To those who never read

a single thing I’ve written.

Peter Radley

The GOAT STRATEGY

How to Politely Reject Unsolicited Book Marketing Offers While Remaining a Gentleman (Mostly...)

Table of contents

Ch. 1 — S.M.F.

Ch. 2 — The Goat Strategy

Ch. 3 — Portrait of Dorian Radley

Ch. 4 — The Adventures of Huckleradley Finn

Ch. 5 — Before the Flaw

Ch. 6 — Finger Exercise

Ch. 7 — Notes of a Dirty Old Whisperer

Ch. 8 — Mailbox-five

Ch. 9 — The Call of Radley

Ch. 10 — The Book Badger

Ch. 11 — The Trolls in the Rue Morgue

Ch. 12 — Kate Unchained

Ch. 13 — Waiting for Tina

Ch. 14 — The Turn of the Mail

Ch. 15 — East of Reason

Ch. 16 — Chamber Prose

Ch. 17 — One Letter to Rule Them All

Ch. 18 — A Bit of Seriousness

Ch. 19 — The Queen's Novel

Ch. 20 — Trolls Rain Over Macondo

Ch. 21 — The Short Goodbye

Ch. 22 — The Bookmaster is Watching

Ch. 23 — Resistance, Rebellion, and Books

Ch. 24 — Okay, That Was Harsh

Ch. 25 — Radley’s Room

Ch. 26 — Foundation and Amazon

Ch. 27 — The bald marketer

Ch. 28 — Fear and Loathing on Amazon

Ch. 29 - For Whom the Bell Trolls

Ch. 30 — Epilogue

Appendix

Who’s Who in the Goat Universe?

Acknowledgement

to the Great Predecessors

The Goat Strategy
© 2025 Peter Radley

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, events, and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Translated and edited by Kate Marlowe

Cover design and layout by the Peter Radley Team

Published by Peter Radley
www.peterradleybooks.com

ISBN 978-615-02-4393-1

Ch. 1 — S.M.F.

The first email landed about five minutes after Nothing Before Her went live in the digital ether. The kind of letter every author dreams of: it declared my book to be flirting with the limits of perfection, and claimed I had pulled off a miracle the hungry reading public had been waiting for since roughly the days of Ernest Hemingway.
So far, so good.

Then it went on: of course, it would be wonderful to introduce this little gem to as many people as possible—a serious and demanding task—but, by sheer luck, the sender just happened to have a brilliant, barrier-breaking strategy for doing exactly that. If I was interested, she would gladly share it, since she had a bit of free time between two promotional “miracles.”

Now, while I’m not entirely free from the sin of vanity, even I didn’t buy this line. Especially since, within moments of the first one, dozens of similar emails rolled in—without exception from marketing gurus, promo wizards, and advertising “experts.” The kind of ornate flattery that made me wonder why I hadn’t already been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

I had no idea this was an actual industry. In fact, it isn’t an industry—it’s an ecosystem. The world of “Hello, wonderful author!” emails and Gmail accounts called “creative studios,” where everyone “sees something in your work” that, naturally, qualifies you—right now, just you, for a limited-time offer—for an instant bestseller campaign, complete with stock video and generic piano music.

The targets: new books, indie authors, online presence. And once you appear on their radar, the parade begins: videographers, graphic designers, Amazon hackers, “marketing specialists,” “publishing partners,” “book whisperers”—and every other self-appointed title that sounds impressive but has nothing to do with creating real value.

I had my doubts about the effectiveness of their methods, so I quickly instructed my team to drop all such emails into a folder on the editorial computer labeled S.M.F. — Self-Administered Files. (The name alone should tell you our general approach to such offers.)

Later, though, my good upbringing got the better of me, and I wrote up three slightly different template replies—polite, brief, dismissive—which we rotated whenever we felt like actually responding to one of these “book whisperers.”

They went something like this:

Hi,

thank you for reaching out and for your kind words.

At the moment, I’m already working with a dedicated and trusted editorial partner, and we have a clear direction for both the creative and publishing aspects of the current and upcoming projects. As such, I’m not exploring any external collaborations at this time.

I do appreciate your interest, and I wish you all the best in your work with other authors.

We managed to coexist peacefully with these replies for a while. Until one evening, something happened—something that would ultimately lead to this book.

That evening, a certain Helena wrote to me. Her email went like this:

Dear Radley,

I’m always delighted to discover creators who tell stories with authenticity and passion—and your work struck me as truly special. Your storytelling feels both grounded and emotionally resonant—a rare combination in today’s book market.

