A novel proposal, p.1
A Novel Proposal, page 1
Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook
Please note that the endnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication
Contents
Cover
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for Denise Hunter
Also by Denise Hunter
Copyright
One
Open your romance novel with a character who is in medias res—in the midst of things.
—Romance Writing 101
Sadie Goodwin’s literary dreams came to a shuddering halt in the middle of her favorite SoHo coffee shop. She blocked out the honking traffic and the May sun streaming through the plate-glass window. Blocked out the lively chatter and cheerful tinkling of a spoon inside a coffee mug and leaned toward her agent. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
The corners of Gillian’s eyes tightened in a wince. “Rosewood House is canceling your contract.”
“But . . .” Sadie’s tongue froze for a long second, all the ramifications kicking in.
No more books. And she’d already turned in book three. Was halfway finished writing book four.
No more Lonesome Ridge stories.
To say nothing of more practical matters like rent and utilities and chocolate chip cookies. Then there was that hefty book advance she’d already spent. She pushed away thoughts of money. “But I’m getting such great reviews, and Sundown at Lonesome Ridge was a finalist in the—”
“Those things don’t matter. It’s all about sales—and yours are dismal.”
Gillian had never been one to soften a blow, but yikes. That was brutal.
“But it’s a four-book series . . .”
“I know how much you love these characters. It’s a terrific series—it really is. I knew it was special the moment I read book one. But your novels aren’t selling and the publisher wants to cut their losses.”
Sadie’s lungs emptied. She couldn’t go back to writing obituaries. She just couldn’t. It would be the death of her. (Yes, she’d heard all the puns.) Sure, she had her job teaching art at the elementary school, but that hardly kept her in the black. She had to share a tiny Queens apartment with a roommate just to make ends meet.
And what of her family’s legacy?
“I know you’re disappointed.”
Understatement of the century. Her friends and family were so proud of her, especially her dad’s family. To them she was a star, rising from the ashes of her grandfather’s literary career. Maybe she didn’t see herself in quite that light, but she’d thought she was headed toward a promising career, a steady income . . . basically her dream. Now the aforementioned star seemed to fizzle across the sky as it plummeted to planet earth.
She had to regroup. There had to be something she could do. “Can you sell the rest of the series to another publisher?”
“You know it’s already been rejected by everyone else. Westerns are a tough sell in this market. Rosewood thought the granddaughter of Rex Goodwin might stand a chance. And they liked your writing so much they were willing to take a risk—but it didn’t pay off.”
Sadie suspected the publisher, especially the marketing team, liked her connection to Rex Goodwin the most. She took an unsteady sip of coffee, gathering the courage to ask the money question. She’d read her contract, after all. Albeit three years ago and with stars in her eyes, every sentence of legalese a pure thrill. But maybe they’d have a heart. After all, she’d done nothing wrong.
She swallowed hard. “What about the advance?”
“Unfortunately, you’ll have to pay it back.”
Sadie squeezed her eyes shut. Talk about adding insult to injury. Her series was discontinued and her readers (all twelve, apparently) would never know the end of the Lonesome Ridge story. And she was now up to her eyeballs in debt. Harsh. Her advance had amounted to ten thousand per book.
“But not on the last book, right, since I turned in a perfectly good—?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Twenty thousand dollars. A veritable fortune.
Sadie rubbed the back of her neck where sweat had broken out. She visualized her bank statement and the $311 balance. “I don’t have that kind of money, Gillian.”
Her agent patted her hand. “I know you must be overwhelmed. But the good news is they offered what I feel is a fair solution and a wonderful opportunity as well.”
“Okay . . .” She’d take anything at this point. What did she have to lose?
“You know Erin and the entire team love your writing. You bring such emotional depth to your stories. Your characters are nuanced and authentic, and your plot twists are compelling. You truly do have a special gift.”
Why did she feel like a hog being led to slaughter? “Um, thank you . . .”
“While the team wasn’t enthusiastic about your sales, they are open to the idea of seeing something else from you.”
Her stomach shot upward like a helium-filled party balloon. “Oh! That’s great news. It’s funny you mention that because I’ve had this other series idea brewing for months. It features a desperado-type character who arrives in a gold-mining town along the banks of the—”
Gillian shook her head. “No, kiddo. They absolutely will not entertain the idea of another western. They were wondering if you’d be willing to . . . make a slight genre shift.”
She couldn’t imagine what they’d want. But the thought of paying back that advance tightened around her neck like a noose. “Oh. Well, sure, I guess so. Maybe something like a mystery? I could alter the plot a bit, advance the story a hundred years—there was already sort of a suspense thread in there, so I could just—”
“No, Sadie. I guess what they’re asking for is less a shift and more of an . . . about-face. But I know you’re up for the challenge. I believe in you—that hasn’t changed.”
