On the blog today, it's my stop on the tour for How to Hook a Husband by Sarah Harvey. I do so love this cover! As part of the tour, Sarah is sharing her writing inspiration. You can also follow along the tour below.

I could write a long list of places that inspire me to write, countless counties and countries with views and vistas, of blue rolling oceans, or deep dark woodlands, sunsets and sunrises, marked by the sound of sweetly singing birds. Of lakes and mountains, and paths through meadows, flanked by the sway of wild flowers in the breeze. Of bustling cities with ancient architecture and jagged skylines, echoes of ancient civilizations clashing with the constant cacophony of the current. They are places with hidden shady corners, where lovers stroll, or sit at bistro tables whispering their conversations, where I cannot overhear their words, but see their exchanges so clearly in their eyes and the language of their bodies. They are those places that are alternately flooded with sunshine, and drowned in storms, that are lit by moonlight, shattered lightening, or simply warm and vibrant smiles. They are those places that make me pause and breathe and remember I’m alive and living, that tell me stories of people who have come before me, and those who may come after I am long gone. They are the places that ring with life and laughter, that are flooded with intrigue and heavy with aroma, the scent of flowers, and tobacco, of food and wine and rich strong coffee, and the mingled perfumes of a hundred hopeful people, where I can greedily devour ideas from snatches of conversation and brief pictorial glimpses of the lives that others lead. Because the places that inspire me to write are those within which I find the people that inspire me to write. The whole of this world vibrates with the untold stories of others, that can be caught like leaves drifting on the wind, snatched like a thief from the lives of friends and passersby. But the places, oh the places, that inspires me the most, are wrapped in my lovers arms, silent but for the words exchanged with our eyes and the rhythm of our beatings hearts, inhaling his breath, and the scent of his skin, feeling the contours of his body pressed against mine, falling deep into his gaze, and then, that dark and empty place I go to when he is gone, where I find the only thing that makes the echoing and far too long silences bearable is to pour the words I would shower upon him like loving kisses, onto a welcoming white page instead.