Your two-year wait is over. The manuscript has been accepted. You are now officially a writer. You’ve just hung up after talking to that twenty-something Delhi girl working for a major publishing house and she’s confirmed that your book will be out in the next 12-18 months and that your contract is in the mail.
1. Gratitude
The first thing you’ll do is download the FB profile picture (yay, she’s accepted your friend request!) of this benevolent Delhi-descended angel who seems to be taking a gap year from heaven and is posing against a backdrop of books holding a glass of champagne, take a glossy print of it and place it in your puja room. It will be right next to the picture of the publisher’s logo. It will also become your screensaver on your phone and computer. Your wife will pinch you very hard repeatedly but you won’t feel a thing because of the anaesthetic effects of your perennial gratitude.
2. Anticipation
You stare into nothingness. You volunteer to stitch new falls for your wife’s formidable collection of Kanjeevarams, read War & Peace, copy the whole thing in longhand, join the Septuagenarian’s Laughter Club, learn the Click language of the San Bushmen and wait. For anywhere between 12 and 24 months.
3. The Big O
Your book arrives. Its matte-laminated cover has your name on it, for god’s sake. And it’s embossed. You have feelings that you last experienced when you saw Ms De Costa’s deliciously squished up thighs as you bent down to pick up your pencil while in Class 4. You have a quick shower and rush to the puja room to perform an archana in the name of your Delhi Devata.
4. Preparation for fame
You develop a writerly air. You sport a stubble (if you’re a writer of chick lit, maybe not), buy the kind of pipe not meant for bathroom plumbing, practise your awesome signature, sneer at non-writers and hire a photographer to take pics of you in locations reeking of literariness. Like posh bars, coconut groves and war memorials. You have a small do for the book. Friends and family buy twenty copies. You’re the next Chetan Chauhan, an old uncle tells you. He means James Hadley Divakaruni, the aunt corrects. You brace yourself for fame.
5. Checking
Your book is in the market. Or so you are told. You go to the neighbourhood bookshop wearing Ray-Bans, for what if you’re mobbed? They’ve never heard of the book. They’ve got E.L. James’s family pack on discount, though. You buy it. You go to all the bookstores in the city. No book. But same reaction everywhere: do you have Madras Eye.
6. Blankness
No one calls. No one mentions you in any newspaper. Your editor, the Delhi Diva, sends a winky smiley in response to your heartrending three-page sms. You feel like you did on your wedding night.
7. Waiting
Six months pass. There’s no sign of you even on your publisher’s website. You buy tracing paper and trace over your longhand version of War & Peace, bind it in reverse and read it to see if there’s any hidden meaning. You buy an economy-sized bottle of Tic-20, lick the cap and have loose motions.
8. Pleading
You write long, lyrical letters to your publisher about how, you, unlike the rest of the philistine bunch, deserve fame and success. You write obsequious letters to newspapers that end ‘yours obediently’ begging for your book to be reviewed. Even if it’s in the obituary section. Just to be on the safe side, you send the marketing-in-charge’s pictures to a talent show. She gets selected for her knife-throwing skills.
9. Waiting
A few months pass. Your publisher has moved to a new office. You cook your longhand War & Peace over a slow fire, add a bit of ginger-garlic paste for taste and eat it. You buy a country-made weapon and target practise. You shoot your landlord by mistake. He lowers the rent.
10. Subterfuge
You open fake FB and Twitter accounts and start trolling the editor, that Delhi-never-mind. You put rude stuff like “Really?”, “Oh, I’d have never guessed,” or “Meh!” on her page. You poke little pins into her photograph. You consult a vastu expert who says he can make favourable alterations in her house. Editor puts up a post that she’s engaged to be married to a scrap-iron-merchant-turned-lit agent. You send a congratulatory message and flower emoticons from your fake account and sign as yourself by mistake.
11. Begging
You go to Delhi, stand outside the publishing house and ugly-cry like Ashutosh of AAP. Ram Singh the watchman takes pity on you and says why didn’t you ask me, I could’ve helped you self-publish. You catch your marketing person as she is off for a bikini wax appointment. You ride alongside her through two neighbourhoods because your hand is stuck in her car window. She tells you she’s become a writer. You fall off when the car picks up speed.
12. Self-aggrandisement
You ramp up the volume of the self trumpet on FB. You post pictures of yourself at lit fests (you’ve gone as a spectator), with well-known writers like Harper Lee and Veda Vyasa (a little Photoshopping), and post reviews written by the uncle who predicted you’d be the next Chetan Chauhan in his blog, Who am I? Where are my dentures?