I imagine that over the years you’ve received many kinds of feedback from your readers. Has there been one that particularly stayed with you—something that reminded you why you write in the first place?

I truly admire what you do, and I’d be delighted to hear more from you.

Sincerely,

Helena

As usual, I forwarded Helena’s email to Kate—who is, officially, my editor, but lately I’ve gotten into the habit of handing off to her any such time-draining nonsense at the earliest opportunity. Normally, she dispatches them one-handed without breaking stride.

This time, however—uncharacteristically—she didn’t reply straight away. Instead, the next morning she showed up to our editorial meeting in a black wizard’s robe and pointed hat, and read aloud the following letter:

Dear Madam Helena,

Thank you for your interest in the works of Peter Radley.

Before we may proceed with any correspondence, we kindly ask you to verify your identity by submitting the following:

— A sworn testimony signed by three honourable knights, attesting to your noble intentions.

— A certified replica of a 14th-century brass candlestick, issued by the Guild of Scribes and Illuminators.

— Proof that you have read at least one of Mr. Radley’s works without using artificial intelligence, Google summaries, or the phrase “passionate storyteller.”

Please send all documents rolled into a raven’s claw and sealed with crimson wax.
We shall await your owl.

Sincerely,
Lady Morgana Vexley of Devonshire
Literary Barrister-at-Large, Keeper of the Eastern Margins, Defender of the Final Draft

Now, Kate rarely lets herself go like this. Usually she’s hunched over my manuscripts with a red pen, and when she casually slashes three whole pages of painstakingly crafted prose, she sums it up with, “It was whiny.”

By contrast, Helena’s letter seemed to flip some inner switch. I’d done my time as a journalist, so it’s nothing new to me when someone has a workplace nervous breakdown—but it wasn’t even nine in the morning yet, and this was decidedly unusual for Kate.

When I asked what was wrong, she just muttered something that sounded like an ancient Celtic curse, then stalked off to work. Later it turned out she’d simply whacked her head on a kitchen cabinet door left open—but by then events had already gained unstoppable momentum.

Or, to be blunt—at that point, all hell broke loose. From then on, every single one of my colleagues seemed to feel an irresistible urge to come up with new and ever more elaborate ideas for how we should respond to these unsolicited emails. And I—being the good boss—sent every one of them packing with their ridiculous suggestions.

Eventually, though, I surrendered—because I realized this could be excellent mental exercise for the team. So we developed the habit of reviewing each morning’s haul from the latest “book whisperers”—and if we found one that lent itself to a bit of fun, we answered it.

And with that, my friend, we reached an important moment. Because here came the turning point that would go down in the Peter Radley Team’s history in gleaming letters under this title: The Goat Strategy.

Ch. 2 — The Goat Strategy

Our first “victim” was, of course, Helena. She ultimately received this reply—still written in a relatively innocent, violet-eyed tone.

Dear Helena,

Thank you so much for your kind message — it truly means a lot.

To be honest, we’ve been genuinely surprised by the number of heartfelt responses we've received so far. It’s always moving to hear how the stories resonate with different readers.

You mentioned that my work felt emotionally resonant to you — I’m curious: was there a particular moment or passage that stayed with you?

It’s always fascinating to see which parts speak loudest to different hearts.

Warm regards,

Peter Radley

Take a guess: did Helena quote any actual passage from my book? Oh, come now… of course not. But she did continue the conversation—naturally, without a single concrete detail.

Dear Peter,

Once again, thank you for your thoughtful reply — it’s truly inspiring to see how deeply your work resonates with readers.

I’d be curious to know how you usually find new readers, or how you spread the word about your books.

Helena

Let’s pause here and etch this moment into memory. Because—this is where the Goat Strategy began. We decided to see how Helena would react to a completely nonsensical, borderline surreal reply. And why “Goat Strategy”? Here’s why:

Dear Helena,

So far, the most effective promotion has been writing quotes from the book in bright red nail polish on the sides of snow-white mountain goats, then releasing them near busy shopping malls.

It draws attention. And the goats seem to enjoy the drama.

If you have a similarly impactful idea, we’d love to hear it.

Warm regards,

Peter Radley

P.S. We briefly considered skywriting, but the goats tested better with focus groups.

