Thursday, August 1, 2019

#Excerpt from ECRIVAIN by Elizabeth Dunlap @edunlapnifty w/ @RockstarBkTours

I am stoked to be hosting a stop on the blog tour for ECRIVAIN by Elizabeth Dunlap! I have an excerpt to share with you today check it out and enter to win the giveaway below!

About The Book:

Title: ECRIVAIN (Ecrivain Academy Book 1)
Author: Elizabeth Dunlap
Pub. Date: July 21, 2019
Publisher: Elizabeth Dunlap
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 282
Find it: GoodreadsAmazonKindle
Read For Free on KU!

Welcome to Ecrivain Academy.
Here in these storied halls you will be trained to become one of the greatest writers the world has ever known.
There are poetry battles.
Friends. Enemies.
Is your story a romance?
Or is it something darker?
Explore all Ecrivain has to offer.

That is, if you can survive until graduation.

Now on to the excerpt!
One time my skirt got caught in my underwear and the entire school decided not to tell me, ensuring that they could all laugh at me for as long as possible. My humiliation was extreme when Blades whispered in my ear that my butt was showing. I ran to the bathroom, turning as red as a lobster, surrounded by laughter and jeering. It was the worst day of my life.
Until I opened my big fat mouth.
From the looks on my parents’ faces, you’d have thought I’d just said I was making money being a stripper on the weekends. Penny was grinning at me with his smug face. I knew what that meant.
‘Why are you wasting your time when you should be doing schoolwork?’
‘Your grades will start slipping if you keep this kind of behavior up.’
‘We didn’t raise you to have lofty dreams.’ They didn’t say that, but I could tell it was there in subtext.
The conversation ended with me being grounded. Grounded. For entering a story contest. And they sent me to my room without dinner, like I was a bratty five year old.
My feet paced the plush carpet of my bedroom, my hands clenched into fists, and my mouth moving with unspoken words. Before it was out in the open, writing was something I wasn’t sure I wanted, but now that I had a very real threat of losing it, I realized just how special it was to me. If my parents ensured I could never write after this… I would never again feel the joy I felt when I finished my story.
I sank down onto my bed and the thought grew into my head until I collapsed into despair.
My parents never said how long I would be grounded for, and as one week turned into two, my punishment continued. I couldn’t go out, so seeing the movie with Kathryn didn’t happen, and they suspended my allowance.
Being grounded sucked, but what upset me more was that I hadn’t heard back from the writing contest. It was unrealistic to expect an answer so soon, and I knew that, but it didn’t stop me from being down in the dumps about the whole thing. Even Kathryn was starting to pester me to lighten up.
Another day coming home to sit in my room. I took off my shoes in the foyer and closed the front door behind me. Before I could even take another step, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a mail person holding a certified envelope. I signed for it and took it inside with me.
The return address said ‘Ecrivain Academy’ in big golden letters and had France listed as the country of origin. Were my parents planning a vacation? It seemed unlikely that they would go sun tanning at a school though. My curiosity mounted and I briefly considered opening it, but it wasn’t addressed to me.
“That’s mine,” Mom said as she came up to me and swiped it from my hand.
“What is that?” I asked her, trying to peer over her shoulder.
She walked away as if I wasn’t even there. “Nothing. Go do your homework.”
Deflated, I climbed up the stairs and to my lonely existence. Phone-less, internet-less, and tv-less, my only redeemer was books. I was glad, at least, that my parents hadn’t taken them from me, even though I preferred them over prime time television. It never crossed a parents’ mind to take away books. Or I hoped it didn’t.
“You’re in truuuu-ble!” Penny’s muffled voice came from the air vent in my floor. He liked to lie on the hallway floor so he could tell me I was a booger face through the vents.
“Shut up, Penny!” I shouted back. He just snickered at me in his evil way. What did he know that I didn’t? Was the letter from France bad news? Was I being deported? I knew that was ridiculous, but I had spent many nights flirting with the idea that I was adopted and my real parents lived in an exciting place with servants and caviar. Having tried caviar, I don’t recommend it, but it sounds fancy. Or maybe my real parents were simplistic, living in a homey warm place where they made their own bread and never wore shoes. That sounded nice.
“I know something you don’t knowwww,” Penny taunted again. A loud bang came from the hall and I knew he’d retreated into his room to escape my questions.
Well, that was it. Something was going down tonight. Crap, the stress was already crawling all over me. I was going to break out in zits, I just knew it. I’d go to school tomorrow with a giant lurker on my nose, and everyone would call me Rudolph again. A quick glance into my desk mirror didn’t reassure me as my face was already bright pink. I grabbed some acne medicine and scrubbed it over my face to make sure I wouldn’t break out.
The front door opened and I heard Dad’s voice. My heart stopped, waiting for my name to be called so they could tell me either I was adopted (yay) or they were, I don’t know, sending me to army boot camp (not yay.) French army boot camp, no less. I didn’t speak French beyond ‘hello’ and ‘my little fish.’
Get a grip, Calliope. They’re not sending you to military school. My gym teacher was very specific when he told them my upper body strength was zero, and that’s why I was barely getting an A in his class.
“Calliope, can you come down?”
