Hi All!

I just thought I’d switch things up by starting up my own site and share a bit more with you guys than I do on my bookstagram and Tumblr!

For those of you who don’t me, my name is Seher and I’m a reader based in Pakistan! I read just about everything I can get my hands on! That being said I adore fantasy and poetry! I used to post exclusively on Instagram, but now I’ve decided to try and maintain my own blog!

If you prefer Instagram, that’s all good! I’ve linked that below! And if you prefer getting your reviews and giveaways on Tumblr and Twitter, those will be here too!

I’m also using this as a more creative space, so you’ll also get plenty of tarot card posts, restaurant reviews (from Islamabad), and pictures of the sky after it rains! I’ll also be posting my writing update, which is something I’m trying to get back into!

This is The Girl Who Reads in chaos mode!

I maintain two tumblr accounts! Which does sound like a bit much, but both serve for different moods!

My book tumblr lets me post more content than I can on my bookstagram, so you’ll find more posts here (in the future) and more excerpts, etc!


My poetry tumblr is a mood. Things that I love are posted there!


You can also find me on twitter (where I generally just cry and complain about life)

I listen to music on Deezer! I know its not spotify, but I just love the Flow button!

I have a lot of badges from all the sites I usually review on and now you have to see them because this is the first time I’ve had a place to put them! 🙂

100 Book Reviews
Reviews Published
Professional Reader

And last but not least, my google reviews!

  • Poem of the Day: The Ideal by James Fenton

    A picture of the The Ideal by James Fenton printed on brown paper.

    As promised, I’m sharing my poem of the day with you guys! This is called The Ideal by James Fenton (as you know, stated in the title).

    The Ideal by James Fenton

    The Ideal by James Fenton

    This is where I came from.
    I passed this way.
    This should not be shameful.
    Or hard to say.

    A self is a self.
    It is not a screen.
    A person should respect
    What he has been.

    This is my past.
    Which I shall not discard.
    This is the ideal.
    This is hard.

    Where did I find this?

    I’m reading The Poetry Pharmacy by William Sieghart these days. I picked this up from The Last Word Books in Lahore, and it sold out like an hour later. All of you will see quite a few of the poems featured in this book; I’m utterly obsessed with it, and for good reason. Sieghart accompanies each poem with a note on the feeling that it’s for, and his writing rivals the poems themselves.

    In the years since he first had the idea of prescribing short, powerful poems for all manner of spiritual ailments, William Sieghart has taken his Poetry Pharmacy around the length and breadth of Britain, into the pages of the Guardian, onto BBC Radio 4 and onto the television, honing his prescriptions all the time. This pocket-sized book presents the most essential poems in his dispensary: those which, again and again, have really shown themselves to work. Whether you are suffering from loneliness, lack of courage, heartbreak, hopelessness, or even from an excess of ego, there is something here to ease your pain.

    Other Poetry Posts


    American poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox was born on 5 November 1850 Her best-known work was “Solitude”, famous for its opening lines:Laugh, and the world … Solitude

  • Solitude

    American poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox was born on 5 November 1850 Her best-known work was “Solitude”, famous for its opening lines:Laugh, and the world …

  • November Hopefuls! Love Book Tour Reads (pt 1)

    If you’re anything like me you know there are plenty of ARCs and Book Tours going around! But you also have so much FOMO that you sign up for any and everything and are now sitting there wondering what to do now!

    Well no more!

    This month I plan on getting through all of my NetGalley reads and all of my tour book with time to spare!

    Let me know if any of you are on the same tour as me or are reading the same book!

    Thank you Love Book Tours for a big portion of all my reads for the month!

    A Midnight Dance by Joanna Davidson Politano


    All theater romances are tragedies. Ella Blythe knows this. Still, she cannot help but hope her own story may turn out different than most–and certainly different than the tragic story of the Ghost of Craven Street Theater. Yet as she struggles to maintain her tenuous place in the ever-shrinking ballet company, win the attentions of principal dancer Philippe, and avoid company flirt Jack, Ella cannot deny the uncanny feeling that her life is mirroring that of the dead ballerina.

    Is she dancing ever closer to the edge of her own tragic end? Or will the secrets that are about to come to light offer release from the past?

    You’ll see my review tomorrow, on 9th of November!

