "Fifty Shades of Grey" became a pop culture phenom. Some say author, E. L. James borrowed the name "Anastasia" in her research for the erotic novel. It is also coincidental that Anastasia Blackwell grew up in the Pacific Northwest and has intimate knowledge of the area, while E.L. James lives outside London.

The controversial power play scene brought requests from audience members, who compared its content with the popular BDSM novel and movie, "Fifty Shades of Grey", to publish the scene from the screenplay, adapted from the book.


Alexandra treads quietly through the dark entryway past the
mounted animal heads. Ramey appears from out of the shadows
and swings her around to face him.

Take your hands off me.

He is bleary-eyed, his good looks tarnished by alcohol,
jealousy, and something darkly troubling.

I don't welcome the sexual advances
of my friend's husband, or anyone
else's for that matter.

Is that so?

Meaning what?

You nearly got off with me in the
hallway last night.


Not very lady-like -

I have no respect for men who seek
the safety of the cage and the thrill
of the wild - but don't have the
guts to commit to either.

Don't lecture me, dear.

He roughly guides her down the darkened hallway leading to
the bedroom corridor.

Where's Ruth?

She stayed the night in Montreal.

You're clearly drunk.

Quiet. You'll wake the children.

Ramey sits in a hanging chair in a bedroom softly lit by
chandeliers. There is a fire in the fireplace, as the night
has turned cold. A massive four poster dressed in crimson
silk commands the space. Alexandra is stationed by the door.

I've seen your warlock's den. What
are you, some kind of wizard?

I have a fascination with science
and magick. Does that frighten you?

You don't frighten me.

He rides his hands up the chains.

Why did you row me out to stay in
the house on the island?

It was like tying you up without
tethers. Knowing I could set you
free - or not.

Cruel games are played by those with
no control over their victims.

True freedom can only be experienced
through absolute containment. When
your body is imprisoned, the soul is
released. And once it happens,
there's turning back.

Ramey observes her intently, and stands.

You've had a taste of it, haven't
you? It started in the Victorian,
and you went there with me in the

Is this the warlock talking, or do
you worship a darker deity?

That's why you fell for the pathetic
charms of Andre Labat.
(he tracks her surprise)
But giving yourself to that little
worm is like a sailor dipping his
cup in the sea when he's dying of
thirst. He'll never quench what I
see in you.

I found the young man quite charming.

He approaches with an ominous gleam.

The night we left you on the island
I made love to Ruth and pretended
she was you.

Save your confessions for your satanic

(hovering over her)
Does your dark side frighten you?

It must be a lonely world you live
in, where nothing matters other than
fulfilling your perverted needs.

You stay in my house, eat my food,
drive my car, and expect me to babysit
your son so you can go out and
fulfill your perverted needs?

I am your guest, and with whom I
choose to sleep is not your concern.
I'm a single woman - free to do
whatever I desire. I had the guts
to release myself. You, on the other
hand, have no claim on freedom. You
wear the gold band of ownership.
You're no different than your pierced
and branded livestock.

Potent Pause: his eyes darken, flit side to side, and a wry
smile plays at the edge of his lips.

As the master of the household, I
have certain expectations, and rules
that must be obeyed. I would like
you to consent to a punishment for
being such an ungrateful house-guest.
Five lashes would be fair, wouldn't
you agree?

This has gone far enough!

Have you ever taken corporal
punishment from a lover?

Good-night, Ramey.

Walk out that door and I'm taking
you and your son to the airport

(turning away)
I refuse to continue with this sick -

Ramey roughly whisks her into his arms, carries her across
the room, and throws her onto the bed.

Turn around and bend over, hands
against the bed.

He unbuckles his belt.


Hide on skin is painful, but it's
the only way to transcend.

The word "no" may sound foreign -
since you've never heard it.

I could tie you up and torture you
with love first - but you don't
deserve it.

You've tortured me long enough.

Then, let's get to it.

Ramey draws his belt from his jeans and Alexandra draws a
breath of anticipation. The tension between the two is

We're the same, you know. We're the
same breed. I've known it since our
eyes met in the desert.

I'm nothing like your kind.

He slides his opposing hand down the length of the stiff
leather, and pulls it taut.

Do what I say - there's no way out.

You may be a sorcerer, but you are
neither my master, nor my priest.

There's no choice, dear.

My body and soul are not for your

We've been conjoined by fate -

That privilege is earned through
commitment and trust.