There it was. My doom. Goodbye, social life. Goodbye, boys. Goodbye, non-upper body strength. I took my time trudging down the stairs and found my parents sitting pretty on one of the sofas, waiting for me to join them. They looked fine, happy even. Mom motioned for me to sit on the adjacent couch. When I’d plunked down, she brought out the letter from France.
I broke like a glow stick.
“PLEASE DON’T SEND ME TO MILITARY SCHOOL!” I pleaded, my voice cracking with pent up emotion.
Dad sighed at me. “Calm down, Calliope. We’re not sending you to military school. But don’t think we didn’t consider it. All this writing nonsense. No, we’re sending you to boarding school. That should straighten you out.”
Mom handed me a pamphlet that had been in the envelope. Ecrivain Academy, where dreamers went to die. It didn’t say that, but I could see it clearly in my head. There were pictures of happy teenagers on the glossy paper, holding books, doing science experiments, and eating in a cafeteria. It looked nice, I had to admit, but all I could see was sadness, like a blue lens over my eyes.
“It’s a good school,” Mom encouraged with a non-comforting smile. “Year round classes, a strict schedule, curfews, and no extracurricular programs. We checked.”
What? What kind of school didn’t have extracurricular activities? No art class? No woodshop? No band? I put the pamphlet onto the coffee table like it was about to burn a hole in my hand.
Tears began to pool in my eyes. Why were they doing this to me? “Please, don’t make me.”
“This is no time to be a child, Calliope. You’re going, and that’s that. Go upstairs and start packing.”
“I’m leaving now? Today? Why so soon? It’s Wednesday, can’t I finish out the school week at least? Say goodbye?” If I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Kathryn, I’d be sad forever.
Mom gave Dad a hesitant glance, affording me a small amount of hope. “The school year has already begun. If you left on Friday, you’d be traveling all weekend and have no energy to start school on Monday. This way you can get used to the school when you get there in two days, and make sure you’re fresh for classes next week.”
Gee. How thoughtfully planned out.
“And Kathryn? Can I call her?” This time I pleaded with Dad. He didn’t looked phased with his hands crossed over his sweater vest and his mouth turned down.
“What, call her and let her wild hippie mother come over to talk us out of it? I don’t think so. Upstairs now, young lady. Your mother will be up to help in a minute.”
Taking a deep breath, I stood and formed one hand into a fist amidst the folds of my dress where they couldn’t see. “No thank you. I can do it myself.” I stomped away with deliberate steps and slammed my bedroom door shut.
If I had enough time, maybe I could email Kathryn and tell her how unfair they were being. Dad was right, Kathryn’s Mom would advocate me all night if she had to. Maybe her Mom would adopt me and I could sleep on Kathryn’s floor. Or they’d get me my own bed. That would be nice. I’d love living with Kathryn, getting to see my best friend every day. Now I wouldn’t see her at all. My lip shook and I would’ve burst into tears if Mom hadn’t walked in.
“I brought one of my suitcases,” she said cheerfully. “Here, you can have your phone back. We upgraded it to an international plan so you can call anytime.” I took it and slipped it into my dress pocket. No chance to email or text now with my warden here. That’s probably why Dad had insisted on Mom helping me.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, taking the suitcase from her and laying it out on my bed. She helped me pack it with clothes, shoes, and other necessities. Naturally, I went to my bookshelf and started grabbing handfuls of books.
“No, not those,” she admonished gently, and tried to take them from me.
God, she wasn’t serious. They were taking everything from me, they couldn’t take my one retreat from life. The tears spilled over and I struggled to keep it together.
“Mom, please. Not my books. I’ll never write another word as long as I live, just let me have my books.” I saw her consider it and it was clear that this had been an agreed upon point when my parents discussed everything, that I couldn’t have my books.
Eventually, she gave in and sighed. “Alright. I’ll get another suitcase for them.” I wanted to hug her in thanks, but we weren’t that kind of family. A smile and a thank you were enough. Plus I was still mad at her. She didn’t deserve my hugs.
I carried the smaller suitcase with my books, while Mom got the larger less heavy one, and we met Dad in the foyer. He glanced over the bags, as if I could’ve slipped in some writing without him seeing, but he seemed to find everything okay. I rolled the heavy suitcase to the trunk of his car and heaved it inside.
“Shotgun!” Penny yelled as he raced past me, deliberately knocking into me. We piled into the car and took off down the street.
Sitting in the backseat with Mom was quiet. I wished we were alone. I played around with the idea that I could talk her out of this, though her behavior my entire life suggested otherwise. She was still my Mom, and I knew it couldn’t be entirely pre-conceived to think she wanted me to be unhappy.
The airport was a short drive away and it loomed over me when we parked and started rolling my bags towards it. Dad led us to the right gate like an excited tour guide and got my ticket. Not first class, as if I was surprised. He could’ve at least given me that as a parting gift. It’s not like he couldn’t afford it.
Mom took the ticket from him and slipped it into my passport before handing both to me. “Do your homework. Don’t make trouble. Try to make friends, okay?”
“She doesn’t need to make friends,” Dad grumbled, his arms back over his sweater vest. “Just keep your grades up.”