    Witch of Ware Woods by Sonja F. Blanco


    Eighteen-year-old Sara is not normal, and she’s losing her grip on hiding her inexplicable power. Hunted by a dark witch and facing devastating losses, Sara finds refuge in Ware Woods—a spellbinding forest protected by witches, shapeshifters . . . and thorny secrets. Here she discovers true magic and an electric connection with Thomas, a wickedly charming and equally headstrong witch from a dangerous family.

    But Sara is an outsider who has brought darkness and a fatal prophecy to the forest. To prove she belongs in Ware Woods, Sara is tested and pushed to master new magics, all while concealing the monstrous force that makes her undeniably different.

    As the dark witch closes in on her and an insidious blight threatens Ware Woods, Sara must release her full power—and either save the forest and everyone she loves or destroy everything.

    Review Date: 18th November

    Review Date: 12th November 2021

    Triad by Brittany Weisrock


    Athena Whiteridge, born into a powerful prophecy, along with her brothers, Anders and Atlas, form the Triad. Set to rule as Alpha of her pack, this wolf has a secret-Athena possesses abilities to manifest fire, capable of shifting into more than a mere wolf.

    On a mission, Athena is rendered dumbstruck by an unsuspecting human, Kalen Ryan. All her strength and skills can’t save her from falling for him. One problem-wolves don’t take human mates. Without understanding their intense connection, the pair leave club Zephyr.

    Forced to face a council of leaders and her family, Athena must explain how Kalen is beyond the Barrier and in the Unseen. In attempts to fend off concerns-Athena uncovers her father, Cyrus’s deceit and treachery that runs far deeper than she imagined.

    The trouble is only beginning. . .

    Join the Whiteridges, as they navigate betrayal, love, and battle an ancient evil in a race to save humanity and the Unseen.

    Labyrinth of Lies by Irene Hannon


    When the daughter of a high-profile businessman disappears from an exclusive girls’ boarding school, police detective Cate Reilly is tapped for an undercover assignment. It doesn’t take her long to realize that beneath the veneer of polish and wealth, things are not as they seem at Ivy Hill Academy. But the biggest surprise of all? The only man she ever loved is also working at the school.

    Zeke Sloan has never forgotten Cate, but now isn’t the best time for their paths to cross again. When their two seemingly disparate agendas begin to intertwine–and startling connections emerge among the players–the danger escalates significantly. But who is the mastermind behind the elaborate ruse? And how far will they go to protect their house of cards?

    Review Date: 22nd November

  • Of Mutability by Jo Shapcott | Unmemorable Poetry with A Moment | Review

    What does it mean when I can’t remember you the next day?

    Of Mutability by Jo Shapcott

    Insomnia and night shift have done wonders for how much poetry I read. I can focus on things enough to get through them, or my brain registers more easily that this is not worth a deep read and skims like crazy. Sadly, Jo Shapcott fell into the skim stack!

    Shapcott wasn’t off to a good start for no fault of her own!

    Jo Shapcott did have the odds stacked against her! I order the book from Readings.pk thinking I would get the lovely green edition for my collection! I was wrong!

    Things didn’t get better when I read it! While many may describe the book as soft, I would describe it as boring. Poetry is personal, intensely so, and keeping that in mind (and average ratings on Goodreads) I left the book three stars. I do, however, think that the titular poem “Of Mutability” is fantastic! It’s when Shapcott utters;

    It’s two thousand and four and I don’t know a single soul who doesn’t feel small among the numbers. Razor small.

    Jo Shapcott ~ Of Mutability

    We’re reminded that we live in a world that’s falling apart. That we’re also falling to pieces in the middle of a pandemic, and those few instances of connection, one of which Shapcott offers in this poem, is sometimes all we have to get through the day.

    Too many of the best cells in my body
    are itching, feeling jagged, turning raw
    in this spring chill. It's two thousand and four
    and I don't know a soul who doesn't feel small
    among the numbers. Razor small.
    Look down these days to see your feet
    mistrust the pavement and your blood tests
    turn the doctor's expression grave.

    Look up to catch eclipses, gold leaf, comets,
    angels, chandeliers, out of the corner of your eye,
    join them if you like, learn astrophysics, or
    learn folksong, human sacrifice, mortality,
    flying, fishing, sex without touching much.
    Don't trouble, though, to head anywhere but the sky.

