Booked To Death, An Author's Guide to Publishing and Murder

By PJ Campbell

Booked to Death, Second Edition contains new publishing insider material that every want-to-be author needs to know.

 

Booked to Death, An Author's Guide to Publishing and Murder is a novel about two very different writers who are driven to the brink of desperation in their quest to land a lucrative publishing contract. MT Evans, early 50's, respected, publishing executive meets up with Sherry Cherelle a shallow, pampered, buxom aspiring author for a glass of wine at the Algonquin Hotel Restaurant in New York to commiserate about their publishing woes.

 

Resentful of the success achieved by the 'nobodies' who commit crimes and then land BIG book deals, the frustrated authors unite for the perfect crime to guarantee their inclusion in the exclusive society of 'published authors.' Their criminal plans, just like their attempts to get traditionally published, fail in a comedy of errors, despite their well-thought-out strategy, but all is not lost as the tables turn. A bizarre twist of fate set in motion by their bungled crime spree brings about an unforseen contract, but at what cost?

 

Read and learn...you will be amazed at what these two fictional characters do and what 'real' authors have done in order to get published by a traditional publisher.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PJ Campbell
• Release date: Jul 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201553029

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

DEAD FROM THE NECK UP

MT stood looking down over the body as blood spewed from under his head. She was trembling; on the verge of convulsions. The fireplace poker clanked on the wooden floor. But as much as she tried to control her reaction, her reaction took control of her as she began to cry hysterically and puke.

MT and Harrison had had a nasty argument that morning as he was walking out the door. The same fight they had been having over and over again. Distrust…each one suspecting the other of cheating. It was driving a sizeable wedge between them; undermining their once happy and heavenly marriage. Although, as much as they loved one another, because of ‘how’ their relationship had begun in secrecy while Isabelle and Harrison were entwined, it never seemed to have the blessings of the universe. They were always trying to ‘become’ the ideal couple, but because of the heavy karma they shared, this was clearly never going to happen.

MT and Isabelle had been out shopping and had gone for an early dinner at Daniel’s, Upper East Side restaurant. It was like old times, giggling, having a dressing room fashion show for each other, and a lot of ‘girl-talk.’ Being at Daniel’s brought back many memories of times long gone when the four of them, Harrison, Isabelle, Tony and MT would spare no expense for an evening of opulent dining. They could always count on the finest French cuisine, waiters tripping over each other to be of service and the wine…the cellar was the size of a city block―no one had the selection that Daniel’s boasted.

Feeling a little tipsy, they hailed a cab to MT’s apartment. As MT turned the key in the lock they entered while engrossed in conversation and didn’t immediately notice that there was a light on in the kitchen. As they went about setting down their shopping bags and hanging up their coats, another ‘light’ went on in MT’s head.

You know Isabelle, I don’t remember leaving a light on in the kitchen. You know me, I can be a real ‘Scrooge’ about the electricity, MT whispered to Isabelle as she grabbed her elbow to bring her within earshot.

As a safety measure, on her way towards the kitchen, MT picked up the fireplace poker and tip-toed towards the kitchen with Isabelle right behind her. They peeked through the levered swinging door and didn’t see anyone. Then heard sounds coming from the hall bathroom, where there was also a light. With the poker positioned to strike, MT stood on the side of the bathroom doorway and waited. Isabelle shadowed her for emotional support. The bathroom light shut and the door opened. Without giving it a second thought MT hit the perpetrator over the back of the head causing him to fall, spinning around landing face up, as if the intruder wanted to see his assailant.

The blood gushed out of the inflicted puncture wound. The male figure clothed in a trench coat lay motionless, eyes wide-open staring at the ceiling. There Harrison was in all of his male glory…dead.

And as things would have it, the truth? Well, that’s a matter of opinion. There were so many unanswered questions and possibilities that were left unresolved, but that was then and this is now.

MT brought herself back into the conference room as the President of Riddleton Publishing called her name to come up on stage. She was receiving a prestigious publishing award that a limited number achieve in their careers. Her tenacity to promote and publicize Riddleton’s finest authors had garnered her the much sought-after President’s award. She quickly pushed aside her scandalous past and put on a big smile as she walked up to the stage to receive this coveted prize. She was the envy of so many colleagues not only for this honor being bestowed upon her at this time, but more so for her accelerated rise to senior management. As she passed Riddleton’s associates she could hear them whispering, but she didn’t allow that to phase her. She had earned this and she was going to revel in her moment of triumph.

