daring to begin
writing without a home, life-changing books, and happy living
Dear Reader,
Thank you for being here. I hope you’re having a warm week because I am not.
I have told you that my first book is coming out soon, very soon. YAYYYY!! Today I want to talk about the book writing process: the idea, the beginning, the challenges, and joys.
When I started writing the book in the beginning of 2022, I had been on the road since a year and a quarter. My partner and I were moving quickly, in our car, in the south of India.
Our experiences had already been colorful. We began the road trip with covid-19 catching my partner’s parents, both of them. One recovered at home while the other had to get admitted. We had planned to get on the road – this was our plan despite covid-19 because I could work from anywhere and my partner had a remote job. But the second wave of covid had surged right then (March 2021). By then, we had given up our apartment.
For us, it was both easy and hard. As it was just the rise of the wave, we could move. Slowly, traveling even inter state became hard. We were on a long-distance trip; ideally, we were permitted to drive on the highway without any interruptions. The legal advisory allowed a car’s interstate movement, especially those like us who were in Mumbai just to be near my partner’s parents. But police harassed us at stops. We gave the Mumbai cops the parents’ medical reports but they wanted cash so we gave cash.
Failing to take a picture of the cops who harassed us, I am putting up the photos of the glorious Maharashtrian food
Further on, the visit to my parents’ home was complicated. We didn’t leave home, ate separately from my parents whom we were seeing for the first time in a year and a half, and to enter into Himachal Pradesh, the home of the Himalayas, we had to get swab tests done which we got collected from their garden.
It was May 2021 when we finally reached Himachal and officially on our indefinite road trip in India. We had no home to go back to. Our bags were in our car. We named them: books bag, utensil bag, bedding bag, laptop bags, shoe bags, spice bag, and fun bag. How innovative!
The next four months in the mountain state were incredible, adventurous, and more amazing than I could imagine. Yes, there were the initial issues of getting used to the lifestyle, having to find places to stay one after the other, working on the go, writing every day about the adventures I was having every day, buying groceries from a different store, finding the shops, making it within the lock down open time, sleeping in varied beds, being patient enough to wait with all the mountain trails around me until I could physically explore them all, coordinating with all sorts of people I couldn’t have imagined, and listening to the horrid news from my family, India, and around the world.
But the beauty, the sheer raw natural beauty, the clean cool air, the shining green pine and deodar trees, the birds so vivid and deep colored as if they had all taken a bath just then and dipped in fresh paint again took my breath away. The cries of the flying squirrels, the anxious fox, and the shy stouts enthralled us. There were lakes, rivers, and streams so powerful, transparent, and refreshing as if I had never understood water before. The sky was a deeper blue and more encompassing than ever. Though our stable home before was on a rooftop next to a jungle (yes inside the busy city of Bangalore; you can see some photos of rooftop here) and I had open sky above me on most days and feasted my eyes on the bulbous sun and moon every morning and evening, this, this bright mountain sky was another bewitchment.
The earth lay open until the end of the world, green as in green of moss, fresh as in fresh of lemon, I couldn’t get enough of it.
my partner, his hair so long he could be me. Hiking around in the rice valley of Karsog, Himachal
After four months of constant hiking and trekking and other mind-blowing adventures in the Himalayas (a lot of which I have narrated on the blog) we descended back down to my parent’s house again for a quick visit and then onwards to the south of India. Why not middle or east or west? We did pass the west, so through Rajasthan and Maharashtra but I think we went to the South because our heart was still in the South. After living in Karnataka on and off for so many years, my partner and I both wanted to head back to the known familiarity of the south to be a bit more stable and focus on work. But to say the South is like saying the Arctic Ocean. The south of India is big, varied, and multi lingual. This time we reached Pondicherry, the coastal city, where we stayed for eleven months. Even I didn’t know the duration until I calculated now.
In Pondicherry, we put up in multiple areas, in a variety of homes, and enjoyed myriads of things. Next to a beach, inside a deep forest, and connected to the world, we lived in all ways. Bicycling, walking, running, driving a moped, all were our preferred methods to shop and do and be. We cooked our food, went green sometimes, other times fishy, and the moon was our constant companion. What a thrilling time! For months, we lived in a jungle hut where we didn’t have running water or a big light, our open squat toilet was outdoors in the forest, a cold open shower treated us every morning, and where our biggest concern was “Have we put all bricks in place else the big fat rat will sneak in?” Until the concern became “Take the torch, the snake (or scorpion) might still be there.” If one morning we were ordering lobster online, the next morning we were in the market ourselves, eyeing the baskets over-spilling fish. If one day was running one hour on mud trails the other was cycling without a map without knowing where we were heading.