    Of Mutability by Jo Shapcott

  • Letters of Note ~ Shaun Usher

    Letters of Note ~ Shaun Usher

    There is, perhaps, a voyeuristic tendency in all of us, when it comes to reading other people’s correspondence. Something that Shawn capitalizes on in the most extraordinary way possible.

    Of course, he can’t possibly include every single beautiful letter possible, he can certainly include those that make your heartache. My personal favorite is My Darling Girl from Sue Perkins (the English actress) to Pickle, written shortly after the 11 year old beagle closed its eyes for the last time.

    I’m also including the opening letter from Letters of Note: Sex, An Instrument of Joy written by Margaret Mead to her sister Elizabeth Mead, which I think is one of the best letters to show a young person.

    The last letter I’m including is the one that I borrowed to send to a friend when I didn’t have the right words. Do not be so bloody vulnerable from Noel Coward to Marlene Dietrich is the first letter I fell in love with.

    The only mistake was not to have behaved a great deal worse a long time ago. 

    I bought this particular copy of Letters of Note from Readings in Lahore. They still have it in case you’re interested!

    DO NOT BE SO BLOODY VULNERABLE ~ Noel Coward to Marlene Dietrich, 1956

    Oh, darling,

    Your letter filled me with such a lot of emotions, the predominant one being rage that you should allow yourself to be so humiliated and made so unhappy by a situation that really isn’t worthy of you. I loathe to think of you apologizing and begging forgiveness and humbling yourself. I don’t care if you did behave badly for a brief moment, considering all the devotion and loving you have given out during the last five years, you had a perfect right to. The only mistake was not to have behaved a great deal worse a long time ago. The aeroplane journey sounds a nightmare to me.

    It is difficult for me to wag my finger at you from so very far away particularly as my heart aches for you but really darling you must pack up this nonsensical situation once and for all. It is really beneath your dignity, not your dignity as a famous artist and a glamourous star, but your dignity as a human, only too human, being. Curly is attractive, beguiling, tender and fascinating, but he is not the only man in the world who merits those delightful adjectives.…Do please try to work out for yourself a little personal philosophy and DO NOT, repeat DO NOT be so bloody vulnerable. To hell with God damned “L’Amour.” It always causes far more trouble than it is worth. Don’t run after it. Don’t court it. Keep it waiting off stage until you’re good and ready for it and even then treat it with the suspicious disdain that it deserves. I am sick to death of you waiting about in empty houses and apartments with your ears strained for the telephone to ring. Snap out of it, girl! A very brilliant writer once said (could it have been me?) “Life is for the living.” Well that is all it is for, and living DOES NOT consist of staring in at other people’s windows and waiting for crumbs to be thrown to you. You’ve carried on this hole in corner, overcharged, romantic, unrealistic nonsense long enough.

    Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Other people need you..Stop wasting your time on someone who only really says tender things to you when he’s drunk…

    Unpack your sense of humor, and get on with living and ENJOY IT.

    Incidentally, there is one fairly strong minded type who will never let you down and who loves you very much indeed. Just try to guess who it is. XXXX. Those are not romantic kisses. They are un-romantic. Loving “Goose-Es.”

    Your devoted “Fernando de Lamas”

    Elizabeth dear, I’ve a good mind to punish you by writing back in pencil. You’re a wretch to write in pencil on pink paper just when you’re writing something very important that you particularly want me to read. Don’t do it again.

    I am glad you told me about the moonlight party, dear. It’s the sort of thing that had to happen sometime and it might have been a great deal worse. As it was, it was a nice boy whom you like, and nothing that need worry you. There are two things I’d like to have you remember- or in fact several. The thrills you get from touching the body of another person are just as good and legitimate thrills as those you get at the opera. Only the ones which [you] get at the opera are all mixed up with your ideas of beauty and music and Life-and so they seem to you good and holy things. In the same way the best can only be had from the joys which life offers to our sense of touch (for sex is mostly a matter of the sense of touch) when we associate those joys with love and respect and understanding.

    All the real tragedies of sex come from disassociation either of the old maid who sternly refuses to think about sex at all until finally she can think about nothing else- and goes crazy- or of the man who goes from one wanton’s arms to another seeking only the immediate sensation of the moment and never linking it up with other parts of his life. It is by the way in which sex- and under this I include warm demonstrative friendships with both sexes as well as love affairs proper with men- is linked with all the other parts of our lives, with our appreciation of music and our tenderness for little children, and most of all with our love for someone and the additional nearness to them which expression of love gives us, that sex itself is given meaning.