Penny’s parting words were, “Don’t worry, everyone will know you’re a butt face soon enough.”
They said good-bye and left me at the gate to get some food for Penny in the food court. Then I was alone, about to head off to a foreign country as punishment for having a dream. I felt like a balloon when you leave it hanging in your house, and slowly, over several days and weeks, it starts to sink towards the floor until the helium is gone and it lands on the carpet in a sad heap.
My shoulders slumped and my handmade bag fell off and landed on the floor. It was the one thing I made in Home-Ec before Dad made me drop the class, a bag dedicated to my favorite brand of tea: Lady Grey. It had the label on the front from an iron-on transfer, all bright yellows with flowers. It looked like warm sunshine, and I felt like cold raindrops.
I slipped my phone out of my pocket and hovered over calling Kathryn. Could I get her to bail me out? I had to try; I couldn’t let this happen to me.
“Hello, sweetie. Flying alone?” One of the airport attendants approached me and reached for my ticket, interrupting all thoughts of fleeing. “Ahh, trip to France? I’ve heard its lovely. Have you been?” I numbly shook my head. “Oh my, but you’re quite the traveler, aren’t you?” she commented when she saw the stamps in my passport, all from Canada, the place we went twice a year so my parents and Penny could ski. “Canada must be fun!”
“Kind of.” She didn’t notice my half-hearted comment, or she wanted to pretend I was as cheerful as she was, and she happily helped me get my passport stamped and sent me down the hallway to my flight.
I could feel my inner monologue raging up to tell me that this was going to be exciting in some small way at least. I’d be in France, the country of smelly cheese and smelly love. It wasn’t enough to cheer me up, especially when I sat down on the plane, clutched my Lady Grey tea bag to my chest and wished this wasn’t happening to me.
Well. It was. And nothing would be the same now. Au revoir, home. There, now I knew three French things.
My legs were aching by the time my flight landed for a layover in Paris, umpteenth hours later. I made myself call Kathryn when I found out I had to wait three hours for my next flight. She was so livid, I was afraid she would storm my parents’ house and be arrested for disturbing the peace.
“They can’t just send you away!” she screamed into my ear. “All you did was write a stupid story!”
Stupid story.
I stared down at my Mary Jane shoes and licked my finger to rub a scuff out of them. “They can. I’m not eighteen yet.”
“We’ll come get you, my mom and me. Stay in Paris and wait for us.” I heard her shuffling to pick something up, and then more sounds like she was moving around her house.
Tears formed in my eyes as I started regretting calling my best friend. She wanted to fix this and it couldn’t be fixed. Maybe it could, but not by her. “You don’t have the money. Don’t be ridiculous. Do you even have a passport?” She probably didn’t.
“Do you want to be stuck at boarding school for three years straight? Be honest with me, Cals.”
“I don’t…” I wiped my wet nose. “I don’t have a choice, Kathryn. I’ll call you later.”
“Cals, no, don’t you dare–”
My phone clicked when I hung up on her. I instantly put my phone into airplane mode and slipped it back into my pocket. The conversation played over and over in my head for the rest of the layover. On my second plane, I curled up into a ball and imagined all the different ways this could have gone. Every part of me was stiff and sore when we arrived at our destination.
I shuffled along the press of bodies eager to get through customs until the open airport spread out before me. Fresh air. I took a deep breath of it and almost smiled, despite everything. Then a strike of fear came when I realized I didn’t know where the school was. This was soon squelched when I saw someone standing near the entrance of the airport with a sign that read, ‘Ecrivain Academy.’
Wheeling my heavy bags behind me, I approached the figure, and saw it was a blonde woman with a flowery cap and a pinstripe outfit on that showed some of her stomach. She saw me and beamed with happiness.
“Calliope?” she said with a heavy French accent. I nodded to her, and she reached for one of my bags. “Suzette. Nice to meet you.” We went out the front door and into the city of Marseille, France. “Are you new to France?” She didn’t see me nodding as I struggled to keep up with her on the sidewalk. “This is the oldest city in France. You will find many things here to peak your interest. Se maintenir.” I didn’t know her words, but she looked back at me and snapped her fingers. Keep up.
Eventually, we got to a light blue convertible that had to be at least a few decades old and was beautifully preserved despite its age. She put my large suitcase into the back seat and reached for the heavy small one in my hands. She lifted it like it was a toy poodle.
“Books?” she asked with a laugh, and I nodded sheepishly. “That is good. Yes. We love books at Ecrivain. Entrer.” Her hands motioned to the front seat before she hopped over her side and slid into the driver’s seat. She flipped on the radio, waiting for me to get situated, and hummed along to some French music I didn’t recognize. “Tout bon?” Bon was good, I thought. I nodded, and we were off.
Marseille was a coastal city, full of boats and cities older than America by two-fold. Marveling at the ancient buildings took my mind off of everything, and I soaked up as much as I could. I wanted to explore every inch of the city. Long before I was ready, we disappeared away from the town and into a forest with tall trees so thick that the sunlight couldn’t get through.
Suzette turned the car onto a dirt road with no sign. Where was she taking me? Had I been kidnapped? Should I try to jump out? My anxiety levels rose higher and higher, and just before I was about to make a leap for it, the dirt path became a paved road, and a clearing opened out before us, revealing a hidden castle with a large perfectly green lawn in front.
