Charlotte Boyett-Compo Book Winner

Congratulations to Jennifer H. from Florida on winning the one-of-a-kind Charlotte Boyett-Compo print book. 

Our sincere thanks to all who  entered and helped us celebrate the life of this strong, charismatic, sarcastic, creative, prolific author and dear friend who left us way too soon.


Happy reading!
The Naughty Literati authors

Excerpt from The Wyndvyper's Promise by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The final posthumous work of Charlotte Boyett-Compo, part of the NAUGHTY FLAMES boxed-set, available for pre-order now, downloads on December 1st

Click here to pre-order from Amazon


Blurb: 
Audriana Lansing has fled her overbearing family and made a life for herself, until she gets trapped between bounty hunters searching for her and an old flame who doesn’t believe in forgive and forget.

Genre/theme: 
Shapeshifter; Paranormal
 
Copyright © Charlotte Boyett-Compo, 2016

Excerpt:

He lay on his side with his head propped in his hand. His sisters and their friend were playing some kind of card game and squealing when certain cards were laid on the blanket upon which they sat. Every now and then they would glance over at him and giggle. Their friend would blush then they would begin whispering again. They amused him—up to a point—but the incessant squealing was beginning to give him a headache. Dismissing them, he turned to his back with his hands crossed under his head and stared up at the trembling branches of the josia tree spread out above him.

He hadn’t wanted to accompany his two sisters and their friend to the park, but his mother had insisted. His buddies were no doubt guzzling beer and chasing girls down at the quarry while he was doing babysitting duty. It was high summer, he was seventeen with his hormones raging, and he was restless. Not even the lovely face and form of his sisters’ friend helped alleviate the boredom.

Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the inane chatter and the annoying squeals but when all that suddenly stopped in mid-peep, he popped open an eye and turned his head toward their blanket. They all stared across the greensward at something that had captured their undivided attention. Craning his neck, he looked that way, too, and as soon as he saw the two tall warriors in crimson uniforms, he shot up.

“Naomi, Dayna!” he snapped at his sisters. “Stop gawking at them!”

“I know her,” his sisters’ friend said and hopped to her feet. She waved her arm over her head. “Audriana! Over here!”

“Hush!” he hissed and scrambled to his feet. “Don’t draw attention to yourself, girl!”

“But I know her,” the girl whose name he couldn’t recall protested. “She’s a friend.”

“She’s a Fayad,” he countered. “You are…”

“Sava?” he heard a soft voice call out. “Is that you?”

“Aye!” the girl standing with him said and before he could stop her, she started running toward the two warriors who came to an abrupt stop with their hands on the scimitars strapped to their hips. Sava also stopped where she was with an anxious look on her face.

“It’s all right,” a young woman dressed in the finery of the royal house told the warriors. “She’s a friend.”

“But the others are zafyr, princess,” one of the guards stated. “He is a Kasda.”

Being called unclean by the guards rankled but he knew better than to open his mouth to protest the insult. The warriors were glaring at him as he stood beside his sisters. Hatred and disgust had turned their black eyes as hard as obsidian. He did not miss the flexing of their fingers on the grips of their weapons. From the way they were looking at him, it was evident they hoped he would start something. The contempt blasting from their cold glowers said they considered him no threat and that he was lower in their sight than offal they might find under the soles of their boots.

“Nonsense,” the princess said with a flick of her wrist. “If they are friends of Sava, they will be friends of mine.” She started between the warriors but they blocked her path.

“Not until the male leaves,” the warrior told her.

“Sava, who is the male?” the princess inquired, turning her gaze to him.

“He is Asher Weil,” Sava replied. “Brother of my friends Naomi and Dayna.”

He could not take his eyes from the princess. She was the most beautiful female he had ever seen. Her long black hair was braided and hung over her shoulder like silken cord. In the dark gold gown of her station, her body was lush and flowed in gentle curves that beckoned his hands to follow. Looking at her, he lost his heart as easily as he would lose his head should he dare say one word to her.

“Is the brother of your friends in the Levitik military?” the princess inquired. She was observing him just as steadily as he was watching her.

“No, he isn’t,” Sava said and he wondered how she knew he wasn’t. One quick glance at his sister Naomi gave him the answer. There was probably nothing about him their friend didn’t know.

Which rankled on one hand and amused him on the other.

“Then he may stay where he is, Jamael,” the princess instructed the warrior.

