To do or not to do: Writing for readers or learning the art of marketing a book

As the author of a novel that is about to be released, I have now reached - *drum rolls* - "the marketing stage". At this infamous crossroads, two paths appear. One, populated by happy, smiling figures, well-dressed and well-spoken, pressing every hand with a freshly signed copy, practically screams "success". The other, equally well-trodden I think, though not so much recently, is inhabited by hang-dog faces lugging sullen egos, seeming to detest potential buyers (though noticeably failing to chase them away, and astonishingly agreeable to having their harsh moods mollified).

I suspect both these ways are quite similar, at a deeper rather than surface level. Note also that there is a third group in sight, those who claim they have "struck a balance" (and are frequently believed), but who in fact seem merely to be hopping from one path to another, continually...

So, is the marketing stage inherently un-redeemable? A "necessary evil" in the world of books? Or are these ugly, busy crossroads an elaborate illusion, keeping us from a clear perception of what it means to market?

To think about this, let's first think about what it means to make art. If art is mere self-expression, an individual communing with himself or herself, then no writer of novels ought to worry about their readership. That they all do worry (even the recluses), is proof, either that they are each tainted by greed and vanity, or, that this premise is false. If, for instance, art is not self-expression, but communication, of a special kind, then surely anxiety about the recipient is fitting?

Yet if it is communication, it seems to be very strangely and inefficiently performed. What kind of person, who wants to be heard, would speak so indirectly, as in the imaginary form of a novel, and then practically imprison his speech in tucked away places, like bookshops? Would he not be more effective (and sincere, as a communicator) if he were to grab hold of every last person he wishes to address and condense what's on his mind into a few simple sound bytes, to which his book itself (if it must be written) becomes strictly illustrative?

I seem to hear three cheers from publicists everywhere! However, while they die down, let us imagine a pair of young lovers, whose families oppose their relations. They are not allowed to meet. Their telephone calls are barred. Their internet is blocked. Love being resourceful, one can nevertheless imagine them finding a way. Perhaps the way would involve letters, left in public yet secret places, under a bench, in the hollow of a tree, beside a garbage can in the back-alley of a café. Nobody would question the earnestness or the urgency of such communication. And now - a necessary leap of logic - I suggest that any two lovers, no matter how welcoming their circumstances, or how smooth the course of their affair, would find a tremendous attraction in just such "cryptic" communication. They would love to write such letters regardless. At any rate, it is easy to imagine them doing so. It is even easy to imagine them falling apart because one of them refuses to do so.

This thought experiment suggests the inescapable, intrinsic significance of abstract communication. Lovers deal with it partially, among other things. But artists deal with it all the time and entirely. Their relationship with the individual-as-public- with their market - is therefore existential - and vice versas. Here's a quote from a short story by Isak Dinesen: “Where there is no work of art to look at, or to listen to, there can be no public either; that is clear, I suppose... And as to the work of art, now - does a painting exist at which no one looks? - does a book exist which is never read?” No wonder one worries!

To sum up, we have two conclusions. One, it is of life-and-death importance that a book be read. Marketing is vital. Two, it is suicidal to shove it down the reader's throat. Marketing is dangerous. As both writer and public, we depend, therefore, on a sound infrastructure of bookshops and book critics (the secret places and sympathisers of our romantic communication), and even more fundamentally, on a mutual respect and recognition of each other. This, however, is Indian fiction writing in English, in the year 2015! A more fraught terrain is hard to imagine. Writers, when they do not appear just plain stalkerish, appear selfish, using the public as stepping stones in their careers, or frivolous, wasting the public's time. As for the public itself - I refer to the English-educated, English-reading public - suffice it to say that there are self-esteem issues.

Hence, the bright ideas keep coming. "We'll put up posters in the sports complex!", says my tennis partner in Mumbai. "Plough back your advance into buying your own copies; that's what so-and-so does," advises another friend. I mention these, not because the voices from that other path on those crossroads, commanding total reclusiveness for the sake of "artistic purity", are superior, but because in the times we live in, they aren't much heard anyway. It seems to me that a writer, if he wishes to remain a writer, must put his faith in a mystical idea. A public that permits a novel to be created, in thoughtfulness and concern, is both capable and desirous of reading it, in the very same spirit.