Cents and Sensibility
The pragmatic pilgrim's progress
Today marks the end of our submission period for Issue 59 (December 2024). We will now read our way through the stories, poems, translations and graphic narratives. Thousands of writerly decisions, hundreds of characters, narrative upon narrative, metaphor upon metaphor, all of it swaddled into word baskets and set adrift on that uncertain journey towards publication. You were faced with many choices; now we are faced with many choices. No matter what happens next, we are grateful you entrusted us with your work. We will do a good job.
Adding to our confidence is the fact that Devanshi Khetarpal has joined TBLM as associate poetry editor. Currently an MFA Candidate in Fiction at the Iowa Writers' Workshop, Devanshi has a Master’s in Comparative Lit from NYU. We could go on, but rehashing resume points gives the impression of people perched on various squares of a hideous snake-and-ladders game, or LinkedIn, as we call it these days. Here’s something which will give a better sense of the person: Devanshi’s poem, Atlantis.
Every writer knows this “other day”. We are working on this, but we could be working on that. We are living this life, this character, this basket of words, afloat on Earth, but the name for that world is Sea. We are here, but we are “alive with elsewhere”. How do we choose what to work on? Jack Horner, in John Barth’s novel The End of the Road, has $30 in his pocket for a train ticket, but sits frozen on a station bench, aware of all feasible destinations, but unable to decide which one to visit. The writer’s situation isn’t very different. In this issue’s colophon, Venkataraghavan Srinivasan offers a pragmatic answer to this question: The Stakeholder Principle.
Colophon: The Stakeholder Principle
How to pick a creative project to work on from many
VENKATARAGHAVAN SUBHA SRINIVASAN
My brain often pings with thoughts like “Wouldn’t it be cool if ...?” and “What would happen if ...?” and “I wish that ...”. Many times, I express these thoughts in the form of dry jokes and wry observations — instantaneous and low stakes (except for maybe some friends avoiding me for a while).
Inspiration is one of the few truly non-discriminatory acts in the world. Ideas can strike anyone at any time. The poet Ruth Stone said she “would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape... like a thunderous train of air ... barrelling down at her over the landscape.” She had to get to a piece of paper fast enough so that “when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page” or else it would just “continue on across the landscape looking for another poet.” [1]
But sometimes, certain thoughts are so forceful that they dig their claws into me and refuse to let go, even after a full night’s sleep. They build in my brain as I shower or cook or stare into space until they morph into that dangerous commodity — an idea with potential. The potential to get rich, get famous, even change the world.
As a working writer, I look for these ideas with potential because they are indicators of possible projects I could develop. Maybe that quirk I noticed last week would make for a great short story, or experiencing a home remodelling could elicit enough feelings for a poem, or I could channel the sensation of being consumed by a burning societal issue into a novel or a play. In some ways, engaging in the creative process is like panning for gold. I’m searching the river and the rocks and the slush for that one project. An idea with potential is one more area that I have to search in, to see if there are any riches to be found there.
The creative process can often be long and consuming. Any reasonably-sized artistic project requires a fairly deep investment from me — of time (sometimes months, sometimes years), of mental, physical and creative energy (jamming, devising, writing, rewriting, editing) and of coping mechanisms (procrastinating, binge eating, channel surfing, doom scrolling, crying). These are all finite resources for me. However, they are up against my mind, which can crank out infinite ideas with potential at supersonic speeds.
This presents a conundrum even before I have seriously begun the creative process. If it is physically and mentally possible for me to work seriously on only a handful of ideas, how do I pick which ones to focus on? How do I choose from the vast cornucopia of my mind? What criteria do I employ to pare all the submissions down to a shortlist which I can prioritise and devote my very soul to when I know that the opportunity cost of such a choice is massive? I, for one, don’t want to spend years writing multiple drafts of a manuscript only to find that no one wants to publish or produce it. The stakes are high.
Over the years, I have developed a system that highlights to me which projects I ought to see through to completion. I call this the Stakeholder Principle. There are, of course, many reasons why an artist may choose to work on a particular project — because it gives them sleepless nights and they need to get it off their chest, because they made a promise to someone (or lost a bet to someone, which is essentially the same thing), or because the world will end if they don’t do it. In addition to the above, though, I include the financial aspect of the project as a barometer to determine whether I ought to see it to the end. Now, this is usually construed to mean the financial rewards the project can earn after its creation. For instance, royalty checks, film adaptations and merchandising deals. But these are results, which still lie mostly in the realm of potential. I prefer to focus on the financial support the project can generate during its creation.
The story goes that Harper Lee’s friends together pooled enough money to equal the annual salary she made at her job. They gave it to her as a Christmas gift along with the note: “You have one year off from your job to write whatever you please. Merry Christmas.” The manuscript she worked on that year eventually became “To Kill A Mockingbird”.