Pondicherry was all kinds of mad. It was a gravy-like thickly-rich experience, especially because with all the fun and adventures there was a lot of struggle, haggling, dishonest people, judgment, heat and rain, chaos and quiet. It was all of it.
It was in Pondicherry when I got an email from a publisher who wrote,
“I am an associate editor at “” world's largest “” publishing house. We recently came across your blog, On My Canvas, and were immediately intrigued by your extraordinary and interesting adventures across the world.
We would absolutely love it if you would agree to writing a book based on your experiences, lessons you have learnt on your travels - and continue to do so - and how these experiences have helped you in your personal growth.
As we publish non-fiction titles, …, we think you'd be a great addition to our publishing list.”
I reread the email, a cheery satisfaction spreading through me and lifting me into the air, my feet a foot above the earth.
So my two niches can be combined? Since the beginning of my blog, which I call personal growth and travel blog, I was worried about my niche. They said to survive in the creator world you need a niche. Every video on blogging success, every meetup, and every influencer talked about niche.
Frankly, I neither knew anything about an influencer nor niche. How could I restrict myself to one theme? I had left everything behind to write to write only about one thing? And what would that one thing be? What could it be when I am interested in forests, stars, travel, people, paintings, pandas, colors, families, relationships, growth, schedules, chaos, working hard, dancing hard, designs, fonts, food, ingredients, tomatoes, textiles, touch? What?
I am a curious person. At a time, I am working upon and thinking about many themes. When I wrote articles such as “how to ask out a man,” I countered them with how to win a bad day, and when done with that, I moved onto lone travel days in Thailand. When I published text-heavy pieces such as everything I have learned, I followed them up with my favorite quotes and picture diaries of Myanmar food.
I didn’t want to be in one place and read and write and philosophize and provide life advice from my room. I had lots of ideas, tips, and lessons to share but I wanted to share them through experience, not just the experience of the past, but through the passing of the present. I can’t survive without color and that is from where my need to encompass cultures, food, markets, landscapes, adventures, all of this in my writing comes in.
Also, a lot of people told me, “Don’t just write about travel.” Others said, “Would love to read your individual travel stories.”
Amongst all this, I thought, I would do what I like. Because readers wanted more travel tales, I went all in. As my routine articles and relationship pieces were being applauded, I went all in on them too.
Then while I was still wondering if I can manage these two niches together and whether I should segregate my newsletter into two for different kinds of readers, I got the publisher’s email.
I was in the forest hut then, the one with acres of forests around, where I would often stumble into rabbits on my untimely walks round the day. I was walking to my blue moped to drive to the place where the seafood delivery guy (should be sea animals right?) could reach. Beyond that he wouldn’t be able to find the way, the obscure muddy trail through the forest whose bumps and curves my partner and I knew by heart wasn’t on Google maps. I checked the email, the sun warming me up nicely. And the above email was the email I read.
I would first collect the seafood sea animals feeling like the queen I was feeling, and then go and tell my partner who would be really happy for me, for us, and this fresh possibility. I kicked and kicked and kicked but the moped didn’t start (Sadly, I have no photo of that amazing ocean-blue ride.). So, I walked back to the hut, my feet kicking of the grainy mud, grinning. I directed the delivery guy to our forest enclosure over the phone and showed my partner the email.
He was proud and happy and engulfed me in a big hug as we stood over the sunny ground. He must have been waiting to ask me to do something similar for he wasn’t surprised. “Okay so write that book. We have got the right motivation now.”
Had I not thought of writing a book before?
Of course I had. I didn’t come into the world of writing to not write a book. But frankly the idea of it seemed too big. Too big a dream? Though I am a bit embarrassed to accept this, yes. Too big a dream. Maybe not meant for a small-city girl like me who just wanted to live on her own terms following a career of passion? My blog would be enough. Like it was for the rest of so many. It won’t be an average blog though. It would be the best. I would work hard, publish a lot, and write deep, researched, and heartfelt stuff. When everyone told me my blog should have more readers “Because. it. is. so. good” I didn’t believe them. I would open my web page, read some posts, and then think sometimes, they’re right. But I’m not marketing enough. Let me focus on writing. I have to market more. I have to write more.
I was never satisfied. I tried social media. Got a hang of it too. Especially of Instagram and Twitter. Very early on I made this newsletter and started getting subscriptions quickly. Everyone said, “No matter which new platform comes in and which one gets shut, you’ll have your subscribers.” I tried to provide value. To write real stories, share real pictures, and always with every newsletter.