For Jane Smith AKA, Sherry Cherelle it was just another day as she stared at her 24" computer monitor in her elaborate mahogany paneled home office in Westchester, New York. Influenced by articles she had read about famous novelists’ writing studios, she had decorated her writing office in an attempt to emulate some of the legendary authors’ workspaces and libraries. Her library was dark and somewhat mysterious, yet had an enormous bay window facing west, overlooking her rolling green lawn that caught the late-day sunshine. A writer’s haven is private, yet if looked upon by others it needs to convey a literary mood and contain volumes of autographed books by renowned authors. Jane had gone to great lengths to ensure her library left nothing to chance. She had hired a well-known decorator who specialized in designing high-end home library offices.

Dressed in an Escada red poppy, low- square-necked dress, bejeweled in diamonds, with her blonde hair and makeup freshly done, she was ready at a moment’s notice for the call or email that would change her life. But this morning did not hold that promise. Jane had high aspirations for her writing career and her birth name of Jane Smith did not equate. Her mother, Janet had named her after herself, but to avoid confusion, she just left off the‘t’ and called her Jane. The only problem was that ‘Jane Smith’ sounded like a big ‘nobody’ so she changed it to a fun, happy, sophisticated, tickle your nose kind of name, Sherry Cherelle. It sort of rolled off the tongue―at least that’s what Jane thought.

Now fifteen years later, she was still waiting for that triumphant book deal, the deal that would change her life more than anything she had been able to manifest thus far. She had a very good life and wanted for nothing, except for what her money could not buy—recognition for her literary prowess, cleverness, and creativity as an author. And well, Jane being Jane had absolutely no inkling that in reality, she truly didn’t have the writing talent that would deliver a book contract to her door.

She read the form letter email for a second time; maybe she had misunderstood the context. This isn't a good fit for my list at this time. I wish you much success in—. Burns Literary Agency

No, she had understood the message, it just registered loud and clear. I wish you much success? I wish you much success! Sherry shouted at the computer, as if she expected a response. And how the hell am I going to have success when no one wants to publish me!

She looked in the pedestal mirror she kept on her desk, confirmation that she still looked gorgeous and youthful, but as the sunlight hit her face, her confidence diminished. She promptly flattened the mirror on her desktop.

No one wants to publish me! No one wants to publish me! mimicked Cash, her husband’s African Grey Parrot. It was sitting on its perch in the adjoining room next to Sherry’s office.

What made it even harsher, hearing Cash…was the fact that he could impersonate Sherry’s voice! And at this moment, it seemed as though he was really making fun of her as he made a clicking sound, imitating a person snapping their fingers together and started boogying up and down on his perch, lifting his feet as if he were dancing and flapping his wings, as if he was listening and rocking to his favorite tune.

Sherry shouted, Shut up, Cash, just shut the fuck up!

Fuck up, fuck up, Cash repeated, flaring his red tail feathers. And just when Sherry thought his wisecracks would end, he started to mimic her husband, Barry’s laugh, ha, ha, ha…snort, snort…

It figures, yes you got that right, Cash, I’m sure Barry is laughing at me.

Sherry hated to admit Cash was only telling her what she knew to be true. She exhaled, slouched over her desk and opened up her Excel spreadsheet that contained 210 agents’ names. She went to the response section and typed in NO for the 166th time while waiting for 44 remaining responses. In her heart she knew that quite likely they weren’t going to respond favorably, but seeing the 44 spaces without the word NO meant there was still hope; at least that’s what she continued to tell herself quietly. She remained frozen in her high back, distressed chocolate colored leather desk chair, contemplating what-if anything, she could do to change her response outcome.

Initially, when she first started querying agents, she’d cry with each rejection and tell herself she’d never write again. And worst of all, their snubs were yet another reminder of how she would never amount to anything.