Who was none too pleased by her words. His lips skinned back from his teeth but he bowed in acknowledgment of her command. For a moment he thought the warrior would continue to block the princess from joining Sava but the tall man stepped aside.

“Sit your rump down, boy, and stay where you are,” the warrior commanded him. Once more his fingers caressed the grip of his sword.

He had no choice but to lower himself to the ground. He sat with his knees drawn up into the circle of his arms, careful not to let his face show the fury that was piercing his heart.

The princess stepped forward to kiss Sava on both cheeks then hooked her arm through hers. “Come. Introduce me to your friends. What is it you were doing?”

“Reading the cards!” Sava said with enthusiasm. “Telling our futures.”

“Oh, what fun,” the princess said.

He watched the elegant beauty greet his sisters then sink gracefully to the blanket. As he stared in open-mouthed wonder, his sister Dayna scooped up the cards, shuffled them then laid the deck on the blanket for the princess to cut.

“What would you like to know, Your Highness?” Dayna asked as the princess cut the deck.

“The man who will be my husband, of course,” the princess replied and the four young women giggled.

“Don’t we all?” Naomi asked.

 

Excerpt from THE REVENANT'S DESIRE by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Naughty Haunts

Eleven Spooky Love Stories

Pre-order the E-book:

Available for download September 2nd

 
Blurb:
A once-a-year visit to her lover may be enough to hold his demons at bay, but it can’t cure Alana’s loneliness on the other 364 days of the year. 

Genre/Theme:
Paranormal Romance, Shapeshifter, Speculative Fiction

Copyright © Charlotte Boyett-Compo, 2016

Chapter One

Spanish moss hung from the darkened shoulders of the live oaks like the scraggly haircuts of withered old men. It swung violently in the wind and dripped icy water upon on the woman darting through the grove. Lightning stitched through the sodden midnight sky and lit the overhead branches in a strange, eerie blue-gray light. Underfoot, the ground was slippery and pitted with mud puddles from the rain. The air was filled with the scent of decaying leaves and something more sinister. The smell pebbled her skin with chill bumps, caused her shoulders to tense beneath the heavy raincoat she wore. She dared not stop but could not prevent herself from whipping her head around from time to time to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

Her destination was the Thibodeaux Plantation a half mile beyond. There—within the decaying walls of the old mansion and away from prying eyes—she would meet her lover. The portal would open at midnight and last until first light. It was imperative she get there on time, for her moments with him only came once a year on All Hallow’s Eve. Then that doorway between the realms opened. When specters and haunts and all manner of supernatural beings could cross over. Some good; most bad. To those who feared the spectral visitors, her lover was considered among the latter. There were among the human population a few who would destroy him if they could, so making sure no one was trailing her was vitally important.

She stopped to catch her breath and to surreptitiously look around her for just such a person. Drawing the raincoat tighter around her neck, clamping her teeth together to prevent them from chattering from the cold, she pressed against the rough bark of an oak tree and peered through the downpour. Nothing moved and she heard nothing save the falling of the rain upon the saturated ground. Nevertheless she held still to survey the forest surrounding her—keeping her ears cocked for any sound that did not belong. She kept her eyes peeled for any movement among the skeletal bones of the dark trees. Once satisfied she was alone in her trek, she pushed away from the tree to set out again—lowering her head against the cold invasion of the raindrops.

As she neared the boundary where forest gave way to a clearing dotted with overgrown weeds and crumbling outbuildings, she could hear the Kinchafoonee Creek rushing over downed trees and rocks. The smell of the water was pungent and brought with it that evil stench that had been plaguing her since she first entered the pine grove. She frowned deeply at that scent, for it spoke of things she hoped she would not encounter this night. Things best left buried deep beneath the Georgia red clay. In the distance, a lone hound bayed dissonantly and the hair on her arms stirred.

The portal was opening as the clock ticked toward the witching hour. Things were beginning to slip through. They would be floating around the old plantation house. Lurking among the pines. Slithering over the wet ground to ooze their way into the rotting foundation. Wafting through the cracks in the windows and flowing down the crumbling chimneys. Clawing at the floorboards.

Suddenly, lightning shrieked like a banshee across the firmament. The sky pulsed ghostly gray in its wake and the ground shook as the bolt struck somewhere to the south of where she ran. Something had come out of the clouds. She sensed it, felt a spectral finger scrape down her spine and knew she had to hurry.

He would be there waiting for her with his arms open wide. He would keep the evil that now shadowed her at bay.

