Publishing may be a serious business that generates billions of dollars. But that’s secondary. What publishing is, first and foremost, is a never-ending love affair between writer and publisher.
Whenever a writer hands over a finished manuscript to the publisher, the fine people there know better than anyone else what they are in charge of: not some badly spiral-bound sheaf of laser-printed A4 sheets in an unreadable font but a throbbing, bleeding, two–three-year hunk of the writer’s life that he’s yanked out of his gut and handed to them to nurture, protect and help along till it becomes a book that can stand upright on its own spine.
Publishing folk are deeply sensitive, highly trained professionals, nay, activists, who know their job, okay? Get that, all you whiny young writers impatient for fame, fortune and teenage groupies, forever cribbing that not enough is being done for your book. Given below is a break-up of the typical book event and the agony, the ecstasy, timing, thought, money and co-ordinated-to-a-nanosecond effort that goes into planning and executing it.
Thursday, May 14, 9.30 pm
Publisher receives Krishna Shastri Devulapalli’s time-released suicide note with hi-res JPEG attachment. It is a picture of him standing on a rickety pile of his unsold books, tying coir rope to a ceiling fan. He is smiling inappropriately. In the background, an eager band of lungi-clad professional mourners, their death drums poised, appear ready to give him a Chennai-style send-off.
Friday, May 15, 11 am
A specially designed crack team in the publishing house constituting Editor, Marketing Executive and Security Guard Ram Singh convene an emergency meeting in conference room. Editor has just returned from the recently introduced London Book Fair in Gurdaspur. Marketing Executive has postponed her bikini wax appointment. Ram Singh hasn’t woken up from the previous night’s duty.
After a galvanizing round of samosas and chai, they are ready with the course of action. Something has to be done for KSD’s book, yes, surely something, immediately as in ASAP, yes, I think so, too, on a war footing, let’s do it, by the way, drinks? This evening? My place? Sure, cool, yes, KSD’s book, shouldn’t forget. When Ram Singh wakes up, he finds he’s in charge of co-ordinating the event. Budget: change left over from buying samosa and chai.
Friday, May 15, 3 pm
KSD receives mail from publisher that a mega-book event has been planned for him in a major bookshop in Bengaluru on Tuesday the 19th, at 6.30pm. Being an out-of-work former designer, he is assigned the task of designing the invite. He’s also requested to think of a moderator, and threaten/blackmail/beg/con him/her into participating. Following which, he is to send copy of invite to marketing team (Ram Singh and faithful pooch, Jimmy) for approval.
KSD settles disappointed mourners’ dues and gets to work. He calls an old writer friend from Bengaluru to ask if she’ll do the event. She says she’ll do it for drinks and chicken snacks.
Saturday, May 16, 9.45 am
Beautifully designed invite mailed to publisher. KSD doesn’t know Ram Singh is on leave, Marketing Executive has had a hot wax-related injury in the beauty parlour and the publishing house has taken the day off to plan a get-together to cheer her up. KSD goes to Fabindia to get himself new, writerly shirt with vegetable dye paisley print for oncoming event.
Monday, May 18, 2.30 pm
Ram Singh notifies Marketing Executive of KSD’s mail while she is updating her FB status. It is a pic of her with all the bouquets and cupcakes she’s received from her colleagues while convalescing. Executive sends off invite to her mailing list of 6573 people in Bhopal, Bhimli and Bilaspur.
Tuesday, May 19, 5.45 pm
KSD and writer friend arrive at bookshop. Manager asks them who they are. Writer friend threatens to leave. KSD says he’ll buy her an extra drink. She says throw in some chilli prawns and it’s a deal. Manager calls Marketing Exec in Delhi. She’s on her way to A.K. Hangal’s paediatrician’s new tell-all book do with cocktails and finger food and says, yeah, yeah, what, you didn’t get it, or what? C’mon, dude, of course I told you, check your smses, do something, na? She sends selfie to manager. He immediately rustles up chairs, table and mic.
Tuesday, May 19, 6.29 pm
There are two attendees. Writer friend’s college-going daughter on her way to a date and one senior gentleman wearing only a shirt, someone who, KSD finds out later, has wandered off from assisted living quarters nearby, and doesn’t know who or where he is.
Same day, 6.46 pm
The emcee, a young girl on the bookshop’s payroll precisely for such Publishing Emergencies, attired in an all-black outfit and six-inch stilettos, looks at writer’s name during mic-testing and practises – Krishna Shastri...um..Delu-vepallai...Depa-velupillai, Devul-allipai, Dev-alu-pillow – stops, gives him a long hard stare, throws her shoe at him, and leaves.
Same day, 6.56 pm
The event still hasn’t begun. Through the corner of his eye, KSD catches sight of the publisher’s sales rep. He doesn’t know that the rep is there principally because he owes Ram Singh one. (It is Ram Singh who’s helped persuade his father-in-law to spring for a scooter.) The rep is speaking to random customers in a pleading manner and pointing towards KSD.
