Premium Writer
Los Angeles, CA, United States 🇺🇸

Anya B

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Bio

Anya is a Russian-American writer and producer with over 30 film and TV projects to her name. Her debut feature, Snowbound, was screened at the Cannes Film Market in 2017 and sold internationally. Her short film, I Am Normal, has been showcased at more than 25 festivals, including Academy Award-qualifying Cinequest and LA Shorts. Anya’s versatility spans various genres and formats, but her true strength lies in her deep understanding of human nature, compassion for others, and her sharp sense of humor.

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Subscript

As a Story Terrace writer, Anya B interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know our writer better by reading the autobiographical anecdote below!

DATING IN LA

I still laugh when I think about that night. It was at one of those trendy new restaurants, packed with beautiful people and loud music. I walked in, feeling a little self-conscious in my red summer dress, scanning the tables for the guy I’d been chatting with online for the past two weeks. The lighting was terrible, and I could barely see anyone’s face.

Then I heard it.

“Anya!” A voice called from the corner. I turned, and there he was—Richard. But not the 47-year-old Richard from his dating profile. No, this Richard was at least 70.

Frustration hit me hard, but I walked over. What else could I do? “You look stunning!” he said, grinning like nothing was wrong.

“Oh, do I?” I shot back, sarcastic as ever.

“Please, sit down. I can explain,” he offered, pulling out a chair.

I paused, torn between storming out and staying for the salmon I’d heard was amazing. My stomach won. “You know, I would leave, but I’m starving—and their salmon is divine.”

He smiled, relieved. “So, let me apologize for—”

“Catfishing.”

“Well, not exactly. I used my real photos,” he insisted.

“Yeah, from 20 years ago?” I shot back, pulling up his profile. “How old are you really?”

“Does age matter?” he asked, like that was going to work.

I glared at him, unimpressed. Then the waiter showed up, asking how we were doing. I ignored him and looked at the drink menu.

“Old-fashioned,” Richard ordered.

“Old, for sure,” I muttered.

Richard chuckled. “Vodka martini,” I told the waiter, who left after recommending the catfish. I waved him off. “No thanks, we’ve already had that one.”

Richard sighed. “I’m 72.”

I rolled my eyes.

“But everything we talked about was real,” he insisted. “You wouldn’t have gone out with me if I told you, would you?”

He had a point. “And there’s a reason for that.”

“Just stay for dinner. I’ll give you $2,000 if you don’t like me by the end,” he said.

I shook my head. “Gotta love dating in LA.”

He laughed, and despite everything, I found myself softening. He suggested the filet mignon. “I can’t,” I said.

“You don’t eat meat?”

“No… it gives me diarrhea.”

“Oh honey, but it’s so good! Worth the diarrhea!” he joked, making me laugh despite myself.

It wasn’t the night I expected, but somehow, Richard won a tiny battle.

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