Last night, while texting one of my best friends, I began to think more critically about what it means to put oneself out there as a writer. My friend Partho is one of the most brilliant and articulate writers I know and has been reading and dialoguing with my writing since I was 19. He’s younger than me by two years or so but he’s known for his sagacity. We haven’t seen each other in years, but he’s made the effort of always reaching out, despite his hectic professional and personal life. It’s a friendship I treasure immensely, because we don’t mince words with each other. We are honest and transparent. He was telling me about how it might be a good idea for me to find an international agent for my new book. Having already published one book; I have a deeper awareness now of how little money one makes from the whole process. I did receive a generous advance for my debut, but it is not even close to being commensurate with the intensity of labour over a seven-year time frame. This new book has been only two years in the making, but I have been working on my writing and my personhood since 2017/2018, and all the therapy and the self-work have been vital to the composure of its narrative voice. Between my conversations with Partho and another male writer friend who has been a huge advocate for my work since I met him in 2020, I found myself questioning if I was, indeed, underselling myself.

One of the dilemmas you are frequently faced with, as a writer, is whether you want to be a small fish in a very large sea or be a fish who gets to celebrate their identity in a smaller, more intimate pond. Over the last decade, I have spent a lot of time thinking about what it is that I truly seek as a writer. For a very long time, the answer was validation. I needed, craved, longed for external sources of validation that would give me the confirmation I felt was vital to be able to legitimately call myself a writer. I frequently felt envy when I saw writers who I felt were not so good get better deals. I felt rage when I saw others who didn’t put in the work being platformed at literature festivals—some of whom had either never written a single book or weren’t as prolific as me. I felt the pain of invisibility. I felt overshadowed by my better-networked counterparts. I felt peripheral and marginalised, because my writing was so rooted in feminist ideology, which made it immediately non-mainstream. At the same time, I often found I didn’t have the energy or the bandwidth to ‘promote’ my work. I considered starting a newsletter many times, but it seemed like too much labour, and I didn’t feel motivated enough to follow through. As I grew more self-aware, the envy towards other writers turned to respect. They may not have been fabulous at their craft, I realised, but they were admirably committed to sharing their work, putting it out there with a conviction I perhaps lacked.