This month at Callie’s Corner we are pleased to introduce a special guest writer: Callie’s far less professional alter ego, D. H. Persephone. Persephone is almost exactly like Callie, except that she drinks more cups of coffee in a day than recommended, wears her sweatpants twice in a row before washing them, and likes to loudly insult squirrels on her afternoon walks.
D. H. Persephone
Chapter 1: In which I emerge from the depths of despair
Getting published is no walk in the park. I have enough rejection letters stuffed in boxes, tubs, and random corners of my house to sink the Bismarck. I’ve tried getting all sorts of books published: fringe science curricula for elementary students, an adult fiction series following a tragically anthropomorphized hotdog, even a special series of ramen noodle cookbooks. No takers.
I was halfway through my traditional post-rejection-letter-Ben-and-Jerry’s when I had an epiphany of sorts. It hit me as I scrolled through Amazon’s best-seller list, wailing, “What do they have that I don’t?” through a mouthful of Cappuccino Chunk. Truly, what did they have that I didn’t? All these best sellers had something going for them, some special spice. And if I could figure out what made their books sell, I could steal that spice and get published too.
Thus began my glorious plan, lovingly titled Operation Amalgamation. I knew pulling off a scam this large would take extensive planning, so I crafted a flowchart diagraming the entire process. Step 1: Choose a profitable genre. Step 2: Identify genre specifics. Step 3: Steal that special spice and make it my own. Step 4: Make an indecent amount of money from book sales. Step 5: Take over the world.
That last step needed some extrapolation. But I had enough of a plan to put in motion, so I laced up my sneakers and headed to Barnes & Noble.
Chapter 2: In which I regrettably stumble upon a profitable genre
As soon as I stepped through the doors, the garish colors of the New Books display struck me square between the eyes. It looked like the murder scene of the Easter bunny: violent pastels and aggressively artsy brush fonts. I could already feel the migraine coming on.
I muttered, “Definitely no,” and hurried down the next aisle. Self Help, Budgeting, How to File Your Taxes and Get a Huge Return. Clearly not a section attracting an affluent audience. Moving on. I was making toward the sports section when I noticed the stares of a few doddering old women across the room. There was something suspicious in the way they looked at me, and I instinctively initiated Emergency Undercover Tactics™, highly recommended for anyone embroiled in a plan involving world domination. I snatched a book from the shelf, opened it, and tried to look engrossed.
Katherine felt a warm heat flower in her belly at a look from his piercing eyes.
Eloquent. Were they still looking? I snuck a peek over the top of the book. Yes, dang it, staring and whispering. I buried my face in the book again.
“Kitty Kat, darling,” he rumbled in that deep baritone that made her knees shake, “Katherine, you know why we can’t be together. You’re a beautiful socialite and I’m a four-time amputee from my daring exploits in the war. Your parents would never allow it.”
Good grief. I shot a furtive glance over the book. Why were they still looking? Darned busybodies.
“Come now, Frederick Leopold VonWesthousen Shondanker Bernstein III,” she whispered throatily, knowing he loved it when she used his full name, “You know I don’t care about any of that. I’d give up anything to be with you! Even my convenient fortune that would perfectly cover the expenses for all of your medical bills.”
I stifled a dry heave and took another peek in the direction of the old ladies. Oh, thank heavens, they were gone. I slammed the book shut and glared at the cover. The Socialite Meets Her Match. Of course. Who reads this stuff? I wondered, and I crammed it back onto the shelves. A decorative little sign next to the display read “This Month’s Best Seller!” Seriously? Anyone could write that. Heck, I could write that.
And there, in that moment, I knew. I would become the next breakout romance novelist. Profit!
Chapter 3: In which I subversively steal the necessary genre archetypes
To dominate the world of romance novels, I needed to know what made the genre tick. I skimmed through the romance section, picking out the best sellers, reading synopses and reviews, and taking notes on what they had in common.
Taming the Tiger. Captain Theodore “Tiger” Drake has no room in his heart for love. Abandoned by his family as a babe, he has sworn off love, secretly devoting himself to studying botany. Cecilia Bevington has never been considered a beauty, but her average looks are a blessing in disguise. No one suspects a plain wallflower like Cecilia could be a swordmaster pugilist. But when a case of mistaken identity throws them together, their secrets get harder and harder to keep. Could this Plain Jane have the courage to Tame her Tiger? Or will their hidden lives keep them apart?
My Seventeen Mistakes in the Ninth Grade. Jazzy has spent her whole life dreaming about her first kiss. There’s only one problem—it hasn’t happened yet. In high school now, the stakes are higher and the boys are cuter. When a run-in with an ice cream truck puts her in a full body cast and her brooding lab partner offers to help with her homework, will she have the courage to make her dream come true?
