Please welcome T. Harrison to . T. Harrison is an erotic romance author currently living in the south with her impish husband, two smallish men and one smallish boxer pup. She can often be found with her nose pressed to the screen of her Kindle, reading red hot erotica, nail biting thrillers or bone chilling horror and paranormals by the small halo of illumination created by her book light. She writes stave off the boredom of living in a small town. Her stories generally fluctuate from urban/contemporary to paranormal romance but, are always dirty.

Inspiration: What aisle is it on again?

Author, T. Harrison

Romance is easily the best selling genre of fiction and it isn’t hard to understand why. With so much going on in our everyday lives, romance readers are looking for an escape–a departure from their everyday lives.  They want to be rescued by the handsome and charming hero. They want all of their dreams to come true. And they want all of that in 90 thousand words or less. As a reader I totally understand where you’re coming from. What better place to get lost and fall in love than between the pages of a book? It’s cheap and fulfilling–a win-win. But as a writer it presents a special type of problem–how do you find inspiration if you have to take the readers expectations into consideration? I mean, how the hell do you find the inspiration to write when the same trope has been done six ways to Sunday? You suck it up, that’s how. I realized early on that I have to accept the fact that everything that I could or would write has already been written and my task as a writer is to use those old tropes but put them in a new dress. Hopefully, it isn’t one you can find at your local Walmart with that happy, bouncy sunshine guy declaring a two-fer- one savings. I think I may have achieved that with In Her Closet.

Yves Santiago is not your typical romance heroine. She’s flawed. Hugely flawed. And she doesn’t make it easy to like her. In my opinion, that makes her interesting. I wanted to give her all those seemingly unredeemable qualities that are usually attributed to the hero. My thinking was, if we can accept those flaws in a hero and forgive them, we should be able to accept the same qualities in a heroine…right?

Time and sales will tell!

Thanks again for having me… And blog readers don’t forget to comment to enter your name in a chance to win a KINDLE!

Twitter: @dirtyscribbler

Fresh off of a night of anonymous sex we join Yves Santiago on the curb for a cigarette. Yves is a self-proclaimed slut who vows to live her life as carelessly as a man and make no apologies for any of it–though her meddling mother and ex-fiancé seem intent on making it difficult for her to do so. She’s determined to avoid anything that looks even remotely like love and escapes most encounters with her heart and her pride intact.

 Then she meets Elijah Weinstein…

Elijah saunters in like a dream proclaiming to be the next great love of her life–a declaration that Yves finds ridiculous, though it doesn’t make him any less enticing. With his mossy green eyes, broad, sun-kissed shoulders and a mouth so sensual that it should have an NC-17 rating, Elijah Weinstein is damn near irresistible. She willingly accepts his challenge, certain she will be able to get what she wants without relinquishing her heart.

In her Closet Excerpt:

I pause on the sidewalk to light my cigarette, only slightly aware of the glares I receive from the Sunday morning worshipers trickling out of the church behind me. The first taste of mentholated smoke nudges me closer to wakefulness. I squint and rub my eyes against the bright, mid-morning sunlight. My lashes feel stiff and brittle from sleeping in last night’s make up. I don’t bother taking out my compact to survey the damage. I know it’s a complete wreck.

Why bother faking the funk?

I am making the quintessential walk of shame. That much is made evident by my attire–a large mens dress shirt and break-neck stilettos. I’m sure I was wearing a dress when I stumbled into the South Jersey apartment of the man who belongs to this shirt. An expensive Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, to be exact. A twenty minute search amongst the discarded clothing at the foot of his bed ended fruitlessly. My only option was to make my escape in the first thing I found that made me decent. I’m thankful to at least have my underwear. There’s nothing worse than sitting bare-assed on a plastic subway seat.

Who knows what sort of communicable diseases you can catch that way?

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