Blog Tour: TAINTED ROSE by YUMOYORY W WILSON

Title (Naslov): Tainted Rose

Author (Avtor): Yumoyory Wilson
Zbirka: Starlight Gods #2
Genre (Kategorija): Adult (odrasli), Paranormal (paranormalno), Romance (romantika)

Publication date (Datum izida): November 10th 2017 (10. november 2017)

SYNOPSIS (OPIS)

I failed...

My name is Ryder Carter, future heir of Realm Five, Minato.
I was destined to do great things, to walk alongside my fellow star knights, as we desperately searched for the woman who would lead our galaxy to salvation.
My spirit and I had failed her once, unable to prevent the chain of events and challenges she’d faced for sixteen cycles. Then, we finally found her – alive.
Within two rotations, she’d blossomed into a beautiful rose – such delicate petals, filled with purity and life. My mission was to guide her home, to where she truly belonged, as our Princess and saviour from the approaching darkness. She was more than just our Princess; I loved her with all my heart.
But…I failed. My once perfect rose, damaged by my failures. Would she ever forgive me, her star knight who’d sworn to protect her? Will I ever get the chance to tell her how much she means to me…to us?
Only the Starlight gods can tell. Please…bring my Firefly home.
~In Stars We Trust~

Tainted Rose is Book Two in the new, paranormal reverse harem series. 

Recommended for 18+ audience, containing mature sexual content and strong language.

Spodletelo mi je...
Moje ime je Ryder Cartes in sem dedič Realm Five Minato.
Moja usoda je, da bom delal velike stvari. Hodil sem okoli z vitezi ob strani, ko smo obupano iskali žensko, ki bi vodila našo galaksijo. 
Moji duši in meni je spodletelo enkrat. Nisem mogel preprečiti verige dogodkov in izzivov, s katerimi se je soočala že šestnajst ciklov. Nato smo jo končno našli - živo.
Med dvema rotacijama, se je spremenila v čudovito vrtnico - z občutljivimi listi, napolnjena s čistostjo in življenjem. Moja misija je bila, da jo pripeljem domov, tam kamor pripada, kot našo princeso in odrešiteljico prihajajoče temačnosti. Ona je bila več kot samo princesa; ljubil sem jo z vsem srcem.
Ampak...spodletelo mi je. Moja perfektna vrtnica je bila poškodovana z mojimi neuspehi. Ali bo kdaj odpustila meni, njenemu zvezdnemu vitezu, ki ji je prisegel, da jo bo varoval? Ali bom sploh kdaj imel priložnost, da ji povem koliko mi pomeni... koliko pomeni nama?
Samo zvezdni bogovi mi lahko povedo. Prosim pripeljite mi jo domov.
~Zvezdnim zaupamo~
Tainted Rose je druga knjiga v novi paranormalni reverse harem zbirki. priporočena je za bralce starejše od 18 let, ker vsebuje seksualne prizore in vulgarne besede.

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AUTHOR (AVTOR)

YUMOYORI W WILSON is from Toronto, Ontario. She loves to sleep and write her days away. She works at night as a registered nurse. She has a little addiction to bubble tea and coffee but loves to workout. She has big plans for the writing world and can't wait to share them with everyone.

YUMOYORI W WILSON prihaja iz Toronta, Ontario. Rada spi in piše več dni. Ponoči dela kot izučena medicinska sestra. Malo je odvisna od čaja z mehurčki in kave, vendar rada telovadi. Kar se tiče pisanja ima velike načrte in komaj čaka, da jih deli z bralci. 

Connect with Yumoyori (Yumoyori lahko spremljate na njenih spletnih straneh): 

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GIVEAWAY (NAGRADNA IGRA)

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Another interesting paranormal romance. Še ena zanimiva paranormalna knjiga.
xoxo, Knjigoljubka Maja

Book Blitz: STILL by CAMILLA MONK

Title (Naslov): STILL

Author (Avtor): Camilla Monk

Genre (Kategorija): New Adult (mladi odrasli), Paranormal (paranormalno), Urban Fantasy (urbana fantazija)

Publishing date (Datum izida): February 28th 2018 (28. februar 2018)

SYNOPSIS (OPIS)

It always started like this, a pulse inside me, like a warning before the tide surged, roared… and froze everything.