    You must realize that your body has been given you as an instrument of joy–and tho you should choose most rigorously whose touch may make that instrument thrill and sing a thousand beautiful songs you must never think it wrong of it to sing. For your body was made to sing to another’s touch and the flesh itself is not wise to choose. It is the
    spirit within the body which must be stern and say- “No, you can not play on this my precious instrument. True it would sing for you. Your fingers are very clever at playing on such instruments-but I do not love you, nor respect you- and I will not have my body singing a tune which my soul cannot sing also.” If you remember this, you will never be filled with disgust of any sort. Any touch may set the delicate chords humming-_but it is your right to choose who shall really play a tune- and be very very sure of your choices first. To have given a kiss where only a handshake was justified by the love behind it–that is likely to leave a bad taste in your mouth.

    And for the other part- about being boy crazy. Try to think of boys as people, some nice, some indifferent- not as a class. You are[n’t] girl crazy are you? Then why should you be boy crazy? If a boy is [an] interesting person, why, like him. If he isn’t, don’t. Think of him as an individual first and as a boy second. What kind of a person he is is a great deal more important than that he belongs to the other sex- after all so do some hundred million other individuals.

    I am very proud of the way you are able to think thru the problems which life brings you- and of the way you meet them. And I consider it a great privilege to have you tell me about them. I’m so glad you are happy dear.

    Very lovingly,

    My darling girl ~ Sue Perkins to Pickle

    My darling girl, First, a confession: I had you killed. I planned it and everything; asked the vet round and a nurse in a green uniform with white piping – all with the express intention of ending your life. Yes, I know. I know you had no idea, because I had been practicing for weeks how to keep it from you, and how when that time came I could stop my chest from bursting with the fear and horror and unbearable, unbearable pain of it all. I sat there, in your kitchen (it was always your kitchen), numb, and filled in a form about what to do with your remains. I ticked boxes as you lay wheezing in your sleep on the bed next door. 

    I made a series of informed, clinical decisions on the whys and wherefores of that beautiful, familiar body that had started to so badly let you down. Then, once the formalities were over, I came in and did what I’ve done so many days and nights over so many months and years. I lay behind you, left arm wrapped round your battle-scarred chest and whispered into your ear. I love you. So that was my secret. And I kept it from you until your ribs stopped their heaving and your legs went limp and your head fell as heavy as grief itself in my arms. Then, when I knew you were no longer listening, I let it out – that raging, raging river of loss. I cried until my skin felt burnt and my ears grew tired from the sound of it all.

    It wasn’t pretty.

    OK. Confession over. 

    Now what you also need to know is that this is NOT a eulogy. Quite frankly Pickle, you don’t deserve one, because, as you are well aware, your behavior from birth, right up to the bitter end, was unequivocally terrible. As a pup, you crunched every CD cover in the house for fun. You chewed through electrical cable and telephone wires. You ripped shoes and gobbled plastic. You dived into bins, rolled in shit and licked piss off of pavements. 

    You ate my bedposts. As an adult you graduated to raiding fridges and picnics, you stole ice cream from the mouths of infants, you jumped onto Christmas tables laden with pudding and cake and blithely walked through them all, inhaling everything in your wake. You puked on everything decent I ever owned. You never came when called, never followed a path, never observed the green cross code and only sat on command when you could see either a cube of cheese or chicken in my hand (organic, or free-range at a push) And last, but not least, you shat in my bed (yes, I know they were dry and discreet little shits, but they are still shits, you shit) Here’s another thing, while I’m at it. 

    I’m angry. Why? Because you, madam, are a liar. You made me think you were OK. You allowed me to drop you off at our mate Scarlett’s farm and leave you there for weeks while I went away working thinking that all was well. Yet it wasn’t, was it? The cancer fire was already lit, sweeping through your body, laying waste to it while my back was turned. I look back at photos sent to me whilst I was way from you, and I can see it now that faint dimming of the eyes, the gentle slackening of muscle. The tiniest, tiniest changes in that cashmere fur of yours. It haunts me still. Had I been there, I would have noticed, would I not? Me, your anxious guardian and keeper of eleven and a half years. 