So, as I liked different things I couldn’t always write about one theme. True story that inspired by James Clear I wanted to do chapters on habits. I have a few extensive articles on habits. Those are deep but I didn’t go deeper. I do practice habits every day, and they reside in a very personal, valued layer of my being. But I don’t want to write about habits every day. I was inspired by Mark Manson and Brain Pickings (now the Marginalian) but, again, couldn’t stick to one format. When a reader said, “Your articles remind me of the Marginalian but in Indian context” or “That you write straightforward of things about which Mark Manson writes too,” I was proud.
Being happy about being compared to others or aspiring to be like others is not necessarily called dreaming big. I guess in not wanting to overestimate my writing capabilities and stamina, I underestimated them.
I still don’t know so much. I take days to edit one thing. I need hours to conceptualize a newsletter. I can’t do too many things at once.
But the one thing I do, I am so deep into it that you can’t see me from above.
And unlike before when I worried about the rest of the ten things while doing the one, now I focus at what is at hand. That is a big win for me.
So when at the end of our four months in Pondicherry, I got the publication proposal right on the one-year anniversary of our nomadic life, I was jumpy and happy and content.
My dreams were then probably always big. I had told my friends the world is my oyster. I did think so too. With writing I could leap any length or breadth. I could reach anywhere. But I just couldn’t shape my dreams well before. They had been too fluffy and airy, and unable to catch them, I watched them with my neck craned while they flew above my head. I was perhaps scared to hold such a big dream. Or I didn’t want to sound cliché. I will write a book one day. “Yeah you will.”
I would be forever grateful to the publisher who inspired me to write the book. That they wanted to look at personal growth through the lens of travel or at travel through the lens of personal growth was already more than enough.
Now I had a specific goal, a direction, and a real dream.
The publisher needed book ideas, and when we had book ideas, she needed chapter skeletons. So, all the possible titles of chapters we could have in the book. This is for them to see if we synced over our understanding of the book. For two months we did back and forth over book ideas and what I can expect from the publisher and what would they need. Some major terms of the contract such as no signing bonus, 8.5 something royalty etc. were told to me. I thought those are things we will discuss when we come to the book. For now, I have a book to write.
Which I didn’t start writing until end of March (2022) though I had promised my publisher I will send a chapter skeleton by beginning of April. I sent them the tentative chapter titles – a whopping sixty-five of them – by mid-April.
Why didn’t I start writing until end of March and wasted those three weeks? Well, I was sorting out some issues with a local host in Pondicherry. I was doing things, reading books, running, making good fresh food, and writing newsletter and articles. That’s always there, my two first babies. So this third one had to wait.
I wrote a giant sixty-five thousand word doc from which I sieved sixty-five titles. After sending the skeleton, I took a break of a week or so. Now my editor wanted a few chapters to see if I was headed in the right direction. So in May, began the writing of the book. I picked up the sixty-five thousand word draft and started working through it. I took out the sections between tentative titles and expanded on them to make them full-fledged stories.
First, three chapters rose out of the big draft. They sat with their mouths closed, happy to be dug out but unhappy to not able to speak freely. You see the first drafts of any writing or any work is a bit of a mess, an outpouring of emotions. As someone said, like a Christmas tree grown every which way that has to be trimmed. I disagree. No tree deserves trimming in a particular shape. All shapes are natural. But yes, the feedback of the editor was good and that I had to elaborate a bit more and tightly knit the narration a bit more. She liked my writing style and replied “It was simple and straightforward, a very positive thing.”
I edited the chapters. Throughout May, June, July, and August (2022) I worked on four pieces. First, I sent two chapters, then two more, and then once again. Every time I would pass on a couple of chapters, I would take a week-long break. I attended classical dances, plays, musical performances, met friends, went on even longer walks or runs or rides, and did yoga.
When I was writing, I would wake up early, like at five or six, walk around the guesthouse’s lush woods and lakes, watch the snakes resting on the lake shore, and make myself a strong cup of black coffee and sit to write on an empty stomach. Sometimes by ten or eleven, I was so tired and flushed out (literally) I fell on the bed. My partner quickly fixed some breakfast, or I munched on fruits until lunch. Every Friday, we gave our room for cleaning and cycled out for shopping from the community’s grocery center. It had fresh organic produce, seasonal fruits, delicious bananas, greens, candles, jaggery, soaps, oils, cheese, chocolates, everything. We stopped at a bakery to get bread and breakfasted on dosa and tea or coffee at the same bakery. My partner and I cycled back in the heat, the sun glowering above us, the wind whipping in our ears, me upright on the bike, he sweating too but not as profusely as me.
I worked every day. I cycled to the library often. Picked up books, returned books, enchanted by the fact that my own will go into a library soon.