13. Grovelling
You send a bouquet of red roses to your editor every day, continuously for a fortnight. You celebrate your marketing head’s birthday by distributing sweets in a neighbourhood orphanage. You ignore the publishers’ restraining order.
14. Diversifying
You decide maybe you’re too good for this writing-biting shindig. You become a life coach. For war widows. You tell them moving stories of your heroic survival in the literary world and shush them when they tell you their own silly ones involving the death of loved ones amid mortar shells. Pshaw. Military police intervenes.
15. Hiring
You hire a top-notch PR firm. They say, don’t worry, we’ll make you a superstar in one month flat. Shortly thereafter, pictures of you appear in Pages 3 of various newspapers coming out of bars flanked on either side by people with names like Kurkuresh and Pudendra.
16. Blaming
You realise it’s all your wife’s fault. If only she hadn’t nagged you, or your father-in-law, that skinflint, had given you that second-hand Vespa you’d asked for, you’d have been bigger than Ashwin Sanghi. Sales-wise, that is. And your idiot children, those selfish brats, always asking for milk and schoolbooks, instead of going door to door with your book.
17. More hiring
You go to the seedy part of town. Where, years ago, your great-uncle was gunned down by a guy called “Punch” Paramasivam. You meet a guy under a bridge. You can’t see him too clearly in the dark. He says he’ll do the job. You give him a couple of names and a wad of notes. You slink back home unnoticed. Six months later, his book is out. It’s a bestseller.
18. Therapy
You go to the neighbourhood shrink. The same one your landlord went to for his PTSD following the bullet wound you’d inflicted. You talk. He nods. You ugly-cry like Lalita Pawar. He nods. For a while, you pop pills that make the world look like marbled paper, wheee! Six months later, his book is out. Bestseller.
19. Writing
You decide to write again. For a year, you write like one possessed. You send your manuscript to another publisher. Wonder of wonders, they accept it instantly.
20. Gratitude
You download the FB profile picture of your new editor, this benevolent Calcutta-educated goddess (who seems to have taken permission from Lord Indra to telecommute her Swargalok-an duties) posing against a backdrop of books holding a glass of red wine, take a matte-finish print of it and place it in your shrine. You position it next to the picture of the new publisher’s logo. It will also become your screensaver on your phone and computer. Your wife won’t pinch you very hard repeatedly this time. She’s left and taken the kids with her.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms and Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). He is currently oscillating giddily between Stages 11 and 14.
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letters@scroll.in.
1. Gratitude
The first thing you’ll do is download the FB profile picture (yay, she’s accepted your friend request!) of this benevolent Delhi-descended angel who seems to be taking a gap year from heaven and is posing against a backdrop of books holding a glass of champagne, take a glossy print of it and place it in your puja room. It will be right next to the picture of the publisher’s logo. It will also become your screensaver on your phone and computer. Your wife will pinch you very hard repeatedly but you won’t feel a thing because of the anaesthetic effects of your perennial gratitude.
2. Anticipation
You stare into nothingness. You volunteer to stitch new falls for your wife’s formidable collection of Kanjeevarams, read War & Peace, copy the whole thing in longhand, join the Septuagenarian’s Laughter Club, learn the Click language of the San Bushmen and wait. For anywhere between 12 and 24 months.
3. The Big O
Your book arrives. Its matte-laminated cover has your name on it, for god’s sake. And it’s embossed. You have feelings that you last experienced when you saw Ms De Costa’s deliciously squished up thighs as you bent down to pick up your pencil while in Class 4. You have a quick shower and rush to the puja room to perform an archana in the name of your Delhi Devata.
4. Preparation for fame
You develop a writerly air. You sport a stubble (if you’re a writer of chick lit, maybe not), buy the kind of pipe not meant for bathroom plumbing, practise your awesome signature, sneer at non-writers and hire a photographer to take pics of you in locations reeking of literariness. Like posh bars, coconut groves and war memorials. You have a small do for the book. Friends and family buy twenty copies. You’re the next Chetan Chauhan, an old uncle tells you. He means James Hadley Divakaruni, the aunt corrects. You brace yourself for fame.
5. Checking
Your book is in the market. Or so you are told. You go to the neighbourhood bookshop wearing Ray-Bans, for what if you’re mobbed? They’ve never heard of the book. They’ve got E.L. James’s family pack on discount, though. You buy it. You go to all the bookstores in the city. No book. But same reaction everywhere: do you have Madras Eye.
6. Blankness
No one calls. No one mentions you in any newspaper. Your editor, the Delhi Diva, sends a winky smiley in response to your heartrending three-page sms. You feel like you did on your wedding night.