And there is nothing -

I will only supplicate myself to a
man who worships me as much as I
worship him.

We can do to stop it!

He WHIPS the belt up and powerfully STRIKES. Alexandra
releases an involuntary cry, as it barely misses her, and
cracks against the bedpost.

I now realize I made a terrible

And, so have I.

Yet, I gave up everything and your
life remains intact.

Look at me. Look into the pupils of
my eyes. They're the place where
you can see inside the mind, and
read what its thinking.

She gazes up into his tortured eyes.

You're moving away from me, Baby.
It's like you've fallen into the
bottom of a well. You're crouched
down there, but I can't get to you.
I can't save you.

Alexandra solemnly stands and moves to the door.

I didn't ask you to save me.

She turns and walks to the door.

I believe it's you who is looking to be saved. You
need to save yourself, before
it's too late.

She exits.


A Woman on the Wildside - A Taste of Freedom in Argentina

Author Anastasia Blackwell joins protesters in front of Tribunal in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

" I to be rocked to the soul by a passion I couldn't control, an obsessive,  unquenchable desire that burned through the night, blazed shadows against the stars,  and brought new meaning to a world gone stale.  Purpose."

Please Note:  "A Woman on the Wild side" is a blog written by Anastasia Blackwell chronicling her journey in Argentina, featuring a mysterious young man named Tamerlane Rivera.  The series will be published upon completion.

A Rebel is Born

America 1776 - a new constitution affords "men" their God given divine right to life, liberty and the pursuit of  happiness.

America 2013 - "The divine right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness  will never hold up in court,"  a prominent attorney told me.  "Courts are created for attorneys to make  a living and justice is for those who can pay for it."

"An injustice to one citizen is a blow to us all," I protested.

He nodded with a patronizing mile.

     'Art is a powerful means of expressing social, political and emotional discontent, and rebellion is often best clothed in subtext.  But sometimes you have to speak your mind, and not give a damn about the consequences', I wrote in my journal.

To that end, I took action.

In a serendipitous moment, alone on the Buenos Aires streets while visiting my son studying abroad in Argentina,  I came upon a political demonstration.  The passion and vigor of the congregated masses transformed the air with the thrill of  possibility.  The  throng  took me deep into their folds and moved me, like the undertow of a current,  to face an imposing judicial building.  Beneath the colorful flags of the demonstrators and the brightly lit Tribunal voices elevated by loud speakers exposed truths, both esoteric and unspeakable.

They cried out against a government that had lost touch with the needs and desires of its citizens. They spoke of  inflation, political corruption, unjust courts,  and greedy banks, and even darker, of  torture, underground justice, and stolen and murdered children.  It was a triumphant showdown of man against institution, beneath an enraptured sky.

The speeches of men and women of all ages and ethnicities echoed through the night, as tears were shed  and a torrent of human emotions swelled up and filled our hearts.  Light flooded from the windows of the stoic building, held strong by its columns,  unmoving, defiant, secure in its weight and position, as the police closed in.

We stood before the Goliath building, a glorious sea of humanity,  together in our purpose to fight for our God given rights  - the promise of Democracy.

A man positioned himself next to me - tall, powerfully built, dressed in a pea coat and jeans, with golden skin and lush dark hair spilling to his collar, topped by a black fedora displaying a gold crescent pin.  He bestowed warm brown eyes and a smile, his teeth glimmering white beneath the bloated moon.  His Spanish baritone resonated like a caress.

"You are an American?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"We cannot allow government institutions  rule us through fear,"   he stated simply.

The night had grown cold with the passing clouds, and I folded my arms and drew my coat tight, while  searching his intense eyes.  Lost there, I saw something of myself reflected back, a part of me I had not known existed until that moment - and something profound began to awaken.  Flags waved the image of revolutionary Che Guevara and patriotic music stirred the citizens to near riot.

"I am a single mother.  How can I stand up against a powerful male patriarchal system?  The American constitution was meant to be democratic, but it was forged by founding fathers, not mothers."

“Your founding fathers fought a similar battle, only as the bastard children of a strict and unyielding father across the Atlantic. You can accept their remedy or choose your own.  There are many ways to revolt and many ways to achieve your goals once you set them,” he said, with a charming smile.

"Are you a revolutionary?"

"A transformationalist."

"I'm not familiar with the ideology."