Thus went the four to five months. I was getting tired. In need of a break.
Not that I hadn’t done focused work before. My whole life has been about focusing. I am used to it. From beginning to prepare for the entrance of the esteemed Indian Institute of Technology (IIT), to getting into companies that wouldn’t let me sit in their campus hiring (my not-so-high GPA), and studying for GMAT, GRE, TOEFL etc. that haven’t come to use until now. From working in software and finance both and doing the dual work in a dual role at a high-pressure job, I focused hard. Science was my first love. But I also focused in small things such as sweeping the staircase, preparing bread rolls, and watering the plants. I liked doing things well and perfectly. That was the natural for me.
So aiming for a goal was a habit. Concentrating on science differs from concentrating on words though. I have been writing full-time since 2017 when I completely quit my corporate career and launched my blog On My Canvas and picked up freelance work immediately. Writing was harder than preparing for IIT or completing undergrad in computer science. Now there was no objective answer. No right or wrong or a green light or red one. It was what it was. Now it was up to readers if they liked my work or not.
Initially I didn’t know if my words were good. Slowly I understood that when I enjoyed writing something it was always good.
After a travel break of a month in Vietnam, I sat down in my friend’s apartment in Kolkata (on the east coast) and picked up the initial chapters again. I put them all online for readers’ feedback. I expanded on more stories from the big doc - all in long hand. So the good old ink pen and paper. Then I typed everything on the computer. I worked like a bee all day. After lunch, I brewed a cup of coffee and was back at my desk. I picked up the long, inked sheets, my fingers getting increasingly stained. I didn’t shove away any story. I wrote it all down.
From beginning of my life to until now, I thought of every place I visited and if it taught me anything or changed me in a way. This was my meter to see if the story was worth telling. It should be fun, yes. Entertaining, yes. A great adventurous journey, yes. But how do I look back upon it? Does the memory make my stomach sink and flutter at the same time? Then, YES.
From childhood to college, living away in a town on my own to study, and my first trips abroad and within the country, some with friends but mostly alone, I wrote them all down. I didn’t stop when I had enough for one book. I kept writing.
There was a time after Kolkata when I was with my partner in Siliguri, a crowded city in northeast where the house was very disturbing. The tenants below, the host, loud music until midnight, the neighbors, and street dogs, no one ever seem to quieten down. From dawn with just a cup of tea until lunch and also do all house chores and and deal with unwanted stuff like the host wanting to change refrigerator, installing geyser in our outdoor bathroom, someone using our bathroom, host sending in electricians to change the wiring of the house etc. was so hard. Many unwanted things were a hurdle in peace of mind and in long-hours deep work. I would sit to meditate; he would ring the bell five times. It was extreme.
I was in an external environment out of my control.
Also, maybe not every moment your family will walk alongside your dreams and take up their responsibilities. Sometimes I found myself fuming at my partner. I would get up from my writing desk to find the kitchen dirty, dishes unwashed, no food in the fridge, and he lost in his world in his room, unaware of lunch time, tea time, or that I even existed. He would be on his earphones unable to hear me while I lost it outside his closed wooden door.
This happened a lot of times in that house. I think when external factors pressurize you, you start getting frustrated amongst yourself. Unless you have a solid foundation. We do have a solid base but need to strengthen it more and strengthen each of us individually too. Some external tremors could shake the house and us both too and then our whole world jolted feverishly.
In those times, the open grounds (belonging to the Indian army) around our home brought me comfort. To distract myself, I watched the people moving around on that land. Army men who were there to keep the squatters away, the squatters, their umpteen kids, the dogs, the golden and black puppies. Their life went on, unaffected by mine. Sometimes I went for a walk around the nearby water stream. Mostly to feel the light fading away, soak the last rays of sunlight, and see the animals retreat to their homes. Then I was back at my desk, wrapped in winter clothes. I peeped out of the windows before closing them for the night.
There were no weekend movies, no shopping sprees, no Netflix. Those fun Sundays which I half spent outside and half writing or reading, the long walks, and once or twice reading a book in the sun lying down on a bed sheet on the grass, such things were good and kept me going.
With all its noises, that house was still a source of inspiration. Through the morning sun shifting through the dried copper-bronze grass stalks, the foggy winter dawns, and early bucket-mug showers (you fill a mug and pour it over yourself), I had enough inspiration to bring the old journeys to life and give them a theme. I couldn’t focus on a story to bring it to the finish line. But long rough drafts poured out of me like milk over boils. I collected all of them and put them in a box.
watching people and animals from my window. A part of me says I shouldn’t share someone else’s pictures. The other part of me argues, then how else do I share their life that is as real as ours but so far from us?