Twenty-year old Emma just landed in Rome, to find the father who walked out of her life more than a decade ago and was too busy eating pizza to call. Traveling with her is a secret she’s carried alone since childhood: sometimes, around her, time stops. People and cars freeze, rain hangs still in the air and there’s only her left in the silence.

To make things worse, instead of her dad, Em runs into a past she’d rather forget in the person of Lily, her step-sis. Kind, beautiful, Harvard honors student Lily: the perfect daughter Em never was. As the two of them reconnect, Em starts to pick up some creepy vibes from Katharos, the mysterious archaeological foundation Lily works for—and more specifically the ancient stone table they’re digging up near the coliseum…

Faust, the blind hobo Em keeps running into, might be the key to piercing Katharos’s secrets. Actually, he might even have something to do with that pesky time-freezing thing. With Lily’s life on the line and no one else to turn to, Em chooses to trust this unlikely ally, but behind his charming smile and lunar antics, the guy comes with some serious fine print…

Vedno se je začelo tako, pulz mi je narasel, kot opozorilo preden je plima narasla, bučala...in zamrznila vse.

Dvaindvajsetletna Emma je pravkar prispela v Rim, da bi poiskala očeta, ki je pred več kot desetimi leti odšel iz njenega življenja in bil preveč zaposlen z jedjo pice, da bi jo lahko poklical. Potovanje z njo je skrivnost, ki jo nosi s sabo že od otroštva: včasih se okoli nje čas ustavi. Ljudje in avtomobili zamrznejo, dež ostane v zraku, samo ona ostane sama v tišini.

Da bi se stvari poslabšale, namesto svojega očeta, Em steče v preteklost svoje polsestre Lily, ki bi jo raje pozabila. Prijazna, lepa, ponosna študentka Harwarda Lily: perfektna hči, kakršna Emma nikdar ni bila. Ko se prepoznata, začne Em sprejemati grozljive vibracije od Katharosa, skrivnostne arheološke fundacije kjer dela Lily - natančneje od starodavne kamnite mize, ki so jo izkopali zraven kolizija...

Sezonski delavec Faust, ki steče skozi Em, bi lahko bil ključ, ki odpira Katharosovo skrivnost. Pravzaprav ima neko povezavo s to problematično časovno zamrznitvijo. Lilyjino življenje je na nitki, Em pa se nima na koga obrniti, zato se odloči zaupati temu neverjetnemu zavezniku. Vendar se za njegovim šarmantnim nasmehom in norčijami skriva nekaj resnega...

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READ CHAPTER 1 (PREBERITE 1. POGLAVJE)

Officially, this is not my story. It’s not my face you saw on CNN and Rai News after it was all over. I didn’t lose my mother at a young age; as far as I know, she’s still alive, probably doing fine. My paternal grandfather wasn’t a world-class historian, and I didn’t enroll in Harvard at seventeen to follow in his footsteps—I was never really good with books and studying. Just didn’t have the brains for that.

But I was there. I went to Rome to visit my dad at the time—booked a round trip ticket and six nights in a budget guesthouse with my tips from Tuna Town. I know, I know . . . Keep your jokes; I’ve heard them all. We had the cheapest tuna rolls on Broadway, though, and fresh most of the time. Anyway, I hadn’t seen my dad since I was seven, so it might sound like the adventure of a lifetime. It could even have been my story: this girl who decides to burn her meager savings on a trip to Italy to find the mysterious genitor she hasn’t heard from in thirteen years. There’s a tearful reunion, they sort out their issues, and she moves to Rome at the end—to start a new life and all.

I’ll get to that part, but let’s start with the afternoon right after I landed. I was sitting on a bench in a tiny park square tucked by the Piazza di San Marco—little more than a patch of grass under a few parasol pines. With my ripped jeans, my old Eastpak, and a can of beer tucked between my knees while I munched on a two-euro slice of margherita, I probably looked like your average gutter punk to the untrained eye. The October sun was warm in my hair—a messy bun dyed a washed-out turquoise. I liked that color, even if my blonde roots looked a little greenish.