Well, that was nice to hear. Sadie searched for her familiar sunny side and smiled. “Thank you. Okay, I’m all ears. What is it they’d like me to write?”
“They’d like to see”—Gillian waved a hand, voilà style—“a romance novel!”
Sadie blinked. Opened her mouth. Closed it again. “A romance novel.”
“Boy meets girl, boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back . . . You know the kind of thing.”
Yes, yes, she knew what a romance novel was. She was just . . .
“We believe you could bring something special to the genre with your emotional depth and creativity. And, Sadie, this is a genre that sells. They’re offering a one-book contract, due date of September first. I know that’s fast, but it’s a chance to earn back that advance. You’d earn out and the royalties would eventually pay off, I’m sure of it. And I have every confidence you can write a romance novel that readers would clamor for.”
Sadie had no such confidence. She’d never even read one, for crying out loud, unless you counted El Paso. None of her Lonesome Ridge books held even the slightest whiff of romance—despite a complaint or two about that in readers’ reviews.
Romance. Her mind conjured up a dreamlike image of a couple running toward each other in a field of wildflowers, arms extended, hair flagging behind them. She envisioned the book’s cover—a shirtless man and a scantily clad woman tangled in a steamy pre-kiss moment.
Her face heated. She wasn’t the person to write this kind of novel. Or even read them. She’d had a poor example in the romantic love department. Her parents, though still together, were often at odds. She’d had a front-row seat to their roller-coaster relationship. Not exactly inspiring.
These were all valid reasons Sadie had no business writing a romance novel. But no reason was as compelling as this: at the ripe old age of twenty-six and a half, Sadie Goodwin had never been in love.
Sadie spotted her best friend, four dogs in tow, on the other side of the park. Caroline’s brown hair fluttered in the wind, and as Sadie approached she realized it had been her friend’s image she’d superimposed on that hazy romantic scene she’d envisioned earlier. No wonder. Caroline was the epitome of a romantic heroine: beautiful, smart, and personable. Basically a man-magnet.
Sadie had met Caroline their freshman year at Pace University and they immediately bonded. Caroline had been born and raised in the Big Appl e, where Sadie had always dreamed of living.
Upon graduation they rented an apartment in Queens. Sadie got a job at the local elementary school and Caroline managed the corner coffee shop. It was there she met the love of her life, Carlos, whom she’d married last year about the same time she started her dog-walking business.
“Milo, stop that.” Caroline tugged at the leash. “You can’t eat Honey’s collar. It’s not nice and it doesn’t taste good. Go potty, Finn. Yes, I know you haven’t—” Her eyes lit up as she spotted Sadie. “Oh, hey, you made it. How’d it go with your agent? Your text was maddeningly lacking in detail.”
She’d had the entire train ride from Manhattan to reflect, and there was no point beating around the bush. “They’re canceling my contract and I have to pay back my advance.”
“No!” Caroline enveloped her in a hug, their jackets and scarves—and four leashes with dogs attached—squished between them. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I don’t understand. Your stories are so good, and you have super reviews online, and you won that contest and everything. They’re crazy if they don’t want to publish you.”
Sadie waited for the commercial airliner to pass overhead before she tried to speak. “Apparently none of that matters.”
Caroline drew back, her green eyes widening. “You know what? You should self-publish the rest of the series. You could use the profits to pay back your advance.”
“If Rosewood’s marketing plan couldn’t sell my books to the masses, I doubt sticking them up on Amazon will do the trick. They did offer me another contract though—one book in a genre completely outside my wheelhouse. I can’t even entertain the idea. It’s ridiculous—they want me to write a romance novel.”
The dachshund had wound itself around Sadie’s leg, and the large black poodle was getting up close and personal with Sadie.
“Honey, no!”
“Yep. ’Fraid so.”
“No, Honey’s the dog.” Caroline tugged the leash, forcing the poodle away from Sadie. “Can we walk? They’re getting restless and I need to stimulate Finn’s digestive system because—well, long story.”
They started off at a stroll.
“You could totally write a romance novel, Sadie. I have every faith in you.”
Sadie snorted. “Right. Like I have so much experience in that department.”
“Well, have you ever been in a gunfight? Drifted down a raging river on a whiskey barrel? Have you taken down a bad guy with nothing but an empty gun and a broken leg? No? Well, you wrote about all the above in a way that was so real it had me on the edge of my seat. You are seriously gifted, girl.”
Sadie waved her off. “That’s different. It’s . . . guy stuff. It’s like the old westerns I watched with my grandpa. I could see it all in my head. You can’t see romance in your head. It happens on the inside.”
