When I started Authorz Coracle in
2011, I really did not know where it was headed. As the publisher of Gyaana
Books earlier, I had been approached by several aspiring writers for help and
feedback (especially, the rejects). I knew I wanted to help; I was confident I could,
but at that time did not have the time or resources at my disposal. With AC I could
address those people’s problems.
After a while I wasn’t publishing
books any longer. I was already stripped of the halo ‘book publishers’ are often
bestowed with – and it was apparent in people’s altered attitudes,
words and body language.
Initially, the idea of making Authorz Coracle a literary agency seemed appealing. Editorial services combined with representation made better sense. But I gave up the thought quite soon. I wasn’t cut out for it; it simply wasn’t me. I wanted to teach. I wanted to share what I had learnt simply because, as an aspiring writer I had been there, done that. I could identify with those writers. I had made exactly the same mistakes, done incredibly foolish things, learnt my lessons and moved on. Yes, of course it had been embarrassing for a while, but I proved to be good at two things: laughing at myself and forgiving myself (even if some others didn’t easily). I had learnt to recognize and embrace my flaws the way I recognized and embraced my qualities. Consequently, I had evolved – as a writer, editor, publisher, person.
Even though AC was fully functional, I had decided against
acting as an agent. I wasn’t going to represent authors to publishers and,
despite repeated requests, stayed firm on that front. I did not even bother to advertize my services
properly. All I was offering was writing
help and feedback to people who were willing to trust my judgement based on my
own experiences.
Who would come to me?
Why would they come to me when
there were so many other options available? More affordable? Better known?
What kind of a business model was
this?
Relevant questions by well
wishers, I cannot deny. Except that I had no answers then. I have none now. I
did not compromise then. I do not compromise now. Perhaps I was counting on chance.
I just knew I had to do it.
I waited. I had to wait for a
long time. The first client came through a friend’s recommendation. The second
through another. And the third. It took a while. Months. A year. Two.
I was lucky with the clients who
did come. They were not scintillating writers waiting to be ‘discovered’, but most
had stories to tell – and they were serious about developing their writing
skills. I knew I could help hone them. Few were worried about being published
eventually, though of course each would have liked to get there. They simply
wanted to write. And they wanted someone to read what they had written. I was
willing to do that.
One of my first few clients was a
not-so-young woman – an accomplished person in her own field (a scholar and professor),
who was very keen on old Bollywood cinema. Unfortunately, the theatricality and
histrionics of the films of those times reflected in her writing. She joked
that she wanted to win the Nobel Prize for Literature someday. And to be quite
honest, I seriously wished she would accomplish her goal. The project took over a year. There was a
great deal of back and forth. Sometimes she was diligent; sometimes childishly impatient.
Sometimes I was well in control; sometimes rather brusque. We discussed,
debated, argued. She would promise to do the rewrites and send back almost the
same script all over again. Then we would go round and round in circles once
more.
While she was still at it, her
father fell seriously sick. The stories began to grow darker. They also
acquired a seriousness that had been absent before. There was suffering,
torment, misfortune. I could see a clear change emerging. And
then she vanished. For almost three months there was no word from her. But one day
she wrote to say her father had passed away.
She returned to writing another
month later – and completed her collection. Not all the stories were extraordinary.
One, however, I distinctly remember, was. Not many were even closely enough
related to be included in the same collection (speaking strictly from a
publisher’s point of view), but I think writing for her had become a cathartic
exercise. It was enough simply to be able to write. She talked a lot – about her
father, her life, her experiences, agony and anguish. She said she would continue
writing no matter where she was and what she was doing.
Over the years I have had several
such experiences. Another young woman would keep writing to me again and again.
She was a banker and very keen to write a novel with multiple women
protagonists. She refused to slow down or compromise on the number of
protagonists even though I pointed out the level of complexity it would require.
Her novel had the familiar Indian clique most women can perhaps easily identify
with: a married woman with childbearing issues; another married woman with marriage
problems; a working professional with an ordinary life, and a single woman with
her own troubles.
The author could certainly write
if she put in the effort, but her mind galloped in too many directions at once.
She could not maintain her focus. Humour came to her naturally. So much so that
it became a problem. Sometimes, even the most serious situations came across as
inadvertently funny the way they had been described. The arcs were scattered in
every possible direction until we could streamline the plot and pin everything
down.
There were days when she wrote at
top speed and delivered good chapters. There was much detailing. The characters
were realistically drawn. At other times she wouldn’t write for weeks. Then she
too disappeared without warning. When she emerged again, it was to inform me
that she was going through her divorce and would be taking a break from writing
for a while.
Once there was a young woman who, while
sharing a personal piece, revealed the story of her battle with her body clock
and her deep dilemma and anguish at dealing with the consequences. It was an intense experience and an emotionally draining one.
It was a revelation the amount of
their personal lives the writers invested in their writings and how cathartic
the process of writing really was for them. It wasn’t simply a matter of writing
a book and getting it published. Writing, to them, had much greater
significance. And somehow I was playing an important role in that process: not merely
that of an editor or instructor but of a friend, philosopher, psychotherapist and healer. It imbued the
effort with much deeper meaning. It made the entire transaction far more worthwhile.
Slowly I realized the difference
between the writers who opted for editorial services and those who attended my
creative writing workshops. The former were prone to be self-absorbed,
reflective, even brooding. The latter were more firmly ensconced in the
here-and-now, raring to go, looking for practical tips.
It has been about five years now.
I still do not advertize my services actively, though projects keep flowing in
somehow. Writers still come to me either through word of mouth or through the
AC website they stumble upon (usually) by chance. Some connect instantly and form
a bond; others take time to establish a rapport; yet others move away. I welcome
those who choose to stay, let go of those who wish to go.
Only last night a very old friend
from university reconnected online. At university, though we were friends we
had never exchanged much information about each other. However, we began to
talk and he mentioned a manuscript he has been working on. He had learnt about
AC and wanted to take my help. Once he started talking about the project, perhaps
some of his deepest thoughts, secrets and the most personal details simply
flowed naturally. He never even paused to think.
I wonder – is this what the
process of writing does to you? It seems to open up the ability and willingness
to communicate and articulate the most intimate details about one’s life. And
that’s a blessing.
It does not surprise me anymore.
But it does amaze me. With each new
experience I too learn, grow, evolve as a professional as well as as a person. Authorz Coracle, though
on the surface, is just an outfit that offers editorial services and creative
writing workshops, but, at another level, is something much deeper, more substantial and rewarding for anyone who chooses to form
a connect with it.
Happy to share that a new edition of Turtle Dove has now been brought out by Juggernaut Books. :) It's a book of short short stories, mainly about forbidden relationships/sex. 