Washing down the pizza with a slow sip, I watched over the rim of my can as buses came and went from a station on the square. Tons of buses, white and red, vomiting families of tourists coming to visit Roman ruins and that castle thing overlooking the piazza. It kinda looked like a Greek temple, with columns everywhere, white marble, and a statue of a guy on a horse in front of it. Old stuff, very nice. I took a couple of pics, mostly to pass the time because I couldn’t muster the courage to hop on a bus and go knock on my dad’s door.

I had his address saved in Google Maps; well, I hoped it was his, anyway. I’d found it not long after discovering his Facebook profile a few weeks ago, but he hadn’t replied to my friend invite. Maybe social media wasn’t his thing. He must be in his mid-fifties after all, which, to my twenty-year-old self sounded like some sort of pre-mummification stage. I set my beer down on the bench and took out my phone to check my Facebook feed for the hundredth time. I chewed on my nails. No new notification.

A few taps and a tiny profile pic of a fifty-something guy with graying blond hair appeared. Big grin, a tan, and sunglasses—taken during a vacation, I gathered.

Gabriele Lombardi.

Lombardi . . . the last name I had never worn. The name of a quiet Italian dude who’d sometimes visit our Brooklyn flat on Sundays and take me to Coney Island for the afternoon. We never did any rides, just strolled up and down the Boardwalk and shared a hot dog. He didn’t know what to say to a six-year-old, so he’d be like, “Guarda, gabbiani!” Look, seagulls! Meanwhile, I’d eat my half of our hot dog in dignified silence because I already knew what a seagull was. I would have wanted to hear about his job instead, or if he’d left Rome because of all the slavery there, like in Gladiator. And maybe, if I’d been brave enough, I’d have told him about the secret weighing in my chest and keeping me up at night, but I was too shy—too awkward for any of that.

I had no idea, back then, that Italy was even farther than Florida, and that this occasional Sunday dad of mine didn’t have legit visitation rights because he’d never filed for paternity in the first place. I didn’t know there’d be one too many fights with my mom over alimony, one too many threats of suing his lazy ass, one last Sunday, one last hot dog, and that I’d never see him again after that afternoon, when the seagulls paused in their flight above our heads for a short eternity.

Whatever. Tough shit, I guess. I chugged another gulp of beer and listened to the city’s noise, the cars, and the laugh of strangers, getting reacquainted with what little Italian I’d learned from my dad as a kid, like a song I wouldn’t remember well, but whose melody lingered. The notes threaded with Roman voices to fill the gaping holes in my vocabulary, and I could tell that those two women worked in a hospital, or that the guys sitting in the grass were checking their phone to see how to get to Quartaccio—wherever that was. Not bad for a high school dropout with a record 0.6 GPA. I gave a snort when I noticed an ad on the side of a bus with the words test di admissione. College, the final frontier . . .

I manspread wider on the bench with a bitter sigh and craned my neck to look up at the azure sky. Maybe I should message him again, and say “Hey, I’m here in Rome”? But what if he thought I was a stalker and he freaked out? What if he didn’t want to be found? Okay, that one was far-fetched; he was on Facebook, after all. And yet goose bumps bloomed under my hoodie in a familiar mix of shame and dread. It was kind of too late for that, but I was starting to realize I’d fucked up—again. I’d pictured myself starring in my very own Lifetime movie and blown $700 on a stupid impulse. Now I couldn’t even find the balls to call him and simply ask, “Do you remember me? Do you want to see me?”

“Okay,” I announced, to no one in particular—scared a couple of pigeons though.

I slammed my beer on the bench. Night wouldn’t fall for another couple of hours, at least. Museum tickets and tourist stuff were expensive, but I could always take a stroll around the piazza to clear my thoughts—the forum with the old Roman ruins was right behind that palace with the horseman. No need to pay for a ticket to check it from the street and snatch a few pics. I grabbed my backpack and beer. I frowned down at the almost-full black can. Honestly, that shit tasted worse than a Natty Daddy you drink alone for breakfast, and I didn’t want to be the girl who drowns her sorrow in grandma’s rubbing alcohol.

