A day in the life of a writer

 Even my small publisher flatly said ‘no’ to publish my next book. Well, he has a right to discard almost non-selling writers from his list and start dreaming big. To grow you need to have authors who give you numbers, who themselves build a social media brand for themselves with their own efforts thus increasing the sales. I hardly did anything in this regard and he felt very much let down by my lack of interest in starting YouTube channels, giving interviews, getting paid reviews. Of course all this needed money and I always feel my contribution to a book ceases the moment I write, rewrite, edit and re-edit it to my capacity. I don’t care much beyond that. Then I shouldn’t complain. The market also wouldn’t care and didn’t. But this is no hall of shame to be an unsuccessful writer.

So absolutely no problem with his decision. He had a reason to drop diplomacy and bare the truth. After all, it’s his business. Just that I wasted five months in the bargain. The manuscript was typeset and a nice cover design was finalized. It was in line for printing when he suddenly changed his mind. The onus, as I have already told you, is on me. Despite many attempts I couldn’t give him even a single book that sells, forget about best sellers. He became sure that there was hardly any chance that I will ever give a profit-making book, not just to him but to any publisher. But so what? That’s not a catastrophe. The hell won’t break loose for the lack of a best seller by Sandeep Dahiya. And will heavens bloom on earth with the presence of a best seller by me? It wouldn’t. A few people find my writing meaningful and that’s enough to justify my sincere efforts for months over a book. Moreover, writing is a kind of distress-dissolving exercise for me. All of us have our Ikigai, our distress dissolver when one forgets the drag and drudgery of life.

These days I don’t even think of approaching the mainstream publishers at the top rung. After decades of torturing their mail boxes with my endless submissions, I finally realized that the exercise can be safely avoided for peace at both ends. They have their smart editors who have their own notions about what sells. And rightly so. They work so hard. Good content is just a small part that decides a book’s success. I think, beyond what you have written, it’s more important who has written the book. And to become that influential ‘who’ you have to create more than content. I frankly cannot do this. So why should I crib?

The nearest I came to be published was when a commissioning editor at an upcoming name in publishing, with many successful books and a major presence on digital platforms for books and stories, showed some real keen interest in my submission. There was a trail of mail exchanges on the official mail and then some interaction on WhatsApp. ‘I need to know more about you,’ she wrote. Of course as the commissioning editor she had a professional right to know everything about the writer she was going to publish. Mainstream publishing is a small cozy circle sustaining on socializing and networking. But what would a small-time writer staying at a village know about these high-end things. Of course my reply should have been ‘ok, let’s meet’ because that’s what she meant. But I hardly had any clue to it. What I did was that I bared the soul of my journey so far in an audio clip. I talked like a pulpit preacher lithely revealing the real meaning of life based on my sweet-sour experiences. I heard it a few times and it sounded like iconized encapsulation of absolute truth. I sounded femininely sensitive yet manly. Or maybe even immeasurably impassioned. I thought I may win more than just the publishing contract. It was one hour long and very happily I sent it to her, dreaming of the big thing that a reputed publisher will at last take up my script. But what would she do with a low-quality audio crackling with the suffering notes of a defeatist sullen-voiced writer? I don’t think she even heard it to the last. Maybe it just sounded like a dry rill, a paranoid testimony to my unsuitability to be a bestselling author. So I dropped her a message on WhatsApp. ‘Did you listen to it?’ I asked. ‘Kindly drop me a mail for any query regarding your submission,’ she wrote. I must have sounded like a hostile parishioner to her smart, suave urban self. So I wrote a formal mail. The script was summarily rejected, as you can understand. After that I haven’t had the courage to approach any big gun.

So, after my fallout even with my small publisher, who didn’t charge me anything because I submitted print-ready files which gave him some courage to publish maybe 100 copies, I chose a still more welcoming platform for my latest discard. So there won’t be even 100 copies to begin with the first edition. It will be strictly print-on-demand. But even that will do. A book is a book after all. The book is published. It’s available online on Amazon, Flipkart and the publisher’s website. That’s more than enough for me, to be frank. Like your child is the best in the world, my book is nothing short of a bestseller to me.

Then I celebrate the occasion. I carry a virtuous spring in my walk and requisite resilience in mind. A friend has to go to Delhi and his car has time and space for a few hours. So I take celebratory drink after maybe four-five years. Two bottles of cold beer in the cool confines of a little car, with old lyrical but sad-with-acumen songs blaring as it went gently over pot-holed roads. The musical highs and lows whispering, ‘Why be in a hurry? All the time is yours.’ In boozed spirits I didn’t miss to vent out my grudge against the editors of big publishing houses. ‘Bloody supremacists mired in pathetic indulges lying in their silly slumberland,’ I mutter. My friend has no clue to the target of my ire. ‘What?’ he asks. ‘Nothing,’ I reply. For a few moments vehement and vitriolic bitterness seemed to catch hold of me, taking me off guard during my eased-up spirited moments. But I overpowered it within a few minutes.

Then we had hot burger from a ramshackle dusty food corner in the suburbs. The owner, believing in the impossibility of anyone disturbing him at noon to order something, was soundly sleeping under a brooding, sad-looking keekar vaulting above his food cabin. As we got him back from his five-star restaurant owning dreams he looked at us quizzically. Then the reality dawned upon him that there are guys who would get burgers from him at a dusty noon. All sleepy he made two sloppy burgers. They tasted rusty, as my friend told me later. But to me they were amazing. After two bottles of beer and in celebration of a self-considered best seller who won’t find any kind of burger at the pinnacle of taste? Foster your faith well. Why be bothered about the supreme excellence of best sellers. Write your books anyway. Keep your mood happy. That’s in your hands. Don’t allow it to be exiled to the filthy fury of dirty drains by other’s views and opinions. Be dismissive and feel enchantingly courageous.

And all this was condoned by the skies above as well. As I celebrated the launch of my book, a light thunderstorm applauded and greeted me with raindrops. The boiling May-end heat had turned it almost a sizzling cauldron. The dusty rumble of clouds announced some relief in celebration of a book launch. I could count the number of drops on the sand around my feet. Doesn’t that make them so precious? Then under the spell of dust, some raindrops, rumble of mediocre dusty clouds, a glass of Juse, a burger from the ramshackle dusty eating point, two bottles of beer and the launch of a new book on a platform that’s kind enough to accept all submissions, I remembered that I can club the occasion with my month of birth as well. Instantly a feeling of wellness hit a high vault. The uneventful birthday had come and gone without notice almost three weeks back. There is a thing called belated celebration. I got a third bottle of beer and drank to my birthday and would have dozed off if not for the Juse.

I had Juse you must be wondering. He loves his sugarcane juice machine. He has designed his signboard all by himself using the skill of his hand and all the education that he still remembers from his few years of schooling. ‘NIKKI JUSE CORNER’ it says. A big TAJA in Hindi follows. He is true to his word of freshness. His Juse is far better than the nicely packaged and branded juice available at famous juice points and malls. I pointed out his Juse thing to him. He is slightly embarrassed for a moment, then reclaims his natural juicy demeanor. ‘See brother, had I known the correct spelling, do you think I would have been a juse-maker?’