If you think Helena was an easy opponent—sadly, you’d be mistaken. She kept trying—and to her credit, she did at least read our reply, because she responded to it. But she couldn’t resist firing up the marketing engine.

Dear Peter,

I must admit, red-nail-polish quotes on mountain goats — that truly is next-level visibility. But what if we channeled that same creativity into solutions that can be scaled, tracked, and kept running in the background?

This is where Amazon Marketing Services (AMS) and search engine optimization (SEO) can really shine. With AMS, your books appear where readers are already looking — on Amazon, with purchase intent.

Well-structured SEO ensures that your author brand and titles rank higher in search results, creating long-term visibility and organic discoverability.

In such a crowded market, can we really afford to leave visibility to chance? What if your ideal readers are already searching right now, but end up with someone else’s book?

Now is the perfect time to gain momentum — especially if you have new releases planned, or want to build on your current success.

If you’re open to it, I’d be happy to share some tailored ideas to help get your books into the hands of readers who are looking for exactly this.

Sincerely,

Helena

At that point, there was no turning back—we couldn’t ignore a reply like this. So I adopted the persona of a wounded, heartbroken author—and shared my deep pain with the lady.

Dear Helena,

I have to confess… I truly thought you were different.

When you wrote to me about stories that feel “grounded and emotionally resonant,” I felt something stir — a fragile hope, perhaps. The kind that flickers only once in a while, like the last candle in a drafty old library.

But now you speak of AMS. Of SEO. Of “traction.”

I won’t lie — it hurts. Because… I believed you.

I told myself, “Peter, maybe this one read the book. Maybe this time it’s real.”

And yet here we are.

My mother always warned me: “Don’t trust strangers who don’t mention the lake scene.”

But I was stubborn. Romantic. Foolish.

Since then, I’ve learned to trust a stranger only if they can quote my third chapter backwards, while standing on one leg.

I wish you well, Helena. I truly do. But I must go now.

With a heavy heart,

Peter Radley

That was as far as Helena could go—she bowed out of the game. Though I have to admit, she did it gracefully.

Dear Peter,

Your words struck like a quiet storm — poetic, sharp, and deeply human. I can’t pretend they didn’t leave a mark.

You felt something because you believed I had seen your story. And in a way, even without reading it, perhaps I did. That flicker you thought was hope was connection. Not to statistics, not to SEO or marketing, but to you — the storyteller.

No, I haven’t read your book yet, but it’s on my list — not just to read, but to spend time with. I won’t fake a quote from chapter three, nor balance on one leg. But I can tell you this: if a single stranger’s message could move you this deeply, imagine what might happen when your story reaches more hearts like mine — readers who will see the lake scene, feel the shift in chapter five, and carry it with them for days.

It’s painful to see you place such deep hope in something and build that hope on a single reply. But the truth is, your real readers are out there — not to validate you, but to witness what you’ve created.

If you ever decide to walk the path that brings your stories to those who need them most — you won’t see just a flicker. You’ll see a fire.

And if that moment comes, it would be my honor to help strike the match.

Respectfully,

Helena

So Helena took her leave—and we realized this game could be tremendously fun, if we gave ourselves the chance to unleash our creativity. But we needed something to hold the story together—because it became clear pretty quickly this would turn into a book.

Since I’m in the business of writing, the direction was obvious. We would call upon the greats: from this point forward, nearly every chosen letter would be answered in the style of a famous and masterful author.

And that—proved to be excellent fun.

Ch. 21 — The Short Goodbye

In a certain way, it’s almost admirable how the eager — and soulless — amateurs of the book marketing world put all their energy into sending out letters they hope might catch an author’s eye. With some exceptions, of course — because many of them simply copy one of their clumsy colleagues’ messages and just swap out the name at the end. On a good day.

Our next contestant, Lily, belonged to the former category: I got a letter from her in which she tried to add some kind of new element. I’m not saying it worked — but she tried.

Hi Peter!

I saw your name on Facebook, and I noticed you’re a writer. I haven’t had the chance to explore your works yet, but I enjoy discovering new storytellers.

If someone’s interested in your storytelling, is there a link they can check out right away?

Do you have your book on Goodreads or B&N? If so, please share your Goodreads link — I’d love to take a look.

Best regards,

Lily

Like I said: she tried. But she only managed one thing — making it an easy decision which style we’d reply in. Because “discovering” on Facebook that someone’s a writer, when it’s literally written right under their name — well, that’s truly a plot twist worthy of a crime novel. And since I’m allegedly not a stranger to a touch of cynicism — I have no idea who spreads such rumours — it was obvious we’d go down that path.