There is a lot more to say, many more writing experiences to share, and to show how I brought the chapters to the final manuscript. More in the next letter for this one is already long. Meanwhile, you can read about my three years on the road here.
So how did this work out for us? Living on the go, writing a book on the go?
It has been the toughest thing I have ever have to do. Writing an eighty-thousand-word manuscript while not having a home of one’s own is a task. Finding editors, cover designers, revising your book, running your life in different homes every day, living on outside food or making a makeshift kitchen work when all eyes are on you, sometimes stopping yourself from going out on an adventure because you can’t be swayed and have to stay on your path is all hard. Especially when your parents are waiting for you to come home to spend some time with them but you just need this week but then one more and that turns into a month and more months and so on. When you are sitting at desk all-day and you body is as stiff as a pumpkin. You do make the most of some places by seeing their best or going on a random hike on your birthday or visiting that national park or making friends with the local farmers, and all those are definitely relieving.
My experiences would have been different had I written the book at home.
I would have been in a cocoon going out only to buy things, to eat, or perhaps to exercise. Now I have been more connected with people as compared to if I was writing this book in solitude. I have seen more, more cities, villages, alleys, roads, farms, mountains, houses, the east and the west and the north and the south. I have lived in different set ups and learned more about what I need and my partner needs. We both can now work together from even a small room or a two-floor duplex. We can sleep in a big bed or in a tiny one. We can manage outdoor toilets or even those where the host stops us while we are rushing for number two. I know which sounds I can tolerate while writing and which I can’t. I can make a new place home within half an hour. We can go to any destination and quickly find stores with friendly and reasonable sellers. Our eyes scan and identify which trails are worth exploring pretty soon. We know how to only respond when needed. He and I know each other’s routine and how we can disturb each other but also how we can help.
We can live on our own without any help or washing machine, dish washer, mixer grinder, fancy stoves. We can manage without comfortable chairs, heaters, and fresh sheets. We adjust in everything and everything.
So yes, this experience has been challenging for both of us (and even for our families) but it has a lot more to it than just being hard.
How can you tell what it is and what it is not?
Being on a journey also helped me to write a travel book.
When you are constantly traveling and are on the road with not a roof on your head if you don’t find one, not a morsel in your gurgling belly if you don’t decide to try out this last stop that though look deserted but could be, might be functional, and when you won’t know which side of the bed would be more comfortable and if this noise will stop before bed time then you can really put your travels in perspective. Those old tales in old forgotten lanes, those days when you took physical copies of map everywhere and almost put it on the floor to step into it, those nights when you slept scared in your bed curled like you must be in your mother’s belly once, when you climbed a mountain because your friends asked you to, and those days when you lugged a 16-kg bag around Europe just to prove you were a backpacker.
In a home, I would have been comfortable. But now, out on the road, I have forgotten comfort and so can be in the shoes of that younger Priyanka who stepped out of the home into a world she didn’t know but tried to understand and appreciate.
I can see her trying, and I know what it is to try because I am doing it myself. I don’t only have the past as memories, I am, in a way, reliving it, swimming to the past through the present. You see?
My FIRST book is ready to walk out the doors. Still can’t believe it. Please stay tuned for the pre-order date.
A big thank you to all those who emailed me to tell me they will love to read my book and are waiting for it. To those who are new here, a warm welcome. Thank you for joining us. A few weeks ago, I sent a long vain newsletter that has the story of what the book is about and how my seven-year writing journey has been. You can find the letter here: Bloom and the Big News.
If you’re celebrating it, a merry Christmas to you :)
Do you like to take it easy or hard?
For this week’s letter,
Some of my writing,
and
quotes I love.
Past Articles
21 Life-Changing Books You Shouldn’t Miss [They Changed Me]
The books that changed my life forever.
Grab the list now. Or Pocket the books for later.
A Definite Guide to Purposeful, Healthy, and Mindful Living
As it’s another new beginning, sharing my experiences, learning, and practices around living a healthy, simple, and, yet, purpose-driven life.
Go to article now. Or Pocket it for later.
Quotes I Love
“All glory comes from daring to begin.”
Ruskin Bond
“No dream is never too big.”
Yours Truly
What I’ve Been Reading and Watching/Listening
As this newsletter has already been long, I’m leaving this for the next time.
And for all adventure lovers!
one last photo.
Thank you for reading! I hope you have a beautiful rest of the week.
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Yours,
Priyanka
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This is a great article. It feels like we are going on a journey with you. I really appreciate the honesty that is so visible in your writing. I rarely read any newsletter which is this long, except yours. Keep up the good work Priyanka and thank you for sharing the newsletter.