Don't read my books. I'm insane. I like to write some messed up shit, just to see whether my characters
can handle it.
In real life I'm not all that mean. I can be nice. Like really, really, really nice.
Until you piss me off. Then I will chop you up and feed you to my dog.
I adopted my dog Arya from Bosnia. She likes to eat meat and isn't very smart, but I love her anyway. I
also have a cat called Pepe, and he is probably the dumbest cat I know. (I know a lot of cats, most very
I have undying love for cocholate. I am hoplessly addicted, and my addiction is acceptable by society,
which is wonderful.
I also have two of human offspring, a boy and a girl, which I love, altrough I'm not that good with
children. Hopefully they will grow up soon and I won't scare them too much. My goal is to raise trauma-
free adults. My partner who is great with kids will undobtedly do most of the work. Without him, I'd be
an old cat lady and wouldn't have courage to publish my work. (Thank you, love.)
Together we live in beautiful Slovenia, where we do our best to hide before the rest of the people.
Most of the time it works which is great. People are nosey and rude and if they piss me off I'd have a lot
of extra work for which I don't really have time, since I decided to dedicate my life to writing.
Hopefully I will deliver to my expectations, which are so high, that often times I just think I should trash
all my work and become a full-time cleaning lady (or something equally mind-numbing).
But then I remember I am too lazy to do that so here I am. Imagining. Writing. Deleting. Writing again.
Deleting half of it. Write some more. Then fixing it once, twice... and maybe sixth time is the charm.
This is why I may take long.
I'm trying. For me. And for you.