Ecrivain Academy.
Kids played frisbee on the lawn while others were reading books, and …. Reciting poetry? A tall blonde haired boy was animatedly rehearsing something for a group of girls, and they giggled in that way that meant a popular boy was actually talking to them. I knew that behavior well. The girls blushed and tried to say something to him, but they stumbled over their words and settled for tucking hair behind their ears as he said charming things.
Suzette parked the car on a side path and lugged my suitcases out for me. The popular boy saw the car and his attention was captured for the moment at the sight of us, leaving the group of girls to pout from losing his attention. I didn’t stop my trek across the sidewalk under the boy’s gaze, and followed Suzette inside the large double entry doors.
The school was truly a castle. Marble floors, stone granite walls, and plenty of antiques tucked safely away in glass cases. On a large banner over a fireplace were eight watercolor cameos, depicting perhaps the people who had created the school, I guessed. Two were women, and the eighth wasn’t a portrait as I’d first thought. It was a giant question mark. Odd.
“Allons y,” Suzette snipped when I’d stopped walking. I followed in the wake of her clicking heels to what I assumed was the school office, populated by the office staff. A few people sat at desks typing away on their desktops, and one stood by a coffee machine trying to balance several cups at once in his hands. He had curly black hair and was wearing what I could only describe as a school uniform with no patch on the front. “Leave the bags here,” Suzette told me. “Jamie, please take them to dorm one, room 221.” The boy set all of the cups down and eagerly jumped to do something other than add different variants of cream and sugar to mugs.
Seeing the coffee machine made me wish I could make some tea to calm my nerves. Suzette didn’t seem like the type of person to slow down long enough for tea to steep. The black haired boy, Jamie, took my bags and left with them. The idea of my possessions leaving my sight made me wish even harder for tea as I struggled to maintain an outward appearance of chill. That became impossible when Suzette motioned for me to follow her to the very imposing principal’s office. What would the principal say? I was sure my parents had said some very strong words about my naughty writing habits when they enrolled me.
I mentally prepared myself for a lecture and stepped into the office.
If I’d thought my heart couldn’t take more before that moment, I certainly wasn’t prepared for who sat in the principal’s chair. It was the very famous, very bestselling, very millionaire author, Angel Worn. I had all of her books, even the ones for adults. People had grown up reading her children’s series about magic users, it was practically a religion.
And she was sitting in front of me.
Star-struck was a nice phrase, meaning I stood there like a drooling idiot staring at her. She had beautiful golden hair with naturally tanned skin, and a glorious red skirt suit. My feet stepped forward and my hand shot out by itself.
“HI, I’M CALLIOPE,” I shouted. I awkwardly took my hand back before she could shake it and froze like the tin man in Wizard of Oz as my face turned redder than it had when I’d showed the entire school my butt cheek.
“Hello, Calliope, I’m Principal Worn. Are you familiar with my work?” She smiled warmly at me, and I ruined it with a donkey bray laugh.
Am I familiar with your work. That was like asking me if I enjoyed tea, or if I had breasts. Well. That was debatable.
I played it cool, as cool as I could while meeting a celebrity, and after braying loudly. “Oh, a little bit. Nothing obsessive. Do you do signings? Can you sign my copy of Northern Magic? It’s my favorite book of yours, and I’ve read all … Some. Some of them. Nothing obsessive.” I awkwardly cleared my throat and focused on a spot in the crown molding.
Principal Worn didn’t appear phased by my fangirling. On the contrary, she looked pleased. “Please, take a seat, Miss Grey.” The cushy chair in front of her desk swallowed me up. It took some core strength to sit upright, of which I had none as aforementioned. Suzette sat in the other chair and grabbed a chocolate from a dish on Principal Worn’s desk. “I’m sure you have many questions, Calliope. First off, I want you to know that we’re aware of your home situation. When your parents enrolled you, they made it very clear that sending you here was a punishment, something about you entering a story contest. I was lectured for half an hour about crushing any thoughts you had of continuing this nonsense.”
Hearing that from Angel Worn was worse than seeing the look on my parents’ face at the awkward dinner where I ruined my life. I deflated again, like a three week old balloon.
Principal Worn instantly responded to my sadness, reaching out to hand me a tissue in case I needed it. “No, no dear. Please don’t be sad. You didn’t let me finish. That is why they sent you here, yes. That is not why we accepted you.”
I sniffled and looked at her in confusion. “What?”
“We accepted you because of this.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a spiral bound manuscript entitled ‘Friends in High Places.’ My manuscript. The very one that had started all of this. I reached a hand out to touch the slippery plastic cover, still unsure why, and how, it was here. As an answer, Principal Worn handed me a pamphlet that looked almost exactly like the one my parents had, with a few extreme differences.
Ecrivain, it read. The school for writers.
