It took me 7 months to write ‘Things Your Mother Never Told You About Love’. Which most people around me thought was freakishly good time for 40,000 words, which in turn made me doubt myself because 1. First time author. 2. Had I been too hurried? 3. Should’ve Would’ve Could’ve started swirling in my head.
The thing is I had a deadline.
I hate deadlines.
I have to meet them. It’s an ego thing. Like an open challenge to a deadline that it cannot be better than me, that I will un-do it and not the other way around.
I had 7 months, I dropped all other work, stayed in pajamas all day, drank a lot of tea, did occasional sets of push ups just to wake myself up and wrote a book. My first. Those who read it, liked it, despite the 3 grammatical errors that make my skin crawl and nose bleed. And I liked it because after spending a whole month critiquing it after submitting the final draft, I had tapped into the sublime appreciation of a task completed. This was going to be my first book forever and that’s something to smile about.
I dedicated it to 1997 and Grazia Magazine wanted to know why, and so I explained.
In case you’re curious, here goes….