Similarly, I look for professional friends who can support my project while I create it. These are partners — producers, publishers, institutions, etc. — who can usually offer some sort of monetary or in-kind support — fellowships, residencies, grants, etc. The first step in making them a stakeholder in my project is to create a Proposal.
The Proposal: I explain my project in detail, lay out its potential and my vision for it, and why it is important now. For example, a book proposal for my nonfiction book, a pitch deck for my web series, a scratch film for my feature film, and so on. As a bonus, I have found that every time I create a Proposal, the project becomes clearer and more solid to me. Also note: a project can have more than one proposal, depending on how and where I want to pitch it.
The Pitch: I get my Proposal into the hands of the partners. For producers, publishers and organisations, this can mean cold emailing the address given on their website or finding a personal connection who can introduce me. Fellowships, residencies and grants usually have a submission window during which they accept Proposals.
The Priority: If any partner makes me an offer, then that project immediately zooms to the top of my priority list. An offer is a kind of seal of viability to the project and gives it a deadline and a deliverable. Further, as a stakeholder, the partner is also now invested in my project’s realisation and success. Examples of offers include signing a contract to publish or produce, paying an advance or monthly stipend, or offering a studio space or performance venue.
My last three large artistic projects have occurred as a result of following the Stakeholder Principle.
In 2018, I wrote a proposal and a sample chapter for a nonfiction book that would tell the story of each Indian state in an easy, engaging manner for the general reader. In early 2020, I pitched it via a friend to an editor at Penguin Random House. They made an offer a few months later and we signed a publishing contract. I then spent a year writing “The Origin Story of India’s States”, which Penguin Random House published in late 2021.
In mid-2022, I wrote a proposal for a nonfiction book about an incident in the Madras Zoo during the Second World War. I pitched it to a leading literary agent, who signed a contract of representation with me. I then began to research the historical narrative before I had to shelve the project. When the inaugural Neev Fellowship for Children’s Book Creators was announced in mid-2023, I was able to pivot my earlier proposal and research into a new proposal for a historical fiction novel for middle graders. I won the fellowship, which assured me of a monthly stipend for a year and a publishing bonus. It also gave me access to a mentor and I signed a new contract with my literary agent. I have since been working on the novel through all of 2024.
For a local short theatre festival in early 2023, I wrote, directed and performed a fifteen-minute play about a very tall person. Soon after, a reputed performance venue offered a grant to support unproduced full-length plays for children. I wrote a scratch script based on my short play and pitched it. I won the grant with that script, which assured me of financial aid, rehearsal space and five public shows. I then spent the next three months auditioning actors, devising scenes, finalising the script and building the set and props. We premiered “Brachio: The Story of a Lighthouse” at the same venue in late 2023 and have since performed more shows.
Addendum: I then used the play’s story to write a proposal for a children’s book, which I pitched to HarperCollins. They made an offer and we signed a publishing contract in mid-2024. I then wrote “Brachio” as an illustrated chapter book, which is due out in early 2025.
It is pretty tough to foretell the future of any creative endeavour — how the market will receive it and what its level of success will be. The Stakeholder Principle doesn’t guarantee project success either. Rather, it is a way to hedge my bets. It is a way for me to observe all the multiple ideas zinging around in my head and decide which of them to develop. Because, if even one other person believes in the project enough to invest in it, then surely that project deserves to exist.
NOTES:
[1] Elizabeth Gilbert made famous the story of how Ruth Stone found inspiration. Here is one such occasion.
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VENKATARAGHAVAN SUBHA SRINIVASAN is a writer and actor. His non-fiction book The Origin Story of India’s States was published by Penguin in 2021. His short fiction has appeared in The Iowa Review, The Bombay Literary Magazine and Pratham Books. He was awarded the 2023 Neev Fellowship for Children’s Book Creators; his middle grade novel-in-progress is set in the Madras Zoo during World War II. He wrote, directed, produced and performed in Brachio: The Story of a Lighthouse, a play for children based on principles of social justice and equity, which premiered in 2023 in Bengaluru. Brachio is also forthcoming from HarperCollins as a chapter book for children.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
(a) Banner image: ”A Plan of the Road From the City of Destruction to the Celestial City”, adapted to John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress from This World to That Which Is to Come: Delivered Under the Similitude of a Dream, Wherein Is Discovered the Manner of His Setting Out, His Dangerous Journey, and Safe Arrival at the Desired Country. (1821). Cornell University: Persuasive Cartography: The PJ Mode Collection. Image reproduced here, courtesy of WikiMedia Commons.
(b) “Atlantis” © Devanshi Khetarpal, reproduced here with the permission of the poet. Source: nether Quarterly (pdf). Vol 2, Issue 1. pp. 7, 2020.
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Thank you for the insight.