A Suitable Reader

Now that the book is under contract and is awaiting its turn in the editorial queue to be tweaked, turned, printed and marketed, I think about the readers out there. I think of my book as a person and the future readers as future partners for my book with whom its life will be intermingled. I know, I know, such anthromorphism, tsk, tsk. And such possessiveness. I wouldn’t have thought it possible of myself either.

But the book is my baby, my third, silent baby. And who is its future partner, the reader of my book? The more partners, the more successful my offspring (such a wrong thought for a person, but so true for a book). I ask myself this in various settings.

This week, I was at a small lunch with other around-town moms. All of us were Indians from different states, speaking different languages, conversing in English and Hindi, discussing things. We sat around a well-lit suburban dining table, eating delicious food, and chit-chatting, and I was suddenly very aware that these women were not the readers of my book. Well, maybe two of them were, including the hostess. OK, three.

I judged them out of my own insecurity – would X be able to empathize with the dilemmas of I., an important character in my novel? Would Y be able to overcome her antipathy to people of a certain community? She would have to at least suspend it in order to respond sympathetically with some situations in the novel. Why is it that I disapprove of prejudice, but when it comes up in a drawing room situation, I am unable to do more than smile and change the subject? Would any of these beautiful women in their lovely clothes and styled hair really be able to imagine situations and lifestyles such as the one I describe in my book? Could such lives as I talk about even be believable to them? Perhaps not.

But perhaps, yes. After all, I am a suburban mom too, aren’t I? What right do I have to believe that these well-educated women could not reach out to another world and time? Ashamed of my own thoughts, I teetered between remorse and criticism. I talked too much, was too witty and too loud, too giggly, trying to find a balance between sociable and withdrawn. And I noticed that one of the other potential readers at the gathering was like me – somewhat insecure, trying too hard. I was awkward and out of place in this setting, even though I fit in so well, in terms of class and ethnicity. And even though all of those present, without exception, were thoroughly nice people. Thoroughly nice people, but not the readers of my book.

I’ll write more about other potential readers in the future. Or other potential non-readers.

In the meantime, as more snow heads our way here, stay dry.