Tripping over the uneven ground—her fingers growing numb from clutching so fiercely at the closing of her raincoat—she could not stop the whimper of fear from escaping her throat. The malevolence was quick on her heels and closing fast. She had to reach the relative safety of the plantation before it reached out its wicked talons to grab her.

Hurry, Alana.

It was his soft, deep voice she heard in her mind. She could feel his worry, his unease.

Quickly, my love. He is gaining on you!

“Who is he? What is he?” she asked aloud as thunder rolled brutally overhead.

Evil incarnate came the answer.

 

Excerpt From THE MAGEWYND'S CAULDRON by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Part of the NAUGHTY HEATWAVE boxed-set, available now.

Purchase the E-book:

Purchase the Print Book:

Blurb:
Confined to quarters in a windowless room without air conditioning, Fin O'Kelly thinks he's dropped into hell. When the lovely electrical tech comes to his door to fix the problem, Finn finds out what heat really is!

Genre/Theme:
Speculative Fiction, paranormal romance

*This is a posthumous work*

Copyright © Charlotte Boyett-Compo, 2016

Chapter One

Finn O’Kelly stepped out of his jeans, crammed them into a tight ball then threw them with a hiss across the cabin. Sweat dripping down his temples, running into his eyes, he stomped over to the sink and turned the cold water on full blast. Leaning down, he stuck his head under the rush to gain a momentary respite from the cloying, sweltering heat. That helped but he couldn’t stand there all night long.

“Two days,” he grumbled. “Two damn days! How long does it take to send a repairman to fix a fucking air conditioning unit?”

Straightening, he raked his fingers through his wet hair to push it from his face. Droplets cascaded down his back but didn’t go far before the water warmed from his high body heat. It crawling down the crack of his ass pissed him off even more than he already was.

“Argh!” His loud, infuriated yowl alerted his computer and the vid-com on the wall blinked to life.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Major?” the soft, southern Serenian voice inquired.

“Find out where the hell that repairman is!”

“I will check, sir.”

“Do more than check, Stacey! Get him here!”

There was a touch of pique in the computer voice when it answered. “Aye, sir.”

Tugging on his hair, he marched over to the sofa and plopped down.

Which was a mistake.

The overheated leather immediately adhered to his body like a second skin.

“Shit!”

He peeled himself off the sofa and stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, head bowed in surrender to the ungodly heat. Everywhere he turned it reached out to lay its fiery hands on him.

“Major?” the computer queried.

He was so frustrated all he could do was whisper. “Aye.”

“There are two more cabins on the worksheet before yours. Maintenance says it will be another two to four hours before the repairman can get to you.”

“Fucking great,” he snapped and the vid-com screen went black.

Grinding his teeth to keep from exploding, Finn wanted to beat his head against the titanium walls. At least if he was unconscious, he wouldn’t feel the suffocating heat.

It didn’t help that he had been confined to quarters before the air conditioning system went down. There were two armed guards at his door to make sure he didn’t leave. When the cool air stopped, he thought at first it was an addendum added to his enforced sentence—an unjust punishment he sure as hell didn’t deserve.

“Levels nine, ten and eleven are offline, Major,” Stacey had told him. “All three super compressors blew at the same time.”

“Was it a terrorist attack?”

“That does not appear to be the case. Apparently old equipment that should have been replaced long before now is the cause. One compressor blew then shorted out the other two before maintenance could shut down the grid. The regulators in every room on those levels were fried, as well, and will need to be replaced or rewired.”

One hundred rooms per level plus assorted offices and other essential accommodations would prove to be a helluva nightmare for the twenty-man maintenance staff. As it was, the Commandant had sent off-station for additional maintenance workers capable of replacing the antiquated equipment—equipment that had to be flown in from off-world.

Stretching out naked on the floor, he flung an arm over his eyes. The composite material beneath him was somewhat cooler than the air around him and he’d take whatever he could get. He’d already used up the quotient of shower water for the week so that was out of the question. There was ice in the fridge unit but he used it sparingly. He wouldn’t put it past General Frasier to cut off his supply of that meager relief as well.

Consider yourself lucky I don’t send you to Helios-Twelve instead of confining you to quarters, Frasier had told him smugly. There are prisoners on Hell-Twelve who would gladly exchange places with you, O’Kelly.

Frasier had made it abundantly clear to him that he was being lenient by merely locking him in his quarters. That things could certainly have gone really bad for him. He could have sent him to the brig—and he wished the bastard had sent him there. The brig was on level four of the space station and those lucky bastards had air conditioning.

