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I hope you do not think of me as that woman who can never leave her family of origin behind while she starts one of her own. I would like to think of it as our families joining, melding and expanding to make more room in our hearts and our last names. This is my dearest wish, Aunty. My other wish is to have such a warm relationship with you that calling you "mom" comes naturally and from the heart for me.
Writing is magical. I've been a writer for 10 years now. I started out late, which some say is a good thing. I was in my early thirties stranded on the Howrah railway station, my train ten hours late,...
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I tried rubbing the edge of my study table, whispering, "Appear, my lovely story. Appear!" It didn't. I tried this with the walls in my home, with trees in the park, and once even slyly tried rubbing the end of the shawl of a woman I didn't know at all. Nothing happened. No story appeared like a genie to enter my being and emerge as words tumbling into sentences and forming plots and intricate dialogues.
Early morning, you open your email and out pops yet another rejection from a publisher you had your heart on. You fume, you wither, you get depre ed and angry and want to hit someone. Everyone is agai...
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Since we mostly receive e-mails that are devoid of any human or emotional trace, we've closed our hearts and minds. As such we only feel an underwhelming joy when we receive a new e-mail from a long lost friend. So how do we get some of the old excitement back? E-mails can be as beautiful as lovingly handwritten letters used to be. All we need to do is take few cues from the history of writing letters!
A cover letter or an email which you will send across to editors across the country (or countries) can't be more than 200-300 words if you want it to be read. That's the one pager which will make all the difference on whether the editor will even pick up the first chapter of your manuscript. Which is why, the pitch is a nightmarish but important part of your path to publishing.
I love my small, chirpy, chaotic bundles of alphabets. I march on, followed by a trail of words, jostling with each other, elbowing the one in front, and tripping the one behind, all itching to form that perfect sentence, that perfect story, that perfect world.