    I found out about the lump the day I landed. Scarlett rang me with the news as I boarded a train for Willesden Junction. The most momentous moments can come at the most banal. It had just appeared, out of nowhere, as surprising and fast as you, on your neck. You never did anything by halves, and there it was, the size of a lemon, wrapped round your lymph. I took you home the next day, to Cornwall, the place that we love best, and you allowed me, for a while at least, to believe that nothing was wrong. 

    We rose at sunset, in the light of those Disney-pink skies, and walked the ancient tracks together – before you got bored and veered off, full tilt, in search of the latest scent. But your lies could only carry you so far before your body gave you away. I saw your chest starting to heave when you took a breath at night. Your bark became hoarse. You no longer tore around the house causing havoc. You were biddable (you were never biddable), you ate slowly (oh, don’t be ridiculous) Yet still, the denial. Forgive me for that. After all, we’d beaten it before, you and I. Twice. Even when the vet told me your lungs were hung with cancerous cobwebs and there was nothing more to be done, I went out and started doing. I sped to the health food store and returned with tinctures and unguents and capsules. 

    And there you were having to eat your precious last dinners covered in the dusty yellow pall of turmeric and a slick of Omega 3s. So silly. So silly, in retrospect. I should have let you eat cake and biscuits and toast and porridge. But I thought I could save you. I really thought I could. I didn’t ever believe that something as alive as you could ever succumb to something as ordinary as death. After all, how could you be sick, when you ran and jumped and played, day after day after day? And then, I got it. You were doing it all for me. You were dragging yourself into the light, every morning, for me. All of it. For me. And as fierce and possessive as my love was, I couldn’t let you do that any more. You were eighty years old, by human reckoning. You were eighty years old and you still flew into the boot of the car without assistance (assistance is for old dogs, you didn’t know how to be an old dog), you still strode the Heath with that graceful, lupine lope of yours.

    You skidded round corners, you sniffed and barked and hectored and lived to life’s outer margins. On the day you died, you pottered for over an hour in the meadows with the sun on your back, without a care in the world. I am so very grateful for that. When someone once took a punch at me, you leaped in the air and took it. When I discovered I couldn’t have children, you let me use your neck as a hankie. You were my longest relationship, although I think any decent psychologist would have deemed us irredeemably co-dependent.

    You were the engine of my life, the metronome of my day. You set the pulse and everything and everyone moved to it. What a skill. I woke to your gentle scratch on the door. (it wasn’t gentle, it was horrific and you have destroyed every door in every house we have lived in – I am just trying to make you sound nice) and the last sound at night was the sound of you crawling under your blanket and giving that big, deep, satisfied sigh. I have said I love you to many people over many years; friends, family, lovers. Some you liked, some you didn’t. But my love for you was different. It filled those spaces that words can’t get to.

    You were the peg on which I hung the all the baggage that couldn’t be named. You were the pure, innocent joy of grass and sky and wind and sun. It was a love beyond the limits of patience and sense and commensuration. It was as nonsensical as it was boundless. You alchemist. You nightmare. Thank you for walking alongside me* during the hardest, weirdest, most extreme times of my life, and never loving me less for the poor choices I made and the ridiculous roads I took us down. Thank you, little Pickle. I love you. 

    From the four eyed one who shouted at you, held you, laughed at you, fed you and, for some reason utterly unbeknownst to you, put all your shit in bags.

  • Although the wind

    Although the wind
    by Izumi Shikibu

    Translated by Jane Hirshfield with Marino Aratani

    Although the win
    blows terribly here,
    the moonlight also leaks
    between the roof planks
    of this ruined house.
  • Bloody Cruel Psycho ~ Cover Reveal & Giveaway

    Cover Reveal & Giveaway

    Hi all!

    I am so excited to bring work with Rock Star Book Tours and Lucy Smoke to bring to you the cover reveal for BLOODY CRUEL PSYCHO! (With a name like that, how could I resist!)

    This is the fifth book in Lucy’s new adult romance series and will come out on the 6th of May 2022!


    I know nothing of the Sickness at Eastpoint University. I know only the backroads that slip past the southern beaches and the gators that make their way onto the swamps shores. Until him. Until the killer known as Braxton Smalls finds his way into my stilted trailer on the coast of Port Charlotte.