Second Chance Sultan. When unflappable Tabitha wakes up in a dusty Bedouin tent with a ring on her finger, she knows her vacation has gone terribly awry. Terrified of her sullen groom, whose face makes her traitorous stomach turn somersaults, she runs back to her uncomplicated life in Indiana. But when she receives an email that a handsome Arab prince wants to transfer $500,000 to her bank account for safe keeping, she realizes she may have misjudged her glowering, attractive husband. Can they overcome this misunderstanding? Or will a herd of wild camels crush their love forever?
All formulaic comfort plots, no real “will they/won’t they” suspense. Plenty of brooding heroes and a few arbitrarily strong heroines. At least two Tragic Misunderstandings, and maybe two Near Death Experiences, depending on how the camel situation turns out. Strung together in a list, I had a pretty good idea of the genre requirements. Oversimplified? Of course. But it was a start, and I was ready for something bigger.
Chapter 4: In which I permutate the recipe, add some spice, and transform into a budding novelist
I had my market research. Now, it was time to start taking control. I put on my Evil Genius Thinking Cap (patent pending) and set to work. I knew what my audience wanted, but how was I going to stand out? What wasn’t already being said? I went back to my list.
Formulaic comfort plots. The heart and soul of romance novels. I couldn’t mess with this factor too much, or I’d alienate my audience.
Strong women. There was possibility for some expression here. I could have a maiden in shining armor save a knight in distress? Or pull a “strong woman who don’t need no man” reversal at the end of the book? No, no, that last idea would contradict the comfort plot. Moving on.
Brooding heroes. Archetypical bad boys. Now that was something I knew a thing or two about. I was already lurking through Barnes & Noble trying to steal a marketable book platform and take over the world, so how much harder could writing a glowering Darcy be? I had my niche. If the romance world wanted bad boys, then by golly, that’s what they were going to get.
The ideas started coming faster than I could write them down. Sophie and the Mad Scientist of Belleview Drive. A Mad Scientist of Her Own. The Day the Drug Lord Came to Call. We Blew Up the Tower of London and Other Dating Misadventures. From Soulmates to Cellmates. Can’t Stop Our Love—Or Our Atomic Bomb.
The things were practically going to write themselves.
Chapter 5: In which they do not write themselves, but I still take over the world
I ducked into an abandoned corner of Barnes & Noble, a stack of romance novels on hand for reference, and set to writing. Three hundred twenty-six words and several cups of coffee later, I let out a desperate sigh. I could see the book perfectly in my mind. Loving Him Was Wrong: The Making of a Villainess. It hit all the genre requirements and had the added spice of Bad Boy Extreme. But it seemed determined to remain only in my mind. How long was a romance novel supposed to be? Maybe having a goal to hit would help. I pulled up a reference sheet: 80,000–100,000 words? The strangled noise emanating from my throat sounded much like the grating squeak of gargling marbles. I drained the last of coffee number seven. This tactic was not going to work.
Knowing how to position my book in the market was one thing, actually writing it was apparently an entirely different can of worms. I let out another groan. Surely there was some way to monetize my brilliance without writing the next War and Peace. I flipped back to my flow chart. Maybe I could turn the chart into a book? How long are self-help books supposed to be? Ah, 30,000–70,000 words. Never going to happen. Book writing was not in the stars for me. I stared blankly at the chart on my screen. It was all there: choose a genre, identify specifics, spice it up, get rich, take over the world. All things considered, a five-step program to world domination had to be at least a little impressive. Maybe a pamphlet—one page, 500 words? Surely even I could manage that.
I took a closer look. All the chart really needed was an introduction, a few fill-in-the-blanks, and a good title. How to Position Your Book and Maybe Take Over the World? Seemed catchy. I was guaranteed to sell millions. A few clicks later and my all-powerful document was up for sale. Thirty-seven minutes later I heard the ding! from my phone, alerting me to my first sale. I sipped my way through coffee number eight and watched the numbers roll. Thirteen sales. Now twenty-eight. I took a leisurely stroll to the restroom, thanks to the absurd amount of caffeine in my system, and returned to a grand total of 134 sales. Apparently a significant market of people wanted to take over the world—or at least sell their books.
I packed up my laptop, discarded my pile of empty coffee cups, and let out a satisfied sigh. All in all, it had been a very good day’s work.
Did you like D. H. Persephone’s advice on positioning your book? Check out her pamphlet below!
Callie Johnson works as Editorial Assistant at Kelli Sallman Writing and Editing with a bachelor’s degree in Theatre Arts and Creative Writing from Calvary University. She previously interned with Kelli for two years, working as proofreader and copyeditor on several manuscripts. Her strange obsessions include kerning, East Coker, and the sound of cows chewing.