“The writer part of our school is kept secret,” she explained. “Now that you’re here, it’s time you learned what you’ll be doing for the next three years.”
Even more confused, I read over the pamphlet, every so often glancing up at Principal Worn’s face to make sure she wasn’t trying to trick me. Her and her tailored red suit of lies. My trust of adults only went so far at that point in time. However, the overlying theme of the pamphlet spoke of a place where writers were free to grow and learn.
“So…” I chewed on my lip and flipped the pamphlet over. The back had the watercolor cameos I’d seen above the fireplace in the entrance of the administration building. Each was attached to a very famous, and very dead writer, and a genre. Shakespeare, playwright and poetry. Austen, romance. Doyle, mystery and crime. The list was comprised of authors everyone had heard of but hardly anyone had actually read, especially someone my age. I was guilty of not reading any of their works. I’d seen a few of the movies, but I doubted that was the same. “So, this is a writer’s school?” She nodded. “How did you find my story? And why keep this all a secret?”
Her eyes flicked to Suzette, who got up and started making some tea in one corner of the large office where an electric kettle sat. The room had a bay window behind Principal Worn’s desk and let in enough sunlight to burn a vampire to a crisp. Outside the window was a flower garden, and I longed to go explore all the flora there. It looked like a nice spot to sit and read.
Suzette passed me a tea cup filled with what smelled like red tea with hints of vanilla. Red tea had a deep floral scent, and I enjoyed it almost as much as Lady Grey. Taking a deep sniff, I sipped my tea, the rich flavor and warmth covering me from head to toe. I let out a sigh and smiled, despite the unsure situation I was still in.
Principal Worn was also enjoying her cup of red vanilla. I briefly remembered her mother was British, and although she’d spent most of her life there, she didn’t have an accent. It was a pity. I enjoyed a good accent.
“Now then,” Worn said once her cup was empty. “This school was founded over four hundred years ago. At the time, knowledge was forbidden, or at the very least frowned upon, especially where girls were involved. That was a time when women could barely read, let alone write a novel. As time progressed, our secrecy allowed us to pluck potential students from any place, and all walks of life. Eventually knowledge became a good thing, and we considered coming out into the open, finally, after centuries of fearing discovery.”
She got up and poured herself more tea. “The Principal at the time hedged the idea to a few prominent people, but the feedback he got was not comforting. They wanted to control a school like ours, making it available to anyone with a large wallet, no matter their skills. Not to mention they wanted to curb any talks of unsuitable religions. We’ve enjoyed centuries of freedom of ideas, only to have the suggestion that some topics were off limits. It was monstrous.”
She took my cup and poured me more tea, then sat back down and adjusted her red jacket. “Of course, we try every so often to see if the world is ready to know we exist in such a capacity, but I fear it will never be the right time. My last attempt to the public, a very wealthy man wanted his son to attend for the prestige, but had no intention of his son learning how to write, and instead suggested we hire a ghost writer to make his son famous. You can imagine how much that set us back.”
Her china clinked and I took another sip of my tea. “As to how we found your story, we monitor most of the writing contests online. It’s how we recruit new students. That particular contest you entered is sponsored by the school itself, meaning we were able to recruit you much faster than other students.” Her soft face turned serious, almost enough where I felt scolded. “If you attend this school, you will be bound by secrecy. Under no circumstances will you reveal the true nature of your studies here to anyone outside the school. We will not tolerate a breach of trust. Everything we’ve built can only exist in secret, and its very existence is quintessential to academic progression. Do you understand?”
I nodded so hard I thought my head would pop off. “I want to go here. Please. I didn’t know that writing was so important to me until my parents tried to take it away. Now it’s all I want. I’ll sign any form, I’ll take a vow, I don’t care.”
She giggled at my enthusiasm. “Very well, then. I have the forms you’ll need to sign. One is a non-disclosure agreement, as is necessary.” I grabbed a pen from the porcelain mug on her desk and wiggled it in front of her. As an answer, she brought out a thick envelope and showed me all the places to sign. There were dozens. “It’s very bad legal advice to make you sign what you haven’t read, so if you want to take the time to…” She stopped because I was already signing my name on every single paper in the stack. My hand began cramping half-way through, but I soldiered on until I got to the last page. It said something about being Undetermined in the school houses.
“Is Undetermined bad?” I asked her, suddenly worried.
She waved an unconcerned hand at me. “Absolutely not. It just means that the story you sent to the contest didn’t show any particulars relating to the set genres here. You’ll shop around the different houses for two of your three years, and once you find one you fit in, you’ll be assigned to that house. The curriculum will be enough where you won’t be behind when the assignment happens, and if you find one you start to shine in before the two years are up, you can be assigned early. There’s no need to worry, you’re in good hands now.”
Once I’d finished signing, she took the stack and placed it back in her desk, then she stood up and put her hand out.
“Calliope Grey, welcome to Ecrivain.”

