The truth is that I have no idea how I’ve gotten here. If you’d have given me a million years to guess that I’d one day be writing this article, it wouldn’t be nearly enough time. From the start, all I actually knew was that I wanted to be a writer. That’s it. I didn’t know how to look for agents, how to write a query letter, how to advertise, or where to find readers. I just figured all that would just fall in line when the time came. The plan was always to publish traditionally and let non-writers take care of all the non-writing stuff that was beneath a modern-day Shakespeare such as myself. This is how it was supposed to go: I would finish a novel in one go (the first draft would be so good that it needed no editing), then e-mail just one of New York’s top agents a gorgeously written letter gushing about how brilliantly and originally my novel illuminates hidden aspects of human nature, and then a month or two later I’d be on top of the New York Times Bestseller List.

Then maybe another month after that Oprah would beg to interview me. She’d call me herself. But I’d politely refuse, because I’m introverted and don’t want to do interviews. I was going to be a writer like Cormac McCarthy, thought I in my infinite wisdom, or Thomas Pynchon or J.D. Salinger or whoever; my refusal to do public appearances will make me mysterious and my work all the more precious. Oprah of course would become desperate and insist and do everything in her power to try to convince me to change my mind. In the end, it wouldn’t make a difference. I’d tell her I appreciate her interest though.

Unfortunately, that’s not how any of this played out.

In actuality, writing a novel was a long and painful experience, one that required lots of edits and came with lots of second-guessing. It was only when I finally considered it finished (or finished enough, since I’m to this day tempted to go back and make changes, and maybe even start over and write something else entirely) that I began to look into how the publishing industry actually works.

Disappointment, disillusionment,  dipression, and self-diprication followed.

What an imbecile I’d been! What a child! A sweet summer child!

Did you know that a book written with no audience in mind, no genre, no true formula, by an author with no previous publications and no platform is completely unpublishable? Did you know that authors these days are expected to do their own marketing, even if they’re published by the big companies? Did you know that most people in the industry don’t actually give a damn about the “what,” that they only care about the “how much”? Did you know that when you write query letters to agents and to publishers accepting unagented submissions, your aim should be to convince these recipients that your book is marketable and that you’re a sane person capable of behaving professionally?

Oh, you did? Congratulations, you’re smarter than I am. Because I went and wrote a book with absolutely no plan, no genre in mind, no form, no subject; I simply split my head open and let my subconscious spill out onto the page. Because of this, when it came time to figure out a way to sell it to agents, I found it almost impossible to categorize it or even describe it in a way that could be used to market it effectively. And when I finally did write to agents, I did it all wrong. I spent my first ten letters describing the literary worth of my book and its contents, naively thinking that they gave a damn; I spent the next ten showing off my writing prowess with expertly-crafted sentences and poetic turns of phrases, aiming to impress people with my talent enough that they were compelled to think, “wow, if just his letter is this good, then his book must be phenomenal!”

As I’m sure you’ve already surmised, the results of my efforts were abysmal. Over the course of a year, I probably got a grand total of four responses: all form rejections (which are just automatic responses some agents send out to be nice). The rest didn’t even bother getting back to me. I became discouraged and even disgusted with the business of writing. Maybe the book was no good. Maybe I don’t have what it takes. Maybe I don’t know who I need to know to make this work. Maybe finally finishing the book was enough; maybe that was the end of the line and maybe that was okay. Or maybe the right agent was right around the corner. But maybe around the other corner, there was something even better.

I didn’t know. I still don’t know.

But after a while I did know that I was done with querying. It was then that I began thinking of John Martin and the indie press he started back in the 60’s: Black Sparrow Press. I’d of course known about Black Sparrow Press for years, but it was around this time that I began to really think about it. Its origin story alone is stuff of legend. Martin, still alive and kicking in his 90’s as I write this (and hopefully long after I finish writing this!), was once a 35-year-old fellow who worked full-time at an office supply company. He was also a fellow who loved and collected literature—that was his passion. And like anyone else with a monetizable passion, he wanted to pursue it as a career. So he sold his collection of the works of D.H. Lawrence for $50,000 (which was a lot of money back in the 60’s) and got the capital to do just that. With that money, he started a publishing company—just so he could publish the works of some unknown loser poet who had never even written a novel before. He even famously gave that poet a stipend, out of his own pocket, in the hopes that the poet could quit his job and focus entirely on writing. That poet’s name was Charles Bukowski.

And the rest is history.

Can you imagine that? Having someone believe in you and your talent so much that they’d risk it all just to get you out there? Having this same someone take care of the actual business of writing so you can focus your days on writing alone?

I think lots of writers, or just artists in general, want something like that. A sponsor, a benefactor, a patron, a partner, a John Martin to their Bukowski. I know I certainly did. In fact, the first place I queried was actually Black Sparrow Press—or, more specifically, a Martin-less Black Sparrow Press. Martin had closed up shop back in 2002 and retired; it wasn’t until twenty years had passed that it reopened under new management. I found out about its return when I was about three months away from finally finishing my book.

Oh, the fantastical scenarios that went through my head! This must be fate, I thought, and irrefutable proof of God’s existence—I, who unwittingly wrote a book partly founded on a Bukowski poem, was destined to be published by Bukowski’s very same publisher, who had announced its return just as I was ready to query. You couldn’t write a better story if you tried.

Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. I shot them an e-mail immediately after I called my book complete and eight days later received a real response from its editor-in-chief, rejecting my query but wishing me luck and blah blah. For that, I’m grateful. Like I said, the vast majority of agents and publishers I queried didn’t even bother sending a reply back, so it was certainly appreciated.

In the end though, when all else had failed, and when I realized that a fortuitous meeting with a John Martin of my own was just a thing of fantasy, I decided that I’d have to play the role myself. I’d have to be the John Martin to my Charles Bukowski, and the Bukowski to my Martin. So, despite being riddled with doubt and plagued by fears both real and imagined, here I am, doing just that. After all, if I’m not willing to bet on myself, how can I expect anyone else to? That’s why I named my company “White Shadow Press” and chose as my logo two sparrows juxtaposed against each other in a yin and yang symbol—I envisioned my company as the white shadow to the black sparrow. If I could achieve just a tiny fraction of just a fraction of what they did, it’d be enough for me.

But I suppose that’s up to the gods.     

Till next time,

Yash