7. Waiting
Six months pass. There’s no sign of you even on your publisher’s website. You buy tracing paper and trace over your longhand version of War & Peace, bind it in reverse and read it to see if there’s any hidden meaning. You buy an economy-sized bottle of Tic-20, lick the cap and have loose motions.
8. Pleading
You write long, lyrical letters to your publisher about how, you, unlike the rest of the philistine bunch, deserve fame and success. You write obsequious letters to newspapers that end ‘yours obediently’ begging for your book to be reviewed. Even if it’s in the obituary section. Just to be on the safe side, you send the marketing-in-charge’s pictures to a talent show. She gets selected for her knife-throwing skills.
9. Waiting
A few months pass. Your publisher has moved to a new office. You cook your longhand War & Peace over a slow fire, add a bit of ginger-garlic paste for taste and eat it. You buy a country-made weapon and target practise. You shoot your landlord by mistake. He lowers the rent.
10. Subterfuge
You open fake FB and Twitter accounts and start trolling the editor, that Delhi-never-mind. You put rude stuff like “Really?”, “Oh, I’d have never guessed,” or “Meh!” on her page. You poke little pins into her photograph. You consult a vastu expert who says he can make favourable alterations in her house. Editor puts up a post that she’s engaged to be married to a scrap-iron-merchant-turned-lit agent. You send a congratulatory message and flower emoticons from your fake account and sign as yourself by mistake.
11. Begging
You go to Delhi, stand outside the publishing house and ugly-cry like Ashutosh of AAP. Ram Singh the watchman takes pity on you and says why didn’t you ask me, I could’ve helped you self-publish. You catch your marketing person as she is off for a bikini wax appointment. You ride alongside her through two neighbourhoods because your hand is stuck in her car window. She tells you she’s become a writer. You fall off when the car picks up speed.
12. Self-aggrandisement
You ramp up the volume of the self trumpet on FB. You post pictures of yourself at lit fests (you’ve gone as a spectator), with well-known writers like Harper Lee and Veda Vyasa (a little Photoshopping), and post reviews written by the uncle who predicted you’d be the next Chetan Chauhan in his blog, Who am I? Where are my dentures?
13. Grovelling
You send a bouquet of red roses to your editor every day, continuously for a fortnight. You celebrate your marketing head’s birthday by distributing sweets in a neighbourhood orphanage. You ignore the publishers’ restraining order.
14. Diversifying
You decide maybe you’re too good for this writing-biting shindig. You become a life coach. For war widows. You tell them moving stories of your heroic survival in the literary world and shush them when they tell you their own silly ones involving the death of loved ones amid mortar shells. Pshaw. Military police intervenes.
15. Hiring
You hire a top-notch PR firm. They say, don’t worry, we’ll make you a superstar in one month flat. Shortly thereafter, pictures of you appear in Pages 3 of various newspapers coming out of bars flanked on either side by people with names like Kurkuresh and Pudendra.
16. Blaming
You realise it’s all your wife’s fault. If only she hadn’t nagged you, or your father-in-law, that skinflint, had given you that second-hand Vespa you’d asked for, you’d have been bigger than Ashwin Sanghi. Sales-wise, that is. And your idiot children, those selfish brats, always asking for milk and schoolbooks, instead of going door to door with your book.
17. More hiring
You go to the seedy part of town. Where, years ago, your great-uncle was gunned down by a guy called “Punch” Paramasivam. You meet a guy under a bridge. You can’t see him too clearly in the dark. He says he’ll do the job. You give him a couple of names and a wad of notes. You slink back home unnoticed. Six months later, his book is out. It’s a bestseller.
18. Therapy
You go to the neighbourhood shrink. The same one your landlord went to for his PTSD following the bullet wound you’d inflicted. You talk. He nods. You ugly-cry like Lalita Pawar. He nods. For a while, you pop pills that make the world look like marbled paper, wheee! Six months later, his book is out. Bestseller.
19. Writing
You decide to write again. For a year, you write like one possessed. You send your manuscript to another publisher. Wonder of wonders, they accept it instantly.
20. Gratitude
You download the FB profile picture of your new editor, this benevolent Calcutta-educated goddess (who seems to have taken permission from Lord Indra to telecommute her Swargalok-an duties) posing against a backdrop of books holding a glass of red wine, take a matte-finish print of it and place it in your shrine. You position it next to the picture of the new publisher’s logo. It will also become your screensaver on your phone and computer. Your wife won’t pinch you very hard repeatedly this time. She’s left and taken the kids with her.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms and Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). He is currently oscillating giddily between Stages 11 and 14.