About Elizabeth:

Elizabeth Dunlap is the author of several fantasy books, including the Born Vampire series. She's never wanted to be anything else in her life, except maybe a vampire. She lives in Texas with her boyfriend, their daughter, and a very sleepy chihuahua named Deyna.

Giveaway Details:

1 winner will win a finished copy of ECRIVAIN & Swag, US Only.

Ends August 13th, midnight EST.

Tour Schedule:
Week One:
7/29/2019- Country Road Reviews- Review
7/29/2019- My Creatively Random Life- Excerpt

7/30/2019- Jrsbookreviews- Review
7/30/2019- Jaime's World- Excerpt

7/31/2019- Turning the Pages- Review
7/31/2019- BookHounds YA- Interview

8/1/2019- Adventures Thru Wonderland- Review
8/1/2019- Colorimetry- Excerpt

8/2/2019- Wonder Struck- Review
8/2/2019- Two Chicks on Books- Interview

Week Two:
8/5/2019- The Phantom Paragrapher- Review
8/5/2019- PopTheButterfly Reads- Guest Post

8/6/2019- Jypsylynn- Review
8/6/2019- Owl Always Be Reading- Excerpt

8/7/2019- Books a Plenty Book Reviews- Review
8/7/2019- Wishful Endings- Guest Post

8/8/2019- Book Briefs - Review
8/8/2019- A Dream Within A Dream- Excerpt

8/9/2019- Simply Daniel Radcliffe- Review
8/9/2019- Smada's Book Smack- Spotlight