Same day, 7.07 pm
The emcee comes back walking funny because she’s wearing only one shoe and says Krishna Shastri...that’s all, okay? No Devi, Devo business, understand? Change your bloody name, to which KSD nods. She pulls her shoe out of his hair and puts it back on.
Same day, 7.14 pm
Two people stray in looking for Fifty Shades of Grey. The rep, a former state kabaddi player, grabs them, tells them why buy an erotic book when a sado-masochistic event can be seen live, shoves them onto a couple of chairs and lies across both of them to stop them from escaping.
Same day, 7.27 pm
With the very low turnout, KSD decides it’s time to bring out his secret weapon. He leans seductively against a bookshelf, bites his lower lip, sways his hips to the channel music and sighs suggestively in the hope of attracting customers. Five men come walking towards him briskly. Rep lassoes them, throws them in chairs and lies down across as many as he can. Writer friend has a rejuvenating swig from hip flask.
Same day, 7.27 pm
KSD does the leg stretches and warm-up required to perform Sridevi’s snake dance number from Nagina. A couple of his old school friends who always knew he’d be a failure saunter in. Undaunted, KSD does the entire number as classmates watch. As he segues into Pyaar, Pyaar, Pyaar, Hookah Mar, they pat him on his back in a consoling manner, say there, there, and seat him next to writer friend. Writer friend’s face reveals nothing.
Same day, 7.46 pm
Event begins. There are a dozen people now. KSD’s classmates, deeply saddened as opposed to triumphant that their predictions have come true, have sent for their aged parents and driver. Three people have come in search of the missing senior citizen. The rest have been ‘captivated’ by the rep who has told them about Ram Singh’s underworld connections.
Same day, 8.12 pm
Event is done. It is question time. Only the old man with memory loss raises his hand. He is given the mic. He asks where the bathroom is. But, alas, he doesn’t quite make it. The audience cheers.
Same day, 8.36 pm
A dozen books are sold. Two copies of Mein Kampf, six of writer friend’s, and four of KSD’s, of which three are to the rep on a sale-or-return basis and one to his classmates.
Same day, 9.19 pm
KSD and writer friend eat very good ghee roast chicken, prawn pepper fry and neer dosai, and wash it down with Black Dog.
Tuesday, May 20, 2.06 am
KSD writes to publisher: While this note is to thank you for the lovely book event, it is also to inform you about my great-grandmother, a freedom fighter who fought alongside Bal Gangadhar Tilak, now 146 years old, and on her death bed. She says her only wish is to see me at the Jaipur Lit Fest...
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms, Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). He runs an NGO called Writers for Publishers whose sole aim is to build shrines across the country for the selfless, unsung martyrs in this field who give their all to writers.
Whenever a writer hands over a finished manuscript to the publisher, the fine people there know better than anyone else what they are in charge of: not some badly spiral-bound sheaf of laser-printed A4 sheets in an unreadable font but a throbbing, bleeding, two–three-year hunk of the writer’s life that he’s yanked out of his gut and handed to them to nurture, protect and help along till it becomes a book that can stand upright on its own spine.
Publishing folk are deeply sensitive, highly trained professionals, nay, activists, who know their job, okay? Get that, all you whiny young writers impatient for fame, fortune and teenage groupies, forever cribbing that not enough is being done for your book. Given below is a break-up of the typical book event and the agony, the ecstasy, timing, thought, money and co-ordinated-to-a-nanosecond effort that goes into planning and executing it.
Thursday, May 14, 9.30 pm
Publisher receives Krishna Shastri Devulapalli’s time-released suicide note with hi-res JPEG attachment. It is a picture of him standing on a rickety pile of his unsold books, tying coir rope to a ceiling fan. He is smiling inappropriately. In the background, an eager band of lungi-clad professional mourners, their death drums poised, appear ready to give him a Chennai-style send-off.
Friday, May 15, 11 am
A specially designed crack team in the publishing house constituting Editor, Marketing Executive and Security Guard Ram Singh convene an emergency meeting in conference room. Editor has just returned from the recently introduced London Book Fair in Gurdaspur. Marketing Executive has postponed her bikini wax appointment. Ram Singh hasn’t woken up from the previous night’s duty.
After a galvanizing round of samosas and chai, they are ready with the course of action. Something has to be done for KSD’s book, yes, surely something, immediately as in ASAP, yes, I think so, too, on a war footing, let’s do it, by the way, drinks? This evening? My place? Sure, cool, yes, KSD’s book, shouldn’t forget. When Ram Singh wakes up, he finds he’s in charge of co-ordinating the event. Budget: change left over from buying samosa and chai.
Friday, May 15, 3 pm
KSD receives mail from publisher that a mega-book event has been planned for him in a major bookshop in Bengaluru on Tuesday the 19th, at 6.30pm. Being an out-of-work former designer, he is assigned the task of designing the invite. He’s also requested to think of a moderator, and threaten/blackmail/beg/con him/her into participating. Following which, he is to send copy of invite to marketing team (Ram Singh and faithful pooch, Jimmy) for approval.
KSD settles disappointed mourners’ dues and gets to work. He calls an old writer friend from Bengaluru to ask if she’ll do the event. She says she’ll do it for drinks and chicken snacks.