“Another day of this torture and I just might go berserk and attack those fucking guards to get my ass sent to the brig,” he mumbled as sweat rolled down his chest to pool in his belly button.

Of course Frasier was just Diabolusian warthog mean enough to nix that idea and keep him inside the sweat lodge long after everyone else’s AC had been restored.

He thought of what had put him in this fiery inferno and knew he deserved every ounce of sweat he was oozing.

“Too much Chrystallusian plum wine and hitting on the wrong woman,” he said on a long sigh. “How the hell was I supposed to know it was Frasier’s daughter?”

Public intoxication and conduct unbecoming of an officer were bad enough but then he’d managed to tack on hitting a security policeman, resisting arrest and perpetrated about three thousand credits’ worth of destruction of government property.

“Oh, yeah. I hit the quinfecta this time,” he admitted.

Yep. He should have been carted off to the brig. Better yet: he should have kept his eyes and hands and mouth and well—other parts of him—away from the blond bombshell with the violet eyes who had sworn she could drink him under the table.

She was right; she could.

But that wasn’t all they’d done under the table.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he labeled himself.

It had taken him a full day to get over the hangover, but four days later, he still had the shiner from hell and a chipped tooth that was starting to trouble him.

Dropping his arm behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. It was so hot in the room he could see heat devils shimmering around the overhead light. His mouth was bone dry even if his body was slippery wet with sweat.

“Where the hell is that technician, Stacey?” he yelled.

The vid-com came on again.

“Your quarters will be next, Major,” the computer informed him. “I would recommend you practice patience. Conserve your strength.”

He grabbed his crotch in frustration. “Conserve this, you prissy network of wires.”

The vid-com pulsed brightly then returned to darkness.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

He really wasn’t but it was best to keep on the good side of the A.I. that was both his watchdog and confidante.

Rolling over to a cooler spot, he winced as the sweat on his chest pressed against the slick floor but he laid his cheek to the composite material and closed his eyes. He was on the verge of dozing off when the chime sounded at his door. Popping his head up like a turtle, he swiveled it around.

“Come!”

Even as the word left his mouth a part of him suggested he get dressed before the technician came in, but he pushed the recommendation away. He didn’t have anything the tech didn’t have and hadn’t seen a million times before.

That was what crossed his mind as the door opened and he sat up to the sight of a diminutive woman in a short-sleeved dark green jumpsuit standing in the opening.

“What the hell?” he barked, slamming his hands over his junk.

“I’m Maze. I’m here to fix your regulator,” the woman told him without as much as a blink of her big brown eyes. She was chewing gum—at least he hoped that was what it was and not a plug of tobacco—as she stood there looking at him.

She was absolutely stunning with her dark brown hair cut in a tousled pixie style. She might have hit the five feet mark but he bet she weighed no more than a hundred pounds. Those large brown eyes didn’t seem to miss anything and when they dipped to his cupped hands, her wide smile was slow and filled with humor. She popped her gum—yes, he saw the pink color lurking behind that saucy grin—then winked.

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Celebrating the Life of Charlotte Boyett-Compo, Romance Author and Friend

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

On January 20th The Naughty Literati lost one of our own, Charlotte "Charlee" Boyett-Compo, one of our founding members who contributed her wonderful stories to every one of our releases since we all began to write together. Today we celebrate the life of this strong, charismatic, sarcastic, creative, prolific author and dear friend who touched each of our lives in indelible ways.

One of the things I cherished most about Charlee was her candid way of saying exactly what she thought without beating around the bush or worries of being politically correct. You always knew exactly where she stood on things.

I have fond memories of her intense dislike of polls, which we often use in the Naughty Literati to help so many opinionated women come to a group decision. In one particular case Suz asked, "Can everyone please weigh in on this so I don't have to do another poll and upset Charlee? (Snicker--please say 'no, we want another poll!' just because)." Charlee's response was classic and priceless. "Yeah, may the bluebird of happiness fly up your: (1. Nose (2. Ass (3. Other." 

People will hate you, rate you and break you. How strong you stand is what makes you. Charlee was one of the strongest women it has been my honor and privilege to know and work with. I love you and miss you, Charlee. Thank you for being my friend. I take solace in knowing you are once again in the arms of the love of your life.

