Editor's Choice 2025 Special Feature.
1. Dr. Neha Tekwani.
2. Dr. Romila Chitturi.
3. Dr. Arwa Saifi.
4. Priyanka Bhandarkar.
5. Ayesha Hina.
We present to you a wide range of write-ups from these writers, each of whom has a different style.
1st write-up by Dr. Neha Tekwani.
THE ‘PERFECT’ PUBLISHING JOURNEY: AN OVER-RATED MYTH!
By: Dr (Author) Neha Tekwani
As an author, wordplay comes naturally—even when you’re not struggling to fill the
page with meaningful ideas. Lately, though, you’ve grown weary of the system focusing
on the word ‘PERFECT’ for quotes, books, and editing suggestions.
Why must every sentence be flawless? Why does every dialogue need to be perfect?
Who created the rule demanding ‘perfect’ characters or books? Who decided that
unless your manuscript is perfect, publishers won’t accept it?
You feel your stomach rumble at the naive hope of stepping into ‘Cinderella shoes.’
Besides, those shoes wouldn’t fit you—your talent is uniquely your own, not measured
against the author who was published last week.
So, why sit and stare at the screen, cursing yourself and your experience? You inhale
and exhale, highlighting adjectives and adverbs, replacing them with robust nouns and
verbs—a valuable editorial tip often delivered alongside the perilous criticism of your
writing style.
You spent months writing your book, only to have someone who claims to know it
better than you offer unsolicited advice and demand changes you’re not ready to make.
How ruthless is that?
Deep inside, you’re filled with a sense of obligation towards the editor for taking the
time to even make those liberal and logical demands. Yet, in the pit of your belly, you’re
not sure if you want to cut the line you wrote with utmost emotion and devotion.
You think you had it in you to separate yourself from your work, but on a flabbergasting.
Note, you’re no different from your work of fiction or non-fiction.
It's a part of your deadly conscience.
Morals may grow somewhere in the collective hotspot of your brain, but when it comes
To your books, you’re the disastrous creator who’s persistently doing things your way.
When a fictional character like ‘Wednesday Addams’ wouldn’t accept any changes in
her manuscript, defending every word she jotted, why should you compromise your
writing style for the sake of perfection?
Your story shines in the voice, language, and tone you’ve authorized.
Why must you pay the price for breaking an outdated stereotype?
“Why?” You think for hours, chewing Kopiko.
Besides your relentless grief and grumbling over the publishing process, starting from
The point of hiring the freelance editor, the coffee candy is the closest to your work
desk.
You thought, you’ll say ‘heart.’
Duh!
It rests right on your desk shelf; sometimes, you even drift into a slumber at that table.
But Kopiko helps your highness to rise and nudges back into the phony journey of
editing, marketing, and branding.
You’re aware it’s a tedious ride after you’re done pouring out every ounce of sense onto
a blank screen, but somewhere it struck you: “It’s not perfect.”
There, the horror of the dreaded word made its entry just when you thought you’d get
rid of it. You’ve carried your laptop to work and even on your vacations; you’re ready to
quit your job to pursue this ‘solitary love scandal’ of words.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to grasp this concept of ‘perfect writing and publishing.’
Out of options, you search for a publisher who fits your book and realize: There’s none.
As you wrestle with the idea of a perfect publisher amidst the traditional, vanity,
hybrid, digital or self-publishing models. They’re searching for the perfect book.
Both of you need each other, but neither is ready to make the first move.
How close is it to a real rejection?
So close that after a few days, you find the same publisher publishing a similar book
from a celebrity, but they declined yours.
How dumb of you to even try? Isn’t it? You should’ve forsaken this goddamn process
and become a monk. At least, you wouldn’t have to hear remarks like, “You don’t get
paid or don’t have a life.”
But you’re closer than you think—Your heart and soul know; your mind is in denial
because you’re scared to leave what gives you happiness.
You’ve given the novel your life, what’s a little more patience in touching the finish line
when ‘perfection’ is in fact an overrated myth.
In a system that tries to thwart your independence and perception, reducing you to
automated rejection letters or overlooking your contributions to the field, it’s essential
to stand by your clause and project self-advocacy.
“You don’t cook a recipe from a book with precision; you prepare it because the world
It's a flawed masterclass of lessons, and you’re the one with a story to tell in the
similar manner as the ‘Greats’ like Stephen King, Nicholas Sparks, John Green,
J.K. Rowling, Agatha Christie, and many more.”
2nd Writeup by Dr. Romila Chitturi.
A Short Story - The Golden Loom.
I took a huge risk and decided to send my application to The Golden Loom. It wasn't the big company everyone knew. It was the hidden club, the place whispered about only among the truly powerful in Delhi. People said they didn't just earn money; they created their destiny. My life had become a dull cycle of writing reports and fighting the heavy traffic of Bengaluru, a flat, gray existence compared to the shining, perfect successes I saw on social media every evening. I thought, what worse could happen? This boring life was already slowly killing me.
The entrance task was simple but terrifying: steal something rare and impossible to track. I chose the 'Sun Gem of Konark,' a small, ancient relic kept in the vault of an old private collection. The planning took six scary months. The night of the theft was a rush of fear and fast heartbeats, a world of deep silence and the cold taste of fear in my mouth. When I finally put the gem in a secret locker at an old bank, I felt a huge wave of panic mixed with victory.
The Golden Loom accepted me.
