The Writer's Paradox

Alright, let's talk about the elephant in the room for anyone who dares to string a few words together and call it a book. I'm often at a crossroads when it comes to telling people about my writing. You see, I've never carried a gram of confidence (my personal trauma, most certainly would require a separate, very thick book indeed with lots of trigger warnings). So, three books down, and I'm still afraid to confidently claim the titles of "author" or "writer."

Then come the questions. Oh, the questions.

"What do you write?" "What's your book about?" "Tell me something about yourself as a writer?" And the absolute killer: "How much did you make?"

Each one feels less like an innocent question and more like an existential crisis. My Imposter Syndrome skyrockets faster than a Bengaluru startup valuation the minute I'm asked to speak about my book and what I've poured my soul into. One would think, she can write a whole damn book but can't string two sentences together to describe it? Yes, that's me. Guilty as charged.

The prevailing wisdom, especially for a new author, is to go all out. Scream about your book into the void, pitch it everywhere you get a chance. But honestly, it feels a bit overboard. I'm certain every writer secretly (or not so secretly) kills themselves inside every time they're expected to turn into a walking, talking billboard for their own creation.

I just want to be a known writer without coming off as some pompous, self-absorbed person who only talks about their book. In today's digital era, it's almost impossible to gain recognition as a decent writer without a significant online presence. Unless you're some kind of literary prodigy, cracking that impossible ceiling without shouting from the rooftops feels like an impossible dream.

And the minute I tell myself it's time to write, there's this added, suffocating pressure to make sales and become a bestseller. Can a writer truly not exist without hitting a bestseller list? Are we to be declared failures, burdens on this planet, simply because our book didn't make it onto someone's extremely opinionated, often commercially driven, "best-selling" chart? It’s absurd.

Then there's the whole unspoken dress code for writers. The notion is: if I write, I must look a certain way, behave a certain way. I must wear indie ethnic kurtas, sport large specs, ideally boast a lot of distinguished greys, carry a large cloth bag with very large fonts on it and hell no to short dresses or a backpack. Apparently, you cannot be taken seriously and definitely cannot possibly pass the "writer test," if you're seen in a Zudio midi dress! This superficial judgment often feels like a barrier, adding another layer of anxiety to an already vulnerable profession.

It's a bizarre dance, isn't it? This push and pull between the quiet, solitary act of creation and the loud, public demand for self-promotion and predefined appearances. Maybe, just maybe, the most authentic thing a writer can do is simply... write, and let the rest sort itself out. Eventually. Till then I will continue to enjoy the quiet satisfaction of having created something, knowing it exists, regardless of the noise.