But I didn’t like to waste either. I decided to leave it up for whoever wanted to grab it—a bit of street solidarity never hurt. I’d barely shrugged on my backpack before this old guy with dirty track pants and gaping sneakers popped up behind me. Bumdar alert: dude hadn’t even bothered removing the cardboard sign around his neck—a few lines in Italian hastily scribbled with a Sharpie. I made no attempt to decipher it; his toothless grin spoke for itself. I flourished my hand toward the can with a wink.

He took the can and toasted me with it, chewing out a few words in a raspy singing voice. It took me a couple of seconds to make sense of the jumbled syllables—he wanted to know what a nice girl like me was doing in Rome.

My lips parted to reply. No sound came out. A loud and familiar beat in my chest muted my voice. His. Everyone else’s.

Oh God. Oh no . . .

It always started like this: a pulse inside me, like a warning before the tide surged, roared . . . and froze everything. The bum had raised my beer to his lips; golden drops remained still in the air above his open mouth. The tourists stood paralyzed mid-stride. The children’s grins were empty masks; their legs were coiled, ready for a jump that wasn’t coming, like birds about to fly away. The cars and the buses had stopped. Over the suffocating silence, all I could hear was the blood drumming in my ears, my neck. I staggered back, buried my face in my hands. I didn’t want it anymore—this hideous disease I could tell no one about.

It’d been weeks, perhaps even months since the last time, and like always, I’d almost allowed myself to believe it’d never happen again. How the fuck do you sit down in front of a shrink—or worse, your social worker—and tell them that you’re doing great, except when time stops, and everyone and everything is frozen but you? Don’t worry, though, it’s been like this since I was a kid; I’m used to it. I mean, sure, I freak out a teensy bit when I wake up at night, and I see a drop of water hanging midair from my kitchen faucet, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Nothing the right kind of meds and a straitjacket can’t fix, right, Doc?

It wouldn’t last. It never did. I massaged my skull and kept my eyes screwed shut, repeating the words in my head like a mantra: It’s almost over. It never lasts. Never. Just long enough to make me freak out in the middle of Central Park among frozen joggers and their dogs. Wax statues everywhere whose clothes wouldn’t wrinkle when I tried to touch them, water that wouldn’t wet my hands, and the silence, the silence drilling into my eardrums. I breathed through my nose. In. Out. Slowly, ticking endless seconds in my head until the hallucination passed.

Reality rushed back to me in a deep exhale. A car honked somewhere across the piazza, and the bum chugged down the rest of my can with a reassuring gurgle. A fat kid bumped into me; I was so out of it that I was the one who kept apologizing over and over as I stumbled away from the bench and toward the sidewalk. I needed to get away from the noise, the people. Right now. Scratch tourism; my new plan was to run straight to the guesthouse, check into my room, and stay curled in the dark until tomorrow.

Fighting the urge to climb on the first bus I saw, I resolved to ask for directions instead. Because my day hadn’t been shitty enough yet, might as well stack some cringeworthy social interaction in a language I hadn’t spoken in over a decade on top of it. I waved awkward fingers at a sweaty driver who sat slouched behind his wheel. “Quale . . . Autobus . . . Appia Alba?” Which . . . bus . . . Appia Alba?

My stuttering efforts were rewarded with a compassionate wince before he motioned at another station across the park with a doughy arm. “Si può prendere l’ottantasette.” I remained stuck in place, my jaw hanging limply as I slowly processed his instructions. “Ottantasette,” he repeated, before thankfully adding, “Eighty-seven.”

I gave an eager nod. “Grazie mille, signore.” Thank you very much, sir.

Well, things were looking up. If the bus didn’t freeze on its way to my guesthouse, I might even consider the trip a small victory. I strode toward the station at a brisk pace, passing the bum I’d given my beer to earlier. Dude had collapsed on the bench, using his cardboard sign to shield his leathery face from the sun while he napped. I thought of that old Phil Collins song: “Just Another Day in Paradise,” but I wasn’t really sad for him because I knew there were good and bad days on the streets, and to him, a sunny afternoon and free beer probably made for a good one.

Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t pay attention to the elegant silhouette catching up with me until a soft voice said, “Em? Is that you?”

AUTHOR (AVTOR)

CAMILLA MONK is a French native who grew up in a Franco-American family. After finishing her studies, she taught English and French in Tokyo before returning to France to work in advertising. Today, she builds rickety websites for financial companies and lives in Montreal, where she keeps a close watch on the squirrels and complains on a daily basis about the egregious number of Tim Hortons.
Her writing credits include the English resumes and cover letters of a great many French friends, and some essays as well. She’s also the critically acclaimed author of a few passive-aggressive notes pasted in her building’s elevator.

CAMILLA MONK je francoske narodnosti, ki je odrasla v Francosko-Ameriški družini. Ko je zaključila s študijem, je poučevala angleščino in francoščino v Tokiu, nato pa se je vrnila v Francijo in začela delati v oglaševanju. Danes izdeluje spletne strani za finančne družbe. Živi v Montrealu, kjer opazuje veverice in se dnevno pritožuje glede velikega števila Tim Hortonsa (restavracija podobna McDonald'su).
Njeno pisanje vključuje angleške povzetke in pisma številnih francoskih prijateljev, kot tudi esejev. Prav tako je kritično priznana avtorica nekaj pasivno agresivnih opomb v svojem podjetju.

Connect with Camilla Monk (Camillo Monk lahko spremljate na njenih družbenih omrežjih): 

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Did you like the chapter 1? Kakšno se vam zdi prvo poglavje?
Happy reading, Knjigoljubka Maja

Book Blitz & Interview: WINTER'S SIREN by KRYSTAL JANE RUIN

Title (Naslov): WINTER'S SIREN

Author (Avtor): Krystal Jane Ruin
Genre (Kategorija): Paranormal (paranormalno), young adult (mladinski roman)
Publication date (Datum izida): November 1st, 2017 (1. november 2017)

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SYNOPSIS (OPIS)

For the last five years, Fawn has been the star soprano of a secluded opera house, forced to sing for her kidnapper.

His daughter, Devi, waits patiently in the shadows, hiding a face so horrible that no one who’s seen it will look at it again.

As Fawn plots her escape, whispers spread through the shaded corridors of dark sorcery, warning her that she must flee by the next opening night.

But when Fawn draws close to the exit, it’s Devi who’s standing in her way, leading Fawn to suspect that Devi has something to gain if she fails.

(a dark reimagining of Swan Lake)

Zadnjih pet let je bila Fawn zvezda soprana oddaljene operne hiše, kjer je bila prisiljena peti za svojega ugrabitelja.
Njegova hči Devi je potrpežljivo čakala za sencami. Svoj obraz je skrivala, ker ko jo kdo pogleda, je ne bi videl nikoli več.
Ko Fawn snuje svoj pobeg, so ji skozi zasenčen koridor s temno čarovnijo šepetalci sporočili, da mora bežati do naslednje otvoritvene noči.
Ko Fawn končno prispe do izhoda, se ji nasproti postavi Devi. Misli, da bo nekaj pridobila, če ji ne uspe pobegniti.
(temačni zapis Labodjega jezera)

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EXCERPT (ODLOMEK)

Frosty air nips at my nose. I stand almost knee deep in fresh fallen snow, letting the diffused sunlight hit my face. There is no sound. Peace settles over me. In this moment, I truly feel like I’m in the middle of nowhere.

Something cold and wet explodes on the back of my neck. For a moment, I fear the worst. A boil. Pus. My father’s description of my mother’s face plays out in my mind.

But then I hear Andrew laughing behind me. I touch the rough skin on my neck and bring a shaky and damp glove to my face. Snow. It’s just snow.

It’s the middle of the day, and my face is uncovered. To make everything worse, it’s bright outside. Freezing and overcast, but bright.

My hands fly to my face automatically.