We chose Raymond Chandler, one of the greatest masters of dark, smoky crime fiction, the creator of Philip Marlowe: the cynical, burned-out, but deeply honorable private detective. Short, sharp dialogue, tight yet lyrical descriptions, a constant undertone of melancholy in an always foggy, rainy city full of shady intentions — that’s Chandler, and that’s Philip Marlowe. Lily’s letter, claiming she had made the discovery that I was a writer after her tireless detective work, was a perfect setup for a Chandler-style noir reply. The cynical, smoky, world-weary tone captures exactly what it feels like to keep receiving the same dull, formulaic marketing letters — as if we were forever walking the same foggy streets of Los Angeles, hearing the same lying words.

Dear Lily,

I saw your message. You say you “discovered” on Facebook that I’m an author. Sharp work. The sign’s right there at the top of the page in plain letters—it takes a real detective’s eye to spot that. Most folks just glance and move on. You read. For a moment, I almost believed this was a real case, not just another smoky trick from some cheap literary back alley.

Goodreads and Barnes&Noble… those are different stories. Places where books cast long shadows and every name hides something you’re not supposed to know. I’ve heard you’re poking around there too. Careful, Lily. Goodreads is like a rain-slick alley at two in the morning—everyone’s talking, everyone’s rating, but nobody tells you the truth.

Once, a dying rich man hired me to clean up the swamp around his daughters. The younger one, Carmen—pretty girl, but trouble stuck to her like cheap whiskey on a coat sleeve. The older, Vivian—sharp mind, all secrets, always trying to steer the game. But women like that never really win; they think men always lose their heads. Not this man. Blackmail, disappearances, murder, dirty photos, laundered money—everything was stirred into the same rotten cocktail. I saw more corpses than I heard honest words. And in the end, sure, some things came out. But never the whole truth. So now, when a new case comes in—even something innocent like your email—I feel the same rain, the same fog, the same setup where words are traps and answers don’t fix a damn thing.

You want a link? Maybe I’ll give you one. But first I need to know: do you really want to read, or are you just another messenger sent by the shadows? Because there’s always a second twist—and in this business, the one who asks first rarely walks away with the book.

Peter Radley

A man who’s walked this foggy street too many times to believe that even the longest dreams ever let you wake

Lily replied. We already knew she didn’t read books — now it turned out she doesn’t read letters much either. Here’s what she wrote:

Thanks for the positive feedback, I just checked your book on Amazon and it looks fantastic! I might not be able to read it right away, but I’ll definitely share it with my friends, I have to spread the word! Lol. How has the feedback been so far?

“Positive”?! Philip Marlowe being “positive”? That was such a beautiful — and nonsensical — thought that it set the exact mood for our reply.

Positive? The last time someone said that to me was a back-alley quack doctor after a blood draw, leaning over a filthy table in a shack that smelled like old gin and burnt rubber. I’m not positive. I’m old, I’m tired, and I haven’t had my coffee yet today.

From my office window, I can see the fog swirling in the yellow glow of the streetlamps. The coffee on my desk has gone cold, and a half-smoked cigarette smolders next to the typewriter. This city never sleeps—it just lies there, tossing out more letters, like a bad gin cocktail that keeps coming back up. And every message smells the same: the rust of empty promises mixed with the bitter smoke of never having read a single word.

What’s real feedback? A whistling bullet carving past my ear and burying itself in the doorframe? Had that. A serrated jungle knife flying at my gut? Been there. Or the crack of a blackjack on the back of my skull, one I only walked away from because I’d hidden a hundred-dollar printing plate in the lining of my hat? Believe me—you can’t show me anything new.

So when you say, “I’ll share it with my friends, lol,” you know what I hear? It’s the same old con from the marketing underworld, the stink that’s been hanging over Los Angeles book alleys since forever: plenty of talk, zero follow-through, and a voice that doesn’t come from books but from the flickering neon signs on the corner whispering: “Everybody helps authors.” But I’ve walked this foggy street too long to believe it.

Peter Radley

a man who knows real feedback doesn’t come in Amazon comments—it echoes in the snap of a revolver under midnight rain

You didn’t need to be a detective to see Lily’s boldness stopped there. She didn’t write again. I just hope she’s not wandering some dark, foggy street in Los Angeles, wondering what really happened here.