    He came looking for Ace, but he found me instead…


    I’m a monster. Always have been. Always will be. The only people I’ve ever given a shit about are my boys and their girls. No one hurts my family, and knowing that someone has … and that they’ve gotten away with it plagues me.

    Ace Volkov will pay for what he put Avalon through and if I have to use his most precious weakness to draw him out, I will.

    She thinks she can bargain for his life with her own, but I mean to show her that there’s nothing I won’t do to see my vengeance through to the end.

    “A life for a life…will kill the both of us in the end.”

    A rich killer. An innocent victim. Revenge and paradise.

    🖤 Giveaway 🖤

    Anyone in the world can use the link right here for a chance to win a $20 giftcard to amazon!


    You can add the book to your TBR stack on goodreads or preorder it from Amazon!

    You can also get a Kindle Unlimited Subscription right here!

    You can also read the book for free on kindle Unlimited!

    About Lucy Smoke: 

    Lucy Smoke/Lucinda Dark suffers from severe wanderlust and enjoys people watching to find her next character. Who knows, maybe you’re in one of her stories as well.

    Author of new adult, reverse harem, and dark romance, Lucy Smoke/Lucinda Dark switches between subgenres, but focuses the primary themes of her novels on strong heroines and romance.

    She lives and works in the south with her beloved puppy, Hiro, and enjoys teasing the life out of her all of her friends. 

    For more information and some fun games and contest opportunities, join her Facebook group (link below).

    Sign up for Lucy’s mailing list!
    Website | Facebook | Facebook Group | Twitter | Instagram | TikTok | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub

  • Monster Midwife by Lumen Reese

    Thank you Love Book Tours and Lumen Reese for letting me a part of the book tour for Monster Midwife!

    I never thought I’d read a book like this, the idea is pretty different. I mean who writes about a midwife for monsters (we have two of our favourite Greek ones featured here) and how she got to that place! Who even thought about monsters needing a midwife! Or faerie’s needing one! It’s one of those random things that no one would ever look into, but Lumen Reese did.

    So besides a fairly interesting premise, Lumem Reese also teased us with common fantasy tropes without giving in to them; reader, this is the first time no one has hooked up in an inn that only had one room available for the night. We had a faerie prince who turned out to not be who we thought he would be; but that was honestly such a good thing. The whole unequal balance of power in a relationship but they are meant to be trope is sometimes really uncomfortable and Reese does a good job of highlighting that!

    This is the first book that I’ve read by this author and I don’t think it’ll be the last.

    This tour is going to be really interesting and we have all these amazing bookstagrams posting for it as well!

    You can follow Love Book Tours right here!

    I also really wanted to talk about this image that I ended up using in my edit! The image is that of Beth Carters bronze, the Minataur. While she models it after her father and him reading, I found this on tumblr and I love this interepretation of it!

    Like Esmera who reminds us what happened to Medusa was a crime (its so easy to remember her only as a monster), the consequences of it are sadly as human as any other; a child. The same Minotaur who is a monster, and can only be shown to us as monster, is also half human. Who knows, after he is done eating the youths and instilling terror, maybe he reads, or watches TV.

  • Aliens Captive ~ Tina Moss

    Alien’s Captive ~ Tina Moss

    I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the ALIEN’S CAPTIVE by Tina Moss Blog Tour hosted
    by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!


    This was really sexy. Tina Moss created a planet of males who want to only look after and satisfy their females, and are protective but respect boundaries, and give space, and are oh so perfect. Admittedly, Xelen had some man pain, but the second he and Ava talked it out it went away, like the male actually wanted to be in a healthy place. I also do appreciate Ava as a character, a scientist who has crystals and a manifestation journal. I do think she threw herself into the mission too quickly, but that’s a small thing!

    A perfect read if you want to read about perfect men who come with vibrators attached!

    Thank you Rockstar Book Tours for a chance to read and review this!

    We also have this amazing playlist!
    My picture relies heavily on picsart!


    Now onto our giveaway!

    1 winner will receive a finished copy of ALIEN’S CAPTIVE, US Only.

    Subscribe to Tina’s newsletter for your chance to win!


     The book itself is $0.99 on amazon in ebook form, and $12.99 as a paperback!

    It’s also free for those of us on Kindle Unlimited!

    Kindle Unlimited Membership Plans

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