What chance did she have? She had been born of a mother who was a hotel maid and a traveling salesman’s one-night stand. She had become all too familiar with repudiation as a struggling actress in Los Angeles. But then, after a day or two had gone by since reading her last rejection notice, she’d break her promise and make her way back to her typewriter. Yes, it was a Smith Corona typewriter when she first began since she liked to hear the click clack of the keys as she crafted her stories. The sound of the keys made her believe she was actually creating something and she thought it made her more literary, even if what she was writing was considered drivel according to some of the rejection responses. Yet, once agents’ submission guidelines requested that materials be sent to them via email, she bought herself a computer. It took her weeks to figure out how to use it, and a lot of online tech support, but wrote her third novel, Bringing Home Irene, on it. That had been three computers ago. At least someone was making money off of her writing, even if it wasn’t her. Thankfully she married well as advised by other wanna-be writers. It’s the only way to have the time and financial support to devote to the craft.

But, truth-be-told, at first it wasn’t about the money. Her husband, Barry provided quite nicely in that department. No, it had been about the status; she wanted to be a glamorous literary figure like Jacqueline Susann had been or Danielle Steele was. She wanted Barry’s high-brow friends and others to whisper, She’s a bestselling author instead of She’s married to Barry Weiss, you know, the successful investment banker.

She had the ‘glamour’ part down pat. Any woman would pay a fortune to have her looks, body, and youthful appearance. She drove the men wild with her temptress attitude and dress, but the literary half of her self-description was seriously lacking; a joke and she knew it. She heard the cackles as she promenaded by and caught sight of the eyes rolling in the heads of the onlookers at Barry’s business social gatherings. She supposed they were snickering about her so-called writing career. Sherry was grateful for her appearance and frankly it was the one thing about herself that she appreciated and liked. She knew how to use it to her advantage, and she had done so very successfully in the past, but up to this point it had failed her in the publishing game.

Now though, she realized that perhaps her purpose in securing a publisher had to be more about the money than she originally thought. A high six-figure advance would help keep her in the lifestyle to which she’d grown accustomed. But how would that happen if she couldn’t even get an agent? No publisher or at least the recognizable ones would accept unsolicited manuscripts. Sherry had yet to figure out how to access agents directly since they all had dedicated assistants that were their gatekeepers. Gaining entry to this group of writer representatives was one of the industry’s best kept secrets. And she just was too stubborn to follow the specifics of author guidelines for the submission process on their websites.

Sherry was in complete denial that her writing skills may not be enough. Maybe agents already had enough authors with her particular story line was the reason she was repeatedly turned down.

And yes, she could self-publish, but then that wouldn’t result in giving her the recognition she sought from her peers or Barry’s circle of well-to-do friends. Neither would it result in the advance or the earning potential she pictured.

Sherry had done her homework and researched publishing options; which publishers were regarded and those that were not. She knew the advantage of being published with a traditional publisher such as Riddleton, Pinnacle, or R&H. She would have support of a team, including a publicist, marketer, editor, creative team, sales, and distribution backing, and the PRESTIGE… yes that’s what she lusted after initially, and now equally necessary and essential, was producing a high income.

She forwarded the Burns Literary Agency’s email to MT Evans, but not before adding her message by typing, Another rejection! I think I’ll paper my walls with them! I’m calling my therapist!

Moments later, she got a reply back from MT: HANG IN THERE—and not by a rope! Drinks this weekend?

Sherry couldn’t respond to MT’s email, just then. Feeling nauseous and ugly, she just sat there pondering what to do.

MT’s email address at Riddleton Publishing, one of the most prominent publishers in the industry, taunted Sherry. That and the fact that MT agreed that she would personally hand Sherry’s manuscript to the right editor, but that was weeks ago, and she hadn’t said anything since then about it. Sherry was dying to ask, but didn’t want to appear too eager—as if she was taking advantage of their friendship or dependent on MT for her only publishing opportunity, even though that was probably the fact. She respected MT’s publishing position, her knowledge and experience in the business. But good God, hadn’t she paid her dues and wasn’t it time she got that major book deal? All MT had to do was sell it to her publisher and editorial colleagues and the rest would follow. Was it really too much to ask from their relationship? Sherry didn’t think so and she started to think about how she might manipulate or guilt MT into doing what she already promised she would do—show it to Riddleton!