-- Nicole Austin

Around 2007, after she had already pioneered an impressive backlist of books that stemmed back to the early beginnings of ebooks in the mid to late 1990s, Charlee first blipped onto my radar as Charlotte Boyett-Compo, author of the Reaper ™ aka WindLegends ™ book franchise… or “my creations,” as she referred to them.  I was thinking of trying to write a romance for arguably the largest epub in the romance market at that time when I happened upon several of her titles on said epublisher’s website. An avid romance-aholic with a penchent for dark fantasy, I gobbled up her entire backlist in short order.

Flash forward to near-end of 2014. By that time I was published with the epublisher in question and had “met” Charlee in a couple of online forums for the authors. When several of us authors decided to band together and indie publish our own short romance anthologies, I was very excited that Charlee wanted to be one of our founding members. The Naughty Literati was born. And from the first moment, Charlee was our Georgia peach who proved she was a real Steel Magnolia to boot.

Her direct, intelligent input and vast, published author experience was vital to the early formation of The Naughty Literati; I recall it was initially her idea to incorporate “Naughty” into every antho title as part of our brand. Her blog posts here were always insightful, bursting with her own, indelible writing voice, and usually held a message that possessed more gravitas than most romance blog posts ever hope to contain. Christmas Memories, Charlie's last blog post for this website, was December 21st. Just barely a month ago. In it she speaks so eloquently about her bittersweet Christmas memories as a child in Georgia where the beginnings of her social conscience were seeded and took root. It ranks as one of my top favorite pieces of her writing ever.

On our online group (and on Facebook), she often regaled with us with peppery tales of some residents in the small town of her adopted “Ioway.” She loved her country house with its wealth of cat “Overloards” who habitually lolled upon any given square inch where she wanted to sit or work.

She was annoyed yet resigned when people misspelled her name. Usually, people wrote “Campo” instead of “Compo,” but I once committed the faux pas of mispronoucing her maiden name before the hyphen. “It’s Boy-yett (emphasis on the yett). Boy-yay is the way a lot of folks pronounce it. It's actually German.”  She forgave me quickly, saying I was the least offender. “It's not a problem. I had an internet radio interview once and the lady announced me as Charleen Boyer-Campton. I took great delight in correcting her. To get all three names wrong was inexcusable.”

She loved to cook robust home meals for her loved ones, and shared some of her favorites with us - I’m drooling to try her Southern Chicken Dressing and her Lime Yogurt Pie soon. She was committed to doing service for her church and loved her sons, who relied on her and vice versa.

Perhaps the most revered corner of her heart was reserved for late husband, Tommy Compo, her high school sweetheart and love of her life whom she referred to always as “my Tommy.” She scoffed at the idea of dating again after his passing, declaring she’d already “had the best.” She believed he was her guardian angel, for she declared he always took care of her in life; why wouldn’t he continue to do so once he was in Heaven?

Now that her own epic love story with Tommy has resumed on the celestial plane, we are left with the unique worlds and fascinating characters she created in her books beloved by so many of her fans. As well as the memory of her friendship and the wisdom she imparted to us while she was here.

She always ended correspondence with, “May the Wind be always at your back…” A reference to an Irish prayer and also her own WindLegends ™ creations.

May the Wind always be at your back, Charlee. And thank you.

-- Belle Scarlett

I didn’t know Charlotte Boyett-Compo until about October 2014, when she and I were part of the group that became The Naughty Literati. Charlee wrote dark fantasy and paranormal romance which, generally, I don’t read simply because it’s not my taste.

Charlee had, and still has, a huge following. She built elaborate worlds involving Nightwinds, Reapers, Shadowlords, and WyndMasters – characterizations I cannot even fathom ever creating and still don’t quite understand. The sexuality of her worlds was dark, and I appreciate and applaud that direction in erotic romance. She was the consummate professional and a willing mentor.

I never met Charlee in person, I only knew her online. But nowadays, that is sometimes the only way we know colleagues. The lack of face-to-face interaction does not diminish the impact a person can have on another.

I learned a lot from Charlee, and was quite inspired by her example. She wrote prodigiously this past year, almost like she knew she had to get all the words out. She achieved new success this past year even in the face of some pretty aggravating publishing hurdles. She had health problems this year and yet soldiered on tenaciously.

Farewell, Charlee, and thank you.

-- Regina Kammer

Charlee on her wedding day to her high school sweetheart and love of her life, Tommy Compo.

I’ve known Charlee for ten years. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like a very long time indeed in the writing community where most of the people I knew five years ago have disappeared. I was thrilled when we both joined the Naughty Literati when it began, and I was able to spend time with her again. I love Charlee’s characters that leap off the page, her incredible, detailed and consistent world building, and her smart wit that enables her to be endlessly patient when explaining something to a newbie, yet still demonstrates her low tolerance for stupidity. Sometimes all in the same sentence.

