Bits of Paper

I was tired of receiving pink slips. Even in my dreams, I would find these little slips of paper floating around, jeering at me, ready to tear me to bits. I would wake up, and then find that my manuscript was still on my writing desk and hadn’t seen the Editors pen yet. I would then screw my eyes shut tight, waiting for sleep and oblivion from the horrors of rejection.

Soon, to my utter dismay, I started seeing these even with my eyes tightly closed. I  started hating the color pink. In fact, one day I found myself hallucinating when I saw pink roses, and believe me, this was the most embarrassing moment of my life. In the hotel lobby, where I had gone for an official dinner, the array of pink roses sent me swooning to this stern lady Editor who threw my manuscript at my face and laughed out loud with disdain, “So, dear writer! Go back and learn a thing or two about authoring, and then come back to me with your story rewritten. I promise I will read it again.” I recoiled with the curt opinion, and came to with a squirm when someone jabbed me- and then heard someone asking me, “are you alright? Can I help you feel more comfortable? Is this the first time you fainted, or have you fainted before?” Obviously, I must have been looking ill. Like something with disheveled hair and sweaty palms that the cat dragged home. “Shall we call a doctor? The hotel must have a Resident Doctor on call…” I smiled, despite the recent hallucination, and plodded on with the martini that someone had put back in my hand. It felt weird and then I realized I was drinking martini in a plastic tumbler. I sat up and saw a mess of shattered glass and some sticky splashed liquid, which was probably my first martini before I swooned. I understood. Did not protest.

So this was my life, with the ebb and flow of thoughts, emotions and written pieces and also rejected pieces. After these seven years of authorhood, I had two prominent piles of paper on my table now- the “written” and the “rejected”. There was also a “pending” pile which had to be completed and awaited its fate. A small thin insignificant file of “accepted” sitting forlorn in one corner of the 4x6 feet work table (the biggest piece of furniture in the house) was my only solace.  And of late, I had started planning on starting a filing system for these pink slips too! Some publishers were going digital and accepting correspondence by email. Otherwise the embarrassment of having so many pink slips thrust in my hand would have obliterated me by now. I could almost imagine the grinning editor, the disdainful editor, the cynical editor, all owners of the e mail ids whom I had been writing to, and who just might open a goldmine for me, after they stopped making fun of me.

On one such day, when I was trying to figure out what was going wrong, someone came home. A ragged looking man called Stan, who kept saying, “I am the King maker.” You know what that means? It means he is very powerful. He can make or mess up your life. I hated him; just like I hate all people who show off. Reena had brought him home for a meeting. Reena was another one- I had told her many times to stay off my passion. I would manage to get my writing published; but she was constantly looking for someone who could get me published. And now Stan the King maker (read Queen maker) was here. Self-consciously I walked across to him to shake hands and offer him a seat in my home. Peremptorily, he offered me a chair instead. What guts!

Without much ado, he told me what a fabulous guy he was, with friends in the Government, Army, Navy and Airforce and also in the Mafia. And by the way, also in publishing. I widened my eyes appropriately and kept saying wow! Till my eyes started hurting and my lips started chafing.

“Time for some coffee….” I sang out loud, when he was in the middle of telling me how he had got an author to sell 5 million copies of his book translated in English. “The author was not so sure but I convinced him about the translation, and see what magic happened!” He was almost bursting out of his skin with the pride of his achievement.

Coffee took long to come; and the long noisy slurps alternating with loud crackles of cream crackers served in Celadon china, made me sick. I took Reena aside and threatened her. “Take him away before I kick him out of here. What a guy! How did you even begin to think that I might need his services?”

Stan sat there and bragged and slurped some coffee and noisily munched some crackers and then bragged some more. It seemed like all he could do was discuss himself. He spoke about how he decided to hang up his boots at 39 and spend his life helping people like me. “But why did you have to do that?” “Just so that no one would suffer like I did when I was trying to publish my book of verse.” Champion of the underdog, is he? “Oh, really, so you have been published already?” I asked him, with genuine curiosity, overcoming my first cynical impulse. A spate of name throwing and ‘been there done that’ kind of anecdotes followed, leaving me confounded and sorry that I even asked him. “So may I be guided to buy a kindle version of your book? What’s the title and who is the publisher?” I interrupted him just as he was embarking on another ego-trip down memory lane.

Reena continued speaking of him in glowing terms and in a hastily whispered aside she told me that obnoxious though he sounded, he was actually very well connected. It took a lot of convincing but finally when the coffee got over and he could slurp no more, I stood up abruptly and excused myself saying I had an urgent call to make. It was my house so I couldn’t be more rude. Hastily, I printed out a copy of the synopsis, gave it to him and wished he would go away.

I did not expect he would come back for anything except the money. Would not deliver any positive results either. And the synopsis by now, had become public property so I was not risking anything. Spinning yarns, anyway was my hobby, though not necessarily my bread and butter. And for this yarn, the embellishments could be changed if Stan tried his tricks. But I doubted he had the brains to even begin to read the paper I thrust in his hand. So for me, he was out of my life as quickly as he had come.

But my manuscript was still unread, unheard and unsung! The travails of a budding writer continued to haunt me and would not be slaked without blood. And then there were friends who would keep calling me and asking, “Have you found a publisher? Oh, you poor woman! Working so hard and burning the midnight oil; these people don’t have any respect for hard work….”

“Oh! How come no one is taking an interest in your book? You know you actually write very well- amazing language and such precise grammar.”

“Its possible that your story may not be very exciting? So what about tweaking it a little bit here and there? Adding some romance and some zing to it?”

“Hey you know what? Just get some well known literary genius to write the foreword or even a recommendation? You know those back covers full of good things about the book you just read or are planning to read?”

Feverish and consumed, I understood that each advice translated into an umbrella statement, “Never mind the pink slip. Never give up!”

Honest to God, I tried. And never gave up. There was a day in my life when, as I sat for breakfast, I noticed a pink piece of paper under the table mat. I screamed as if I had seen a ghost. “Will thou hound me here as well?” The housekeeper came running out and kind of pacified me. I dared not look at the dining table lest I see that pink paper again. But the evil woman dug it out and handed it to me. “This is the bill from the laundry. Give me the money so I can go and pick up the blankets.”

I went to see my Professor at the University where I had completed my Masters in Economics. Won three Gold Medals. Was offered a Faculty position as a career. I had spurned all that and now my Prof, on hearing my life story, simply said, “Talent is wasted.” That’s it. “Talent is wasted.” Such loaded words! Such famous words….. everyone who is someone has had somebody say that to her. Determined, I plod on, in search of the someone I will be. Kiss my hand, someone.