Saturday, May 16, 9.45 am
Beautifully designed invite mailed to publisher. KSD doesn’t know Ram Singh is on leave, Marketing Executive has had a hot wax-related injury in the beauty parlour and the publishing house has taken the day off to plan a get-together to cheer her up. KSD goes to Fabindia to get himself new, writerly shirt with vegetable dye paisley print for oncoming event.
Monday, May 18, 2.30 pm
Ram Singh notifies Marketing Executive of KSD’s mail while she is updating her FB status. It is a pic of her with all the bouquets and cupcakes she’s received from her colleagues while convalescing. Executive sends off invite to her mailing list of 6573 people in Bhopal, Bhimli and Bilaspur.
Tuesday, May 19, 5.45 pm
KSD and writer friend arrive at bookshop. Manager asks them who they are. Writer friend threatens to leave. KSD says he’ll buy her an extra drink. She says throw in some chilli prawns and it’s a deal. Manager calls Marketing Exec in Delhi. She’s on her way to A.K. Hangal’s paediatrician’s new tell-all book do with cocktails and finger food and says, yeah, yeah, what, you didn’t get it, or what? C’mon, dude, of course I told you, check your smses, do something, na? She sends selfie to manager. He immediately rustles up chairs, table and mic.
Tuesday, May 19, 6.29 pm
There are two attendees. Writer friend’s college-going daughter on her way to a date and one senior gentleman wearing only a shirt, someone who, KSD finds out later, has wandered off from assisted living quarters nearby, and doesn’t know who or where he is.
Same day, 6.46 pm
The emcee, a young girl on the bookshop’s payroll precisely for such Publishing Emergencies, attired in an all-black outfit and six-inch stilettos, looks at writer’s name during mic-testing and practises – Krishna Shastri...um..Delu-vepallai...Depa-velupillai, Devul-allipai, Dev-alu-pillow – stops, gives him a long hard stare, throws her shoe at him, and leaves.
Same day, 6.56 pm
The event still hasn’t begun. Through the corner of his eye, KSD catches sight of the publisher’s sales rep. He doesn’t know that the rep is there principally because he owes Ram Singh one. (It is Ram Singh who’s helped persuade his father-in-law to spring for a scooter.) The rep is speaking to random customers in a pleading manner and pointing towards KSD.
Same day, 7.07 pm
The emcee comes back walking funny because she’s wearing only one shoe and says Krishna Shastri...that’s all, okay? No Devi, Devo business, understand? Change your bloody name, to which KSD nods. She pulls her shoe out of his hair and puts it back on.
Same day, 7.14 pm
Two people stray in looking for Fifty Shades of Grey. The rep, a former state kabaddi player, grabs them, tells them why buy an erotic book when a sado-masochistic event can be seen live, shoves them onto a couple of chairs and lies across both of them to stop them from escaping.
Same day, 7.27 pm
With the very low turnout, KSD decides it’s time to bring out his secret weapon. He leans seductively against a bookshelf, bites his lower lip, sways his hips to the channel music and sighs suggestively in the hope of attracting customers. Five men come walking towards him briskly. Rep lassoes them, throws them in chairs and lies down across as many as he can. Writer friend has a rejuvenating swig from hip flask.
Same day, 7.27 pm
KSD does the leg stretches and warm-up required to perform Sridevi’s snake dance number from Nagina. A couple of his old school friends who always knew he’d be a failure saunter in. Undaunted, KSD does the entire number as classmates watch. As he segues into Pyaar, Pyaar, Pyaar, Hookah Mar, they pat him on his back in a consoling manner, say there, there, and seat him next to writer friend. Writer friend’s face reveals nothing.
Same day, 7.46 pm
Event begins. There are a dozen people now. KSD’s classmates, deeply saddened as opposed to triumphant that their predictions have come true, have sent for their aged parents and driver. Three people have come in search of the missing senior citizen. The rest have been ‘captivated’ by the rep who has told them about Ram Singh’s underworld connections.
Same day, 8.12 pm
Event is done. It is question time. Only the old man with memory loss raises his hand. He is given the mic. He asks where the bathroom is. But, alas, he doesn’t quite make it. The audience cheers.
Same day, 8.36 pm
A dozen books are sold. Two copies of Mein Kampf, six of writer friend’s, and four of KSD’s, of which three are to the rep on a sale-or-return basis and one to his classmates.
Same day, 9.19 pm
KSD and writer friend eat very good ghee roast chicken, prawn pepper fry and neer dosai, and wash it down with Black Dog.
Tuesday, May 20, 2.06 am
KSD writes to publisher: While this note is to thank you for the lovely book event, it is also to inform you about my great-grandmother, a freedom fighter who fought alongside Bal Gangadhar Tilak, now 146 years old, and on her death bed. She says her only wish is to see me at the Jaipur Lit Fest...
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms, Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). He runs an NGO called Writers for Publishers whose sole aim is to build shrines across the country for the selfless, unsung martyrs in this field who give their all to writers.
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