“Are you going to let me get away with that?” Andrew laughs again.

I twist around and peek at him through my fingers.

He stands before me, his arms spread wide. A thick coat covers his arms, and in his gloved hands, he holds another snowball. “You have two seconds to stop me!”

I flip my hood over my head and drop down to gather snow in my hands.

Another snowball bursts against my head. The wetness plasters my hair to my face. I hurl my deformed ball in his direction. It misses him completely.

Another wad of snow lands on my neck while I gather a larger, rounder ball of snow. “Cheating!” I throw my handful at him. It lands weakly by his knees.

“Here, let me help you.” He climbs towards me and gathers a nice, solid ball in his fist. He hands this to me, and then stands back and spreads his arms wide again. “Try again.”

I throw it square at his nose.

“Ow!” He covers his face and cries out dramatically. “It’s in my eyes!”

“Stop it! Are you serious?” I navigate closer to him, and he falls back into the snow. I run to his side and hear laughter bubbling out from behind his hands. “Jerk!” I shovel snow over his body, and he laughs all the while.

Then he goes still. I stop.

“Andrew?” I lean in close. “Andrew?”

He lunges out of his shallow grave and tackles me to the ground.

A panicked scream leaves my body as he lands on top of me, heavy and warm. Then a strange sound comes out of my mouth. Something that’s never come out of it before. Laughter.

His braid hangs down, inches from my sunken cheek. Suddenly aware of how close his head is to mine, the laughter dies in my throat, and I slap my gloves to my cheeks.

“You have such beautiful eyes,” he says.

My breath is trapped in my chest. It hurts. I don’t know how much he can see of my face—my hood is pulled low and my hair and hands cover everything else—but I fear it’s too much.

“Andrew . . .”

TEASERS (CITATI)

AUTHOR (AVTOR)

KRYSTAL JANE RUIN is the author of supernatural and paranormal fiction, living in the Tennessee Valley with a collection of swords and daggers. When she's not hoarding stuffed pandas, hourglasses, and Hello Kitty replicas, she can be found in YouTube hole or blogging about books, writing, and random things at KrystalSquared.net.

KRYSTAL JANE RUIN je pisateljica nadnaravnih in paranormalnih fikcij. Živi v dolini Tennessee s svojo kolekcijo mečev in bodal. Ko si ne kopiči stvari, peščenih ur in Hello Kitty replik, je aktivna na YouTube kanalu in blogu, kjer piše o knjigah, pisanju in poljubnih stvareh KrystalSquared.net.

INTERVIEW (INTERVJU)

Why paranormal and what other genres are you interested in writing?
I’ve always been drawn to dark stories. Some of my first memories are of me trying to scare myself for some reason. Haha. My writing tastes have always been a lot more narrow than my reading tastes. But I would like to experiment with some dark historical fantasy and supernatural horror. I might talk myself into trying another high fantasy story one day.

Zakaj paranormalne zgodbe? Ali vas pritegnejo še kateri drugi žanri?
Vedno sem bila za temačne zgodbe. Eden mojih prvih spominov je, kako sem sama sebe strašila. Haha. Moj pisalni okus je bil vedno bolj omejen, kot moj bralni okus. Želim si eksperimentirati z temačno zgodovinsko fantazijo in nadnaravno grozljivko. Mogoče se bom prepričala in nekoč napisala visoko fantazijsko zgodbo. 

If you were a teacher, what subject would you teach?
Shakespearean Drama! But I’d also be happy to do plain Shakespeare or plain Drama. Either one of those would be most up my alley. If a class existed that was dedicated to Edgar Allan Poe, I’d also be interested in that.

Če bi bili učiteljica, kateri predmet bi učili?
Shakespearsko dramo! Srečna bi bila tudi z navadnim Shakespearom ali navadno dramo. Eno izmed teh dveh bi bil moj zagon. Če bi bil razred navdušen nad Edgarjem Allanom Poemo, bi bila tudi zadovoljna.