"My name is Tamerlane Rivera.  Welcome to my country," he said, and he offered his hand.

The crowd roared, canons fired, and a zealous, chaotic energy infused the square that was intoxicating, exhilarating.  Yet, it wasn't enough - I wanted more.

I wanted to be rocked to the soul by a passion I couldn't control, taken to the furthest edge of mind and body,  by an obsessive, unquenchable desire that burned through the night, blazed shadows against the stars and brought new meaning to a world gone stale.  Purpose.

journey shifted in the moment, my perception of reality altered, like awakening to a winter morning with  a freshly fallen blanket of snow, pristine, untouched, ready for the weight of the first footsteps to bring life  a hidden landscape ready for the taste of something new.

Challenging the Tribunal

Anastasia Blackwell





The Power and Beauty of the Word

 I was recently interviewed about my inspiration to write "The House on Black Lake".  This is my story:

It all began one sultry night in the venerable bar, James' Beach in Venice, California. The roofless space fused cigarette smoke, the salty stench of the sea, and the cologne masked sweat of three men surrounding me. To the left and right, perched on their stools, like cocks on the roost of a hen house, two gorgeous men competed for my attention. To my back was a wizened old man with a girlish muse on his arm. Somehow his sagely words kept sneaking between the hunks and worse yet the encroachment of his emaciated frame.

My girlfriend was the one who broke the spell. Upon returning from the restroom, she ordered a T and T, lit another Marlboro Light, and tore my attention from the two dueling cocks to introduce me to the mismatched duo at my rear. The elderly man's face looked like the mask of a vampire's last incarnation. The girl's face appeared as pure as a new born chick, but experience had taught me that innocence does not usually take residence with debauchery. Or, as my attorney once told me, squirrels only mate with squirrels. I soon learned he was a "well known" poet. This was obviously a marketing ploy to sell his workshops, but the girl appeared smitten with his genius. She professed to have taken more than one of his classes since moving to Los Angeles from Minnesota three months ago. She had also completed all the exercises in "The Artist's Way", and insisted I do the same.

The poet apparently had a magic touch as I found myself confessing a desire to write a novel about a past experience. He leaned closer as I mentioned the word "write" and looked deeply into my eyes, in the manner of a predator smelling the blood of prey, and asked me to elaborate. I explained I had flown to the summer home of friends on the outskirts of Montreal, and upon arrival my young son and I were rowed out to spend the night in a Victorian Mansion on a deserted island. There was no phone reception and the boat garage was empty. I later learned from the lake's inhabitants that the house was said to be haunted and the enclave filled with secrets, evidence of which I found inside the residence. To make matters worse I could not swim and had a phobia of deep water. My experience on Black Lake was so powerful I felt the story must be retold.

The ancient scribe downed his shot of whiskey, wiped the excess with the back of his heavily veined and spotted hand, and looked even deeper into my eyes. His orbs wore the veil of a prophet or mystic. "My dear", he told me, "what you must do is write down how it felt to be rowed out on a lake at midnight to stay in a house that terrified you. Do not think about writing a novel. Focus only on writing about how you felt as you entered the boat, were rowed out onto the lake, and approached the house. The story will begin to unfold and take you to places you could never have imagined."

His words melted into the languid music of the night, the rising voices of the intoxicated, and the nearly tribal vibrations of the satyr's hunt. The evening began to swirl and spin, with beautiful people surrounding and engaging me as the poet and his muse disappeared into the mist tinged night. It was an evening to be remembered always. I can still see the image of silvery fog flowing in from the beach, capturing me in its midst, and drawing me into a magical fortnight, until the morning when I was deposited back into my former life.

On the morning of my return I awoke to my domestic chores. I made breakfast for my sons, drove them to school, and began the routine of my day. The house I purchased after my divorce had a severe structural problem with a lawsuit attached, and one corner appeared to carry all the baggage of the residence. With a Feng Shui book in hand I had attempted to cure the ills of the spot by hanging a vibrant plant. However, this particular plant did not seem happy with the bad Karma corner and was drying out and turning brown, munch like the Venice Beach poet. I filled a container with water, took a stool to the lofty dark spot, and stepped up to feed the foliage. At the moment the water took soil I was hit with what felt like a poltergeist. I was thrown, or fell due to lack of balance after three days of partying, and landed on my foot, breaking it outright.