Yes, MT Evans worked for a major player in the publishing world in the marketing department, and so far she hadn’t shown Sherry’s manuscript to her influential colleagues. MT had read Sherry’s book draft and frankly, didn’t feel comfortable about representing it. It wasn’t that it was awful and MT had told Sherry that she had seen worse manuscripts published right there at Riddleton, but by passing Sherry’s manuscript along to an editor or publisher MT felt this would be a reflection on her, as if she was endorsing it. She wasn’t willing to stick her neck out that far for Sherry, not at her own publishing house. Well, Sherry couldn’t really be too bitter about it, since MT couldn’t get her own novel published either. So their commiserating bond grew stronger.

When they’d first met several years ago at the New York Writer’s Digest Conference, it was obvious they hadn’t had a whole lot in common, except for the fact that they both knew what it felt like to be rejected over and over and over again. Their age difference was fairly obvious as well as their, shall we say, intelligence level? Still MT liked Sherry and wanted to see her succeed, but not at the cost of her own reputation.

Sherry sighed, stood and sauntered over to the mahogany built-in bookshelves bulging with copies of Run to Him. Stroking the book’s spine with her right index finger, she recalled her first experience writing a novel. She was pleased with how it turned out, even though she still had not been able to interest an agent to represent her. Big surprise! Oh, she had tried, hadn’t she? After about three years and dozens upon dozens of rejections, she conceded to self-publishing. It wasn’t a route she had even thought about until she saw no other way to get her book printed. She knew she had a timeline where her looks would make a difference. Doors had always opened for her, figuratively and literally speaking. The time was drawing near that her appearance may not be of any advantage and she was determined to use her God-given looks to get that book deal if it was the last thing she did.

With Barry’s permission, she signed up for the most expensive service with the DIY (Do-It-Yourself) Publishing Company, which included an editorial evaluation. She had heard that if a writer self-published his/her novel and it sold well, a notable publisher may be more inclined to offer a contract. A number of publishers and agents scan the newly released self-published titles looking for a diamond in the rough and a select few lucky authors are able to catch the attention of traditional publishers or agents. As Sherry began to work with the DIY editor, she decided that she was an idiot and a waste of her time and money.

One dimensional characters? she’d muttered when reading the editorial notes. What the hell did that mean, anyway? There were red lines through her text and side bar notes all throughout her manuscript. It looked like her high school teacher’s red pen slashes and remarks on her essays—and that made Sherry want to throw up. She felt humiliated back then and now. She fought to hold back her tears. Then as if she flipped a switch, she regained composure, slapped her hand on her desktop, and proclaimed, I don’t give a damn what this so-called editor thinks! She can just go to H-E-Double L for all I care. She is forgetting that I’m paying for these services and I’m the one who decides what stays and what goes. I’ll show her!

Even though Sherry berated the editor’s shortcomings, there was a still small voice in her head saying, You need to pay close attention to these comments. She is the professional in this case, not you. She chose to ignore her little voice and all the silly suggestions, and there were hundreds of them. Sherry was paying to have her book published and the decisions on all of it were up to her, not some editor whom she’d never even had a conversation with, let alone met.

She picked up the hardcover of Run to Him from the shelf and leafed through her first-born, taking a good whiff of the paper and ink traces. That’s how she thought of it, especially since she didn’t have children of her own. She beamed as she looked down on the bright blue dust jacket and the bold black typeface, as if she truly was looking at a newborn baby. She had no intention of being a mother since her role model mother was such a loser, but every intention of being a successful author. Thankfully, Barry already had children with his first wife that were now adults. So, she was off the hook to produce Barry’s heirs.

Once Run to Him was hot off the presses, she bought 10,000 copies with Barry’s permission. The bulk of them were stored in their basement, as if they were already sold, out of sight, out of mind. She thought buying all those copies would make it an instant bestseller, but found out much too late that that wasn’t how it worked. The books actually have to sell through a variety of retail outlets in order to be recognized for a bestseller list and reported through Book Scan, a data provider for the publishing industry. This process would likely get the attention of agents or traditional publishers. What Sherry didn’t know was that there was a company, Result Source, Inc., that basically, required authors to make bulk purchases of their own books, and then break those orders up into small increments to make them look like organic retail sales. For this service, authors paid tens of thousands of dollars on top of the cost of the books whose purchases, Result Source laundered. The total price tag could approach $250,000. And even IF she had known, it’s doubtful that Barry would have authorized that amount of money for his wife’s fantasy to be fulfilled.

As discouraged as she was, Barry had promised to take some of her books with him