If you could live in any novel, which one would you choose and why?
Is it weird if I say I want to live in Middle Earth? I read The Hobbit a long time ago, but I’ve only recently watched all the movies, and I’m obsessed with them! I hate the thought of giant spiders and trolls and orcs, but I wouldn’t leave Hobbiton anyway, and I think I’d love it there. Also, no creatures there. Bonus. (I mean, if Gandalf was with me, I might could be talked into going on an adventure.)

Če bi lahko živeli v romanu, katerega bi izbrali in zakaj?
Ali bi bilo čudno, če povem, da bi želela živeti v Srednjem svetu? Že dolgo časa nazaj sem prebrala Hobbita, pred kratkih pa sem pogledala še filme in postala obsedena z njim. Sovražim orjaške pajke, trole in orke, ampak vseeno ne bi zapustila Hobbitona. Mislim, da bi mi bilo tam všeč. Seveda brez bitij. Plus. (Samo če bi bil Gandalf z mano, bi se dala prepričati, da bi odšla na pustolovščino.)

Are you a plotter, panster, or hybrid writer?
I often pants the beginnings of stories or pants my outline as I write, but I always have a clear plan and direction I’m going in. That said, I have to have a finished outline at some point. It helps me remember little details better, and I write faster with one, as well.

Ali si zarotniški, panster* ali hibridni pisatelj?
Zgodbo začnem spontano, ali pa si zapišem osnutek. Ko pišem naprej, imam vedno jasen načrt in navodila. Se pravi, da najprej dokončam osnutek do neke točke. Ta mi pomaga, da si bolje zapomnim določene detajle ter da hitreje pišem.
(*panster pomeni pisatelj, ki nima nič, niti osnutka in si za vsako sproti izmišljuje dogajanje zgodbe. Nisem zasledila slovenskega izraza za tole besedo.)

What is your mutant power?
Freezing everything! Don’t ask what for. I have a long-standing fantasy of water manipulation, and I would just love that. In my head, it’s like a cross between Ice Man and Storm. Ice Storm anyone? No?

Kaj je vaša posebna moč?
Zamrzujem vse! Ne sprašujte me zakaj. Z veseljem bi imela dolgoletno fantazijsko manipulacijo vode. V moji glavi si to predstavljam kot križanca med Ledenim možem in Nevihto. Ledena nevihta? Ne?

What three movies would you take to a deserted island to watch over and over again for a year?
Easiest question ever. The Little Mermaid, Clueless, and The Craft. They are my favorite top three movies of all time, but I feel sorry for anyone who knows me after returning from such a trip. I have a really bad habit of quoting movies, and I’d likely have them all completely memorized by then.

Katere tri filme bi vzeli na samotni otok, da bi jih gledali vedno znova?
Najlažje vprašanje. Majhna morska deklica, Nimaš pojma in The Craft. To so moji najljubši filmi vseh časov. Bogi tisti, ki me bodo poznali po vrnitvi iz samotnega otoka. Imam namreč slabo navado, da si zapomnim citate iz filmov.

What inspired you to write WINTER’S SIREN?
Usually, this is the hardest question ever, but I love fairy tales, I love retellings, and I love the theatre: ballet, musicals, opera. My love of theatre directly influenced the direction of this story. You don’t want to know what it looked like before.

Kaj vas je navdihnilo, da ste napisali WINTER'S SIREN?
To je najtežje vprašanje, kar sem jih dobila. Obožujem pravljice, obožujem retelling* in obožujem gledališča: balet, muzikal, opero. Moja ljubezen do gledališča je imela velik vpliv na nastanek te zgodbe. Ne želite si vedeti kakšna je bila prej.
(*retelling je ponoven zapis ali priredna neke zgodbe, knjige, pravljice, filma)

You can find out more about Krystal online (Več o Krystal lahko najdete na njenih družbenih omrežjih): 

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GIVEAWAY (NAGRADNA IGRA)

A Grimm's Fairy Tale anthology + swag (incl. keychain, quill pen, candle, bookmarks, and a notebook with the book cover on it)
Giveaway end Nov 9th.

a Rafflecopter giveaway 

I love that cover! Naslovnica je čudovita!

Happy reading, Knjigoljubka Maja