The (failed) Quest for Literary Success and Other Misadventures

The other day, my neighbour Mrs X accosted me in front of the elevator.

“You say you are a writer,” she wagged a finger at me threateningly. ‘How come I’ve never seen you on TV or in the newspapers?”

This is the same woman who had offered to get me a souvenir from the Glitterpuri Lit Fest that she religiously attends each year. 

I turned white under her accusing gaze.

“I do write books,” I protested feebly. “If you want, I can show them to you.”

I know she doesn’t read (other than the Fabulous at Fifty and Domestic Diva magazines) so I was on safe terrain. She looked queasy and promptly changed the subject. “You know my niece, Silky? She’s just published a book and she’s going to be at Glitterpuri this year. There are plenty of articles about her book in the newspapers. You must have seen it. It’s called Mr Lover Lover and it’s about love-shove. She was on TV recently talking about love in the time of corona. It's going to be a bestseller, I can feel it."

I jabbed the lift button with superhuman force, mentally willing the metal box to transport me to ground zero so that I could escape from the woman’s clutches.

She had touched a raw nerve. I have only been to two and half events in the last nine years – the half being a dinner party that I gate crashed and subjected the guests to a book reading. There have been a few blink-and-you-miss mentions in newspapers but only because there was space that needed to be filled. Glitterpuri remains an elusive dream and I don’t think anyone will ever interview me on television unless I do something drastic -- like kidnap a cow maybe. 

“You should come to the Litfest with Silky and me next year,” Madam announced, a parting shot, before she climbed into her brand new Audi. “Do some networking-shetworking and the invites will keep pouring in you’ll see.”

A conspiratorial wink and the Audi was gone. Not before blowing clouds of dust my way.

Suddenly, a life of crime-shime didn’t sound half bad. 
 
 

A Mixed Bag of a Year

This year’s been a bit of a mixed bag. For the most part, I sat around waiting for things to happen and ended up feeling really dejected when they didn’t. So I turned to writing as a way to make myself feel better. Writing works as therapy for people like me. 

 

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation ~ Graham Greene

The year started off with one of my novels, Mr Eashwar’s Daughter (a modern-day retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion) getting a mention in two articles on South Asian writers and their fondness for Jane Austen (Juggernaut & Globe and Mail, Canada). In fact, when the Canada-based journalist reached out to me for a quote, my joy knew no bounds. It isn’t easy to get noticed in India leave alone globally – if you don’t have a massive publicity budget or a team to help. It’s incredibly gratifying to have your writing reach foreign shares and I am really thrilled that it happened.

I published a short story that was initially commissioned by Juggernaut Books but somehow slipped under the radar due to the pandemic. The story, Chasing the Clouds, is about a young man who takes up a job in a remote village in the hills and ends up having a life-changing experience. You can read it here if you want.

 

Earlier this month, the third instalment of my Dragon Aunty series –
Mangar Mayhem was published. In this caper, Dolly Luthra and her sidekick Mini go to a spa in the Aravallis for some rest and rejuvenation and promptly get caught up in a murder investigation. It’s getting good reviews and the perfect short read for the holiday season.

That's it for this year. See you in 2024. Stay healthy, happy and read my books if you can!