I’m a lazy writer. I knew that pretty early on. I stop and start writing projects, with spurts of energy followed by weeks or months of neglect.
But, this month I managed to finish a project I’ve been working on for a couple of years, a novel which is now out as an e-book and a paperback.
I wouldn’t have completed it if it weren’t for DK, where I’ve been writing regularly for the past few years after lurking for ages. The feedback from this group of readers (both positive and negative) convinced me I had something to say and some ability to reach people through words. Over time, I remembered that I could complete projects, and hitting the publish button on DK a few hundred times was good preparation for hitting it on a far lengthier project.
The book has absolutely nothing to do with American politics and is set in Bombay.
So if you want a break this summer from the insanity that is currently our country, read my book.
A small sample:
I don’t want to talk about old people. I don’t want to have to think about their small minds and old hatreds. They are dying and the sooner they are gone the better. I want to talk about the new India around me. That’s what interests me. And these kids speak English with a confidence few of their parents ever had. So, I choose to relate their stories in their language.
It was 11:30pm, time to close the stall. Two streetlights bathed it in a bright yellow light. Old habits die hard. Though it had been years since anyone had tried to come for me, I looked around to make sure there was no one around. The stray Laxman was sleeping in the nook I’d created for him and he woke as I stepped off the platform. This is when he earns his keep. He circled the stall, and loped off to a twenty-foot distance like he knew I expected. He would keep watch while I turned my back to the street and locked up.
I reached under the platform to pull out the sawed-off double-barrel shotgun I place there every morning. I turned on the safety and swung it under my right shoulder. The Glock pistol I’d had for ten years was in my shoulder holster, under the Nehru jacket I wore every day. They were both expensive, too expensive for a paanwallah who runs his own stall. But like I said, old habits die hard, and carrying them was a very old habit.
— @subirgrewal