-- Berengaria Brown

I first met Charlee when I ran a book review website, back in the late 1990s. She was one of the "go to" people that everyone recommended for dark fantasy, so I picked up one of her books and got lost in her world. Hours later, I came back to the world, disoriented. I'd devoured the book so thoroughly that the outside world ceased to exist. When I finally stumbled to my feet, it was with the knowledge that my reading world had changed. E-books were so young, so new, and while I was open to them, I can clearly point to reading Charlee as a turning point.

When we found ourselves at the same publisher, I was over the moon. With each and every release, she deepened the reader's experience and colored her world more vibrantly.

And who can forget the enduring love she had for Tommy. Her love and affection for him was a living and vital thing that just grew through the years.

In 2014, I was delighted to find myself working with Charlee in the Naughty Literati. Her stories were fantastic, and the trailers she made were just perfect. Charlee, we miss you more than words can convey. Thank you for everything.

--Alexa Silver

I first "met" Charlee online in 1999 when we were both writing for one of the very first epublishers. (I was writing under a different name at the time.) Her book with that publisher (and I'm sorry that I can't remember the title now) was also one of the first ebooks I ever read, on my clunky old laptop since even the early ereaders were still a couple of years away. It simply blew me away. At the time many people argued that ebooks weren't "real" books, that they were inferior, things the authors couldn't sell to "real" publishers. If ever a book demolished those denigrations, Charlee's book did. It blew me away with its depth, its ferocity, the brilliant, unforgettable characters, the marvelous writing, and a plot that left me in tears at the end. I can't remember the title, but I do remember the plot and characters quite vividly after all these years.

In 2002 or 2003 I was delighted when Charlee offered a few of her books to the publisher I was writing for at the time.  When a group of us became the Naughty Literati, I was even more excited that she was part of the group, too.

I never met Charlee in person, but from all the interactions we had on various author and fan lists, and occasional off-list exchanges, I felt like I knew her fairly well. Her acerbic wit found humor in unexpected places and her creative mind extended into many other areas of her life. We found common ground in the discovery that we were both practicing Catholics who found writing erotic romance an integral part of our extended world view and not something sinful or disgraceful (though we both had struggles with fellow Christians who didn't share our outlook on sexual activity as a vital and glorious part of God's creation). 

She had a talent and passion for writing that still fills me with awe when I read her stories. Pardon the innate sexism in this, but in the spirit of a "mankind" that is bigger than just male persons: "Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind." The loss of Charlee leaves a huge hole in our lives.

-- Katherine Kingston

I think of all of us, I knew Charlee the least. The Naughty Literati brought us together and I wish I'd had more time to get to know her better. I did have the great pleasure of editing her. The hardest part was getting so wrapped up in her amazing words that I forgot to look for errors. I can't count the number of times I had to backtrack (not that I ever found much that needed changing). I think, as someone else intimated, our somewhat loosely controlled chaos drove her bats, but she was good about telling us exactly what her position was. I can't see a poll anywhere now without thinking of Charlee's aversion to them. 

The world is a little darker now, without Charlee in it. May her words and her creations live long into the future. 

The wind is always at your back now, Charlee. 

-- Terry Rissen

I'd seen Charlee's posts on an author loop I belonged to and I remember that she always had interesting things to say and helpful advice for those of us who were newbies and struggling. Back in 2009 or 2010 (I think, my memory is a little foggy), Charlee made big news. Or rather one of her books did. A print copy of one of her books was being listed for sale on Amazon at $75,000 dollars. I think it was an out of print book, but still that was insane and it was all over the place. It was at that point that I realized that she lived just down the road from me - I in Newton, IA and she in Grinnell, Iowa. I hesitantly emailed her and asked if she ever got over to my library in Newton. She showed up one day and we got a chance to meet. She was so sweet and kind, a real joy to talk to. We talked about her wildly priced book and she laughed. She said it made for good publicity as she'd been interviewed by local newspapers and a local tv station.

Since we've been working together on The Naughty Literati projects, I've been impressed by her great ideas, her work ethic, and her kindness. She will be truly missed. Good bye, dear lady. We who remain here will miss you, but I'm sure you're happily reunited with Tommy, the love of your life. A true romance if ever there was one.

--Francesca Hawley