What Happens to a Book Written by an Introvert?

I wrote a book. That part was difficult. But apparently, that wasn't the difficult part.

The difficult part came after publishing it: marketing it.

I see authors regularly posting about their books, asking people to buy them, sharing reviews, celebrating rankings, requesting friends to spread the word, making reels, running campaigns. And I understand why. A book cannot find readers if nobody knows it exists.

But then there is an introvert like me.

I can write a book and put my thoughts in front of complete strangers. But personally message someone and say, “Hey, I wrote a book. Would you buy a copy?” That feels almost impossible.

Even posting repeatedly about my own book makes me uncomfortable. After one or two posts, a little voice starts asking: Am I talking about this too much? Are people getting irritated? Does this look like I am forcing people to buy my book?

So I stop.

And the strange thing is, I don't think it is because I don't believe in my book. I do. Perhaps that is exactly why it feels so personal. A book is not something I bought and am trying to resell. It contains a part of me. Asking someone to buy it somehow feels like asking them to place a value on something personal.

So the book sits there, published and waiting, and its author quietly hopes that readers will somehow discover it.

And sometimes, you yearn for just a little sign that someone out there has found it. A review, a comment, a message. Positive or negative, sometimes it almost doesn't matter. You reach a point where you think, Tell me you loved it. Tell me you hated it. Tell me where I went wrong. Just tell me you read it.

Because somehow, silence feels harder than criticism.

Sometimes I think an introvert's book is like a child raised by a quiet parent. The parent loves the child fiercely, wants the child to succeed, and believes the child has something to offer the world. But the parent isn't standing in the street shouting, “Look at my child! Look how wonderful my child is!”

Instead, the parent stands a little distance away, watching, hoping, and feeling ridiculously happy whenever someone notices.

That is probably the contradiction of being an introverted independent author. You want your book to travel, but you don't particularly want to stand at every corner announcing its arrival. You want people to buy it, but you don't want to ask them to buy it. You want people to talk about it, but talking about it yourself feels awkward.

Perhaps that isn't very good marketing. Perhaps algorithms don't reward quiet authors. Perhaps books need authors who are willing to make some noise for them. I am still learning that part.

For now, though, my book and I seem to have reached an understanding. I will occasionally push it gently into the world, and it will have to do some walking on its own.

Because, unfortunately for the book, its author is an introvert.

#IndependentAuthor #IntrovertAuthor #WritingLife #AuthorLife #BookMarketing

The Light That Told Us the Time

There was a time when work faded with the daylight. Life bloomed like jasmine; it didn’t need a watch. The street-end sodium vapour lamp told the time. People slowly came out. Those days had no agenda.

I used to be surrounded by 10 odd people almost always. Some were sitting on the thinnai. Some leaned against compound walls. The old men had taken the vaaravathi without thinking about it. Nothing had been planned. People were just there, talking about whatever interested them that day.

The boys on the compound wall spoke about cricket, full of movement and noise. Some swung air-bats and some caught imaginary balls. There was a harmless serial liar too. But it all added flavour, like a mole on a fair lady’s cheek.

The women on the thinnai compared the colour of marudhani on their hands, holding their palms up, looking closely. The first time in the day they thought about themselves.

The old men spoke about astrology, correcting each other. I overheard that visiting Tiruchandur temple will make one’s boss kinder.

Another group nearby discussed cinema. Yes, Rajinikanth would have been more successful had he been fair like Kamal.

We children stayed in between all this.

We ran around the yard, stopped suddenly, and ran again. We played our own games. We were superheroes in our own right. One boy proudly showed a half-somersault, landed badly, and still stood up like he had done something great. Another walked around with a toy pistol tucked into his shorts and believed that was enough to make him a hero. The rest of us watched, laughed, copied, and moved on. Elder sisters controlled them.

That was enough for us.

Fireflies began to appear near the bushes. One light, then another. We noticed them immediately. We ran after them, hands open, trying to catch the light. We stopped suddenly and opened our palms. Nothing was there. We laughed and ran again. Sometimes we stood still and watched them float.

From somewhere, a voice would come. Not always the same voice.

“Do not go near that plant now. There will be snakes.”

We paused, looked at the plant, and ran in another direction, laughing at who got scared more.

Someone lowered a vessel into the well. We waited for the sound. When the metal hit the water, we felt satisfied. A while after, the thud of that vessel hitting the ground gave a sense of safety. We did not know why.

Around us, the adults kept talking. We were not listening carefully, but we heard everything. The pieces of information stayed with us without effort. Just enough to show off among our classmates that we know what’s happening.

Later, someone called us in. We went inside. The day ended.

Tomorrow was always different. We did not carry anything from the day before. One thing I miss now.  We went to rest not realizing it would all be memories one day.