Two twentysomething guys passed them, practically breaking their necks for a better view of Caroline.
“Of course you can see it in your head. It’s a guy giving a girl a single rose. A devastating breakup scene at a ritzy restaurant. Some grand gesture to win her back.”
Sadie stabbed a finger at her friend. “See? You know all that because that’s your life. Your life, not mine.”
Caroline slid a pointed look at her. “Well, maybe it would be yours if you gave a guy half a chance.”
“Can I help it if I end up with all the duds? If there’s absolutely no connection? I know zip about love and romance, Caro.”
“You watched You’ve Got Mail with me that one time.”
“I fell asleep.”
“You had a long day. Listen, westerns have a formula, right? Stop it, Milo.” She petted the corgi. “Romance novels do too. You just have to follow the formula. You can totally do this. What choice do you have anyway? You have to pay back the advance, right?”
“Did I mention the September first deadline?”
“Well, you’ll have the whole summer to write it. Three months is long enough, isn’t it? You wrote Lonesome Ridge in ninety days.”
“That was different. I know how to structure a western. I’ve read a million of them.”
“Just start with an alpha male, throw in a meet-cute, and end with an HEA. You’ll nail it.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“Start reading romance novels—I know all the best ones. Good boy, Milo! Watch some rom-coms. By the time school’s out you’ll be ready to go.”
Apparently Gillian and Caroline both believed she could do this. Maybe she could. All she had to do was study the genre and follow the formula, right? She didn’t have to love it. She just had to do it.
A jet went streaking over their heads, reminding her of her noisy apartment, just a stone’s throw from LaGuardia, with thin walls and thinner windows. Not to mention the construction project that had been going on next door since the Revolutionary War.
“I’d really have to be homed in on this. You know how distracted I can get.”
Caroline glanced up at yet another jet taking off for parts unknown. Then her gaze darted back to Sadie, her eyes widening. “I just had the best idea. What if you had a place to write—someplace quiet where there were no distractions? No people. No planes or construction. Just you and your laptop and a warm, sunny beach.”
“Do you own a time-share I don’t know about?”
“No, but my mom does. Well, not a time-share, but remember that beach cottage she bought last summer in South Carolina?”
“Isn’t she using it?”
“Just a few weeks in the winter—she’s dreaming of retirement. It’s a duplex, so she’s renting out one side, which basically pays the mortgage so she doesn’t have to rent out her own living space. Smart, right?”
“I won’t be able to afford that, Caro. I’m barely making ends meet as it is.”
“Please, as if Mom would take your money. She was just saying the other day how she hated the idea of her unit sitting empty. This would be perfect. You could write on the deck! Just think—nothing but sea breezes and sunshine. That’s right, Finn, buddy, go potty.”
The dog led her to a nearby copse of trees, where he sniffed around.
Sadie considered her friend’s suggestion. Maybe she could write this novel if she really focused and applied herself over the summer. Plus the beach was romantic, wasn’t it? Inspiration at her fingertips.
She could use these last few weeks of school to bone up on romance novels. Then once school ended, she could drive to sunny South Carolina and start writing that novel.
Another jetliner screeched by, and she sent it a withering look. Her roommate had promised she wouldn’t hear them after a while. She was a liar. Plus she’d failed to disclose the aforementioned construction. A least Julie was quiet—when she was even home. She toiled toward her master’s degree by day and worked nights at a fancy steak house that kept her out late.
“Good dog, Finn! Mommy will be so happy.” Caroline led the tangle of dogs back toward Sadie, then they headed toward the street. “So what do you think?”
“I think if by some crazy chance your mom would let me crash at her beach house for free all summer, I’d be nuts to turn it down.”
Caroline beamed. “Great then! You’re going.”
“Um, you might want to run this plan by your mom first.”
Caroline held up her phone in a fistful of leashes. “Already done. She’s sending you the information now.”
Sadie’s phone buzzed and she checked the screen, skimming the note from Mrs. Miller as realization settled in. “She really said yes.”
Caroline transferred all the leashes to one hand and gave Sadie a sideways hug. “You, my friend, are headed to Tucker Island, where you’re going to write a fabulous romance novel—and I can’t wait to read it.”
Two
A meet-cute is a charming encounter between two characters that leads to the development of a romantic relationship.
—Romance Writing 101
Every ounce of Sadie’s travel fatigue fled at first sight of her summer digs. She pulled into the driveway on the right side of the blue beach cottage. The two-story home perched cheerfully on a mound of sandy soil, its white shutters and trim a lovely contrast to the periwinkle siding. There were two small stoops, two front doors, both crisp white and devoid of windows.
“We’re here, Rio. Oh boy, are we here.”
