Poornima Manco

Author

indie writer

Writer’s Block

by

There it is. I’ve come up against it once more. This feeling of ennui, a sense of “is any of it worth it”, questions like “who wants to read me anyway?” and there you have it. Writer’s Block. The inability to proceed with any kind of worthwhile writing.

You could ask me “you are writing this blog, aren’t you?” I would have to answer honestly and say yes. Equally honestly, I’d have to own up and say that this isn’t my true métier. Blogging, to me, is like having a conversation with my readers. It’s sometimes topical, sometimes thought provoking and nearly always stream of consciousness. It’s also fairly easy. I have a thought and I try and pin it down on screen.

Writing fiction is a whole other ball game. To write the stories I write, I have to reach inside of me and pull my innards out. As you can imagine, that is not an easy process.

So, why this debilitating pause in the proceedings?

I have ascribed various reasons to it. Firstly, it’s been an unusually hectic time. Christmas, New Year, work, vacations and multiple social do’s. Secondly, I’ve got the dreaded flu, so naturally, I am unable to concentrate with the fever, hacking and general listlessness. But really, underneath it all, lies another, more corrosive thought. The joy has gone out of my writing.

Why would such a thing happen? For an inveterate story teller, there is no greater pleasure than spinning a yarn that is swallowed whole by avid readers. Yet, doubts about marketability, about readership, about my own abilities, are swamping whatever amount of happiness I derived from my writing.

The easy thing to do would be to carry on writing as I did before. For myself. For my need to tell the stories that I needed to. Yet, having become aware that there is another side to this ‘business’ of writing, I am unable to ignore it altogether. Every word has to be weighed, every outcome analysed and suddenly, I feel I am back to studying accountancy and my balance sheet is refusing to balance.

It is said that true writers show up to the table and write. If that is the case, then I am a fraudulent one because the mere act of showing up at the table exhausts me.

Will I be able to punch a hole through that block? Only time will tell.

 

The privacy conundrum

by

There has been a steep learning curve in my journey as an indie writer, and everyday I find new and marvellous things to imbibe. There is one aspect though that has left me with a bit of a dilemma. Unlike trad publishing where the marketing was taken on by the publishing house and the author remained a remote entity, revealed only through the author bio in the book or via any interviews they may give, indie publishing works on a different premise.

You are not just the writer, but you are also the publisher, marketeer, blower-of-your-own-horn and general dogsbody. In this strange new world, you can only garner readers and followers if you build relationships with them. How do you do that?  By being authentic and coming across as a human being with a life (and without the sole agenda of profiteering by targeting your readers’ wallets). That is all well and good. After all, as a consumer, even I like investing in companies that have people I can relate to, behind them.

The problem lies in just how much of oneself does one reveal? I am a regular user of Facebook and Instagram, and am not shy about posting things. But my audience, in this case, are my friends, my family and my colleagues. Birthday pics, holiday plans and all other trivia of my life that I choose to share is with people I actually know. Do I really want strangers having access to all of me? Where do I draw the line?

My Facebook author page has information about my books, any new launches and a link to my latest blog post. My Insta business page displays pics of interesting destinations, funny quotes, inspiring people and the occasional photo of myself grinning vapidly into the camera. Is this not enough? Apparently not. As I delve deeper into the murky waters of social media, I am exhorted to reveal my ‘process’, my likes and dislikes, that ugly photo from when I was four etc. etc. Really! Must I?

In that sense, I almost envy the trad writer who can focus on the business of writing, and let all other shenanigans be taken care of by other parties. Yet, as I also know in my gut, in indie publishing lies the future.

I was watching a popular talk show the other day. It was quite amusing to note how these celebrities on the couch gave out snippets of information to the host, without giving too much of themselves away. The more he tried to extract, the more they dodged and deflected. Aside of a few sound bites, he came away with precious little. My heroes!

A friend complained the other day about a famous celebrity wedding where only a few pictures and scant details were revealed to the press. Why, she bemoaned, wasn’t the public given more access? After all, they were public figures, and had signed up to be scrutinised for an eternity. I nodded sympathetically while mentally high fiving the couple for doing the impossible: holding on to their privacy amidst the chaos and madness of public living.

Gone are the days of Greta Garbo, the reclusive film actress whose mystique was only enhanced by her need to ‘be alone’. These days, either you play the game, or consign yourself to being ignored. In such a scenario, what is an indie writer to do?

I would love to hear your ideas or suggestions. Drop me a line in the comments & don’t forget to have a look at my books!

mybook.to/PWell

getbook.at/Damage