Charlotte Hughes


(Award winning author Charlotte Hughes began her writing career publishing newspaper and magazine articles before becoming a New York Times best selling author. Charlotte makes her home in Beaufort, S. C. Best known for her FULL HOUSE series with Janet Evanovich, she has written over 40 books, ranging for the 3 mysteries she wrote for Avon to Mira’s HOT SHOT and A NEW ATTITUDE. Her newest release, NUTCASE centers on Atlanta psychologist Kate Holly and the humorous antics of her friends, family and patients. In the process she learns that the life of a psychologist is enough to drive anyone nuts. Readers are invited to visit Charlotte online at her webiste and blog. Early reviews for NUTCASE have highlighted the humor: Kathy Boswell at Fresh Fiction: “Oh My!! I never laughed so hard in my life.” Amie at Night Owl Romance Reviews: “You will love all these charcaters down to your soul.”

You can hear more about the new book at Charlotte’s web at, where she also blogs regularly. As part of the introduction of her newest work, NUTCASE, Charlotte is doing a virtual blog tour VIRTUALLY NUTS in March.)


I am amazed that so many people think authors have a glamorous life. In my case, nothing could be farther from the truth. Imagine a middle-aged woman in unattractive pajamas sitting at her computer with three dogs at her feet; one of which has a problem with flatulence. That woman would be me.

Oh, sure, authors look good at book signings, but for many of us that’s the only time we tweeze our eyebrows, wear pantyhose, and exfoliate. And for someone who wears socks or sneakers around the house every day, putting me in low heels is tortuous. My last book tour almost crippled me.

Most authors are not naturally witty and charming. Unless we’re very drunk, of course, but who wants to end the evening with puke in her hair? Plus, it’s not safe to drink on Zoloft.

It’s not easy to be interesting when you stare at a computer screen all day, and the people you hang out with are in your head. Truly, the only fascinating people in my life are those who end up in my books. They have exciting careers. They go out to lunch and shop in nice stores. They go to plays. They get manicures and pedicures. Their clothing sizes come in single digits, and they’re always on the cutting edge of fashion. They meet and fall in love with wealthy, fascinating men.

Me? I’m just the person recording their fun experiences while I dribble coffee or hot soup down the front of my Big Bird sleep shirt. Sure, I go out. Every afternoon I have to go out and perform poop patrol for three dogs. My favorite night of the week is Friday. I usually celebrate by hitting the drive-thru window at Taco Bell.

I do have one good looking man in my life, sort of. My FedEx guy is a hunk who, in summer, wears shorts. Unfortunately, he doesn’t come around often enough, making me wish I could afford to send FedEx packages to myself every day.

I guess I’ve become a recluse. I’ve lived in my neighborhood for six years and only know the names of a couple of people. I don’t think any of them know what I do for a living. They just know me as the lady in tacky clothes who picks up dog poop every afternoon.

The only real excitement in my life is the stark fear I experience as my book deadline approaches. Everything in my house goes to hell, including my beauty regimen and fitness routine. Okay, I know you’re thinking I made that up. Deadlines mean lots of hours at the computer and an IV running Starbucks through my veins. No makeup, hair all over the place; I look like I should be on the cover of a book titled “Beauty Secrets of the Damned.”

My office? Oh, now that’s sad. Even though I’m sort of like the CEO of my own company, there is no one around to help me organize “stuff.” It looks like a Dumpster threw up in on my desk and the surrounding floor. Each time I begin a new book I promise myself I’m going to be better organized, just as I swear I’ll exercise, drink green tea, and meet my book deadline. All those pledges go straight to hell about the time I reach that “sagging middle” and my characters are becoming as bored with their lives as I am mine. I know I’m in trouble when one of them suggests meeting at the local Taco Bell.

When the book is in, I don’t take fancy vacations or fly to New York to celebrate the birth of my latest story with my agent or editor. I take a hot shower and put on my pajamas because I feel a 48-hour crash coming on. But why shouldn’t I be tired? Not only did I take my characters on a fabulous adventure, I solved all their problems before I let them go.

Not once did they get bored.  

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