Later that day I was released from the local emergency room with a bound foot and crutches. In dire pain, and daunted by the prospect of navigating the twenty steps down to my front door, I sank into an abyss of self pity. My mind shut down at the thought of ninety days with no respite, a Sartre-like No Exit, for what seemed an eternity.

I had nearly touched the brink of despair when I remembered, at the edge of drug induced consciousness, the poet's words. I took a pad and pencil in hand and began to write about my journey to the house on Black Lake. After a few pages of hand writing I transcribed to my computer and began to write in earnest. A torrent of words poured out, like a floodgate released. I wrote about how I felt as a newly separated woman being rowed to an island, lonely, isolated, without support, struggling to protect my child, lost, desperate, claustrophobic, and nearly drowning in frustration and sorrow. Confined to a bed, unable to walk, with no one to care for me, with the full weight of a mother's responsibility weighing on me - the experiences fused. My words spilled like the tears of the tormented, raging and fierce. Words held captive for a lifetime, like prisoners released from the dungeon of the Bastille. Freed at least, starved revolutionary words hungry for the taste of expression. Fully spent, I struggled from my bed to check on my sleeping sons, and then returned to gaze through my bedroom window at a luminous full moon. I was alone and nearly immobilized, yet free to express myself fully for the first time in my life. And that is when I realized the wisdom of the poet's words.

I never stopped writing from that moment, although I spent years exploring the topics of my novel, chasing romance and adventure, and educating myself in the art of writing and story telling. Nearly six years later, the week after my novel, "The House on Black Lake", was published; I reentered the bar where I first met the poet. In the ensuing years my life had transformed in a way I could have never imagined. I was no longer a passenger guided by a lawless and cruel fate. I had become the navigator of a life lived with creative passion. The seat I held years ago was now held by another woman, but I would not have taken it, as I had moved on. I found another space on the opposite side of the bar where I could see the poet's spirit looming yet, and made a toast to the wise man that changed a life in a smoky bar one sultry night in Venice Beach. He will never know he was the catalyst for my transformation. One can never be certain how a life will be touched when we share our wisdom.

And that is the power and beauty of the word.

Anastasia Blackwell


Top 20 Bad Girl Gone Good Romance Novels

Ruth Sandeley in The House on Black Lake is a bad girl gone good, gone bad

The House on Black Lake features Alexandra Brighton, a good girl who goes bad (by society's standards), but it also features Ruth Sandeley, a former bad girl turned good, whose circumstances have turned back to her bad roots. It is always intriguing to read the story of a bad girl who reforms. Listed below are a few of the most popular tales.

The list is in no particular order.

1. The Rake, Susan Enoch Series

2. Rescue Me, Christy Reese Series

3. Kiss Me While I Sleep, Linda Howard

4. Stolen Heart, Elizabeth Nauthon

5. The Devil to Pay, Liz Carlyle

6. No Man's Mistress, Mary Balogh

7. Dirty Money, Ashley Jaquavis

8. Death Angel, Linda Howard

9. Ricochet , Sandra Brown

10. Ain't She Sweet, Susan Elizabeth

11. Lead Me On, Pearl Island Trilogy, Victoria Dahl

12. Untie My Heart, Judith Ivory

13. The Bridal Season, Connie Brockway

14. The Charade, Laura Lee Guhine

15. Faking it, Jennifer Crusie

16. The McCloud Brothers, Shannon McKenna

17. Ultimate Weapon, Shannon McKenna

18. Heart of Glass, L.A. Dale

19. The Devil Who Tamed Her, Johanna Lindsey

20. Immortality, Maggie Shayne


Anastasia Blackwell Interview on Horses of the Apocalypse in Novel

In a series of interviews in historic Jacksonville, Oregon I was asked about the horses who lead Alexandra and Ramey to their destiny The House on Black Lake. Here are a few of my thoughts on the subject:





Anastasia Blackwell Interview on Venice Poet who Inspired First Page of Novel

In a series of interviews set in historic Jacksonville, Oregon I talked about the Venice Beach poet who inspired me to begin to write 'The House on Black Lake, a story inspired by a powerful personal experience.  Here are my thoughts:



Anastasia Blackwell Reveals Inspiration for Novel 'The House on Black Lake'


Anastasia Blackwell Interview on 'Fifty Shades of Grey'

In a series of interviews set in historic Jacksonville, Oregon I was asked about the pop culture sensation, 'Fifty Shades of Grey'.  There are my thoughts: