Let me plunge straight into a question that has been increasingly playing on my mind in the last few weeks – is publishing a book a crust-moving accomplishment? I am caught between an ‘aye’ and a ‘nay’ for answer.
Going by the over whelming response that I am receiving these days from people who have just known about this not-so-common-occurrence in their immediate circles, it seems like I have pulled off something worthwhile. But I am not certain.
The response has been a mixed bag so far, dominated by the whoopees and wows with a smattering of reserved and cynical rejoinders. I apologize for being so vain and self-conscious. But with this book taking so much of my attention and anxiety these days, it seems only natural for me to dwell in thoughts related to this new development in my life.
Coming back to my question, is having your name to a book laudable and worthy of raising a toast? Let me first tackle the ‘nay’ that is weighing down on me rather forcefully. The current glut in the book market (thanks to any one who has an experience of something in life taking to pen a manuscript, dishing it out between covers as a novel, memoir, biography or poetry) makes me contend that writing a book is something that one can do as easily as learning to swim. It may not be as easy as fish taking to water, but with a few floats on you to sustain in the initial days, you can become an author, no less. You just have to have a will, an idea to flesh out, some fast paced, snappy lingo and the time to actually stamp it down as a document and voila! You have what you can call a manuscript that will sooner or later find a place to roost in the vast, easy-to-get-lost literary firmament.
I am not joking, anybody can venture to write a book and quite a few people that I know have said that they had a mind to do so, but have never got to doing it, owing to constraints on time. Some of them are people with immense experience, are a repository of worldly knowledge and have fantastic linguistic and syntactic skills. They are the ones I sincerely wish would write. But they don’t for their own reasons. When such folks congratulate me on my first book, I take the credit with guarded pride. For, I suspect that in their view, I have only done something that they could do so easily but have consciously chosen not to. To them, writing is a cinch and so, what is the big racket I am creating about a book? I can almost hear the words in their voice.
And then there are those uninitiated tribes who responded to my mails about the book with news about their family and friends. They did not care if I had spent 6 years or 16 years trying to make this book a reality. They didn’t have the slightest interest in knowing if my novel was about people or pygmies. No congratulations, no commendation, nor any casual remark of acknowledgment. It was as though I had written a book because I had nothing better to do in life. According to them, a house wife, tucked in some remote corner of the desert land had just found a new way to stay occupied after her chores. To each, his own!
Now, to that lovely cluster that presently makes me feel like a celebrity in my own right, with their glowing praise of my new enterprise. Some doffed their hat, some trilled that I had done something incredible, some were immensely proud to be my acquaintances and some in their over enthusiasm even said that I would go on to carve a niche of my own in the literary world (That’s a rather long shot, but who knows??).
I would like to share a few such compliments that came by e-mail from people who I believe are truly pleased with my small accomplishment and pulled no punches with their appreciation.
There are also those who conveyed their generous thoughts personally too, making me go red of face with an unspecified emotion. I dedicate this post to all of them.
- Dear Asha, I was pleased and delighted to know that someone I know has indeed written a book, a novel at that! Being a student of literature myself and one who spends at least an hour every night reading before sleeping, I know that reading is easier than writing - especially when it comes to churning out some 450 pages!! Congratulations !!
- Congratulations Asha. I’ll certainly go to the Palakkad store and get a copy. Proud to say that you’re my friend.
- Hi Asha, I had to write a quick note congratulating you on this great endeavour. I read an excerpt of Sand Storms, Summer Rains on bookwag.com and it left me wanting more. I have already asked my husband to pick up a copy of your book at the local book store in India.
- Hey aash!
what a wonderful piece of news! Great! really great! I’m really proud of you, gal.
- Hearty congrats. Very nice great stuff. Does not read like a debut novel.
My heart felt thanks to all those who acknowledge that this book has been a culmination of a long period of sustained work, seasons of struggle and some teeny-weeny flashes of talent.
A new friend told me recently, “It is not everyday that you come across a person who has written a book. We see books in the book stores, we hear about people who write, but I am seeing an author for real now.”
It was one surreal moment which put my doubts to rest.
Is writing a book really an achievement?
Yes, it’s a hell of a personal triumph and I am going to bask in this self-consuming thought for some time to come.
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