My life became bright and fast. I flew in private planes, lived in glass penthouses in Gurgaon, and attended parties with people who controlled India's biggest businesses. Still, under all that glamour, a strange coldness remained. The members were too perfect. Their smiles were forced, their movements too controlled, and their eyes looked strangely empty. The thing that scared me most was the lack of real emotion. No one ever argued, no one genuinely laughed, and no one seemed to have any real worries.
I used to scroll through Instagram and wonder, "Why not me?" Now, sitting at a long table made of shining dark wood, I saw the true cost. To be perfect meant losing myself. Every small task they gave me was meant to cut me off from my past: burning my old diaries, blocking every old friend's number, changing my memories until the person I used to be felt like a hazy dream.
The final step was a 'promise of forever.' They took me to a secret room under the penthouse, a place where the soft lights disappeared into a deep shadow. There, sitting in a huge, carved wooden chair, was the main controller of The Golden Loom, a woman whose face was strangely familiar. She explained that their real power wasn't in money or contacts, but in the fresh, strong spirit of every new member.
The real sadness wasn't the theft I committed, but the theft done to me. The Golden Loom was not a club for smart people; it was a way to take and use up human spirit. They didn't want me to enjoy their perfect life; they wanted to take my drive, my dreams, and my raw, messy human feelings to keep their own empty lives working. The familiar woman smiled, and the smile was exactly like the one I now practiced. She was the member who had joined just before me.
I felt a slight, cold pressure on my head, a low sound, and then a strong flash of white light.
The perfect, practiced smile is now very easy. I know just how to stand for the camera, how to keep that exact, distant look in my eyes that shows I belong. I move smoothly through high-powered meetings and fancy clubs, admired, envied, and perfectly calm. The person I once was, the one who stole the gem and felt the rush of fear and hope, is now just a weak, useful flash of memory, kept safely beneath the perfect, cold surface of my new self.
I am not the same person I was before I decided to join The Golden Loom; in fact, she doesn't exist anymore. She became the power that keeps this perfect image shining.
When Images Speak to the Soul
The first thing that caught my eye was a glowing bottle resting beside an open book and a flickering candle. The colours inside the bottle seemed alive - like a piece of the aurora trapped in glass. I couldn’t help but imagine what it might contain. Was it a potion of memories? A secret formula to keep dreams alive? Or perhaps a message from another realm waiting to be decoded by a curious soul?
Then, beside it, lay an antique compass - its needle glinting softly in the candlelight. It reminded me how life itself is a compass. We may lose direction at times, but somehow, we always find our way back to what truly matters. The tiny autumn leaves scattered around it made me think of change - how every ending leads to a new beginning, just like seasons turning quietly in the background of our lives.
A little further down, I found myself lost in a picture of a forest pathway. The light streaming through the arching trees looked like hope filtering through uncertainty. It felt as though the forest was calling me to take a walk - to breathe, to pause, and to reconnect with the rhythm of nature. Isn’t that what writing often does? It invites us to walk down unknown paths until we discover something about ourselves we didn’t know before.
Another image showed a rolled-up scroll with the word “Dream” inscribed on it - so simple, yet so profound. Dreams are what keep us moving, creating, and believing. They are the ink that fills a writer’s pen. And just below it, a peaceful window view - the crescent moon hanging quietly above a sleeping world. A lamp glowed softly on a wooden desk, hinting that someone was still awake, writing perhaps, while everyone else dreamt.
Those pictures spoke to me - not in words, but in whispers. They reminded me that inspiration is never far away. It hides in corners of our rooms, in books we’ve left half-read, in forests we’ve never visited, and in the night sky we forget to look at.
As a writer, I’ve realized that we don’t always need grand events or dramatic moments to create. Sometimes, all we need is a little stillness - and the willingness to see beauty in the simplest of things.
Maybe that’s what art truly is - a bridge between what we see and what we feel. These pictures reminded me of that bridge. They rekindled something inside me - a gentle urge to pick up the pen again, to write not for the world, but for my own heart.
So, if you ever find yourself stuck or uninspired, just look around. Maybe there’s a bottle of light waiting to tell you a story. Maybe the moon outside your window has been watching over you all along. All you have to do is listen.
4th writeup by Priyanka Bhandarkar
THE WAY HE LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS ART.
Before the world was nothing, something like a complete black hole. This is a story about the
birth of the universe and the origin of all kinds of beautiful things. For all beautiful things have a
story of their own.
In the enchanting realm of Ethiopia, where magic flowed like rivers and the skies overflowed
with shades of grey and white, which were called clouds, there lived a woman named Alexa. She
was not just a woman; she was the muse of creation. The sun awoke each day with a golden
smile, illuminating the planet Earth with warmth and light. Yet, its heart had a secret yearning, a
desire to find beauty that rivalled its own. Despite his brilliance, he felt an emptiness. He sought
something beyond mere illumination, a creation that could evoke emotion and stir the heart.
The world existed, but with each colour reigning separately in its own realm. Each hue was proud
and vibrant. The skies were an endless expanse of Blue, the forests cloaked in green, and the
fields were covered in brown.
One fateful day, the sun stumbled upon something shimmering. It was a cloud. The surface was
smooth and reflective, mirroring the vibrant hues of the world around it. As the cloud
approached, the sun noticed that it held a peculiar energy.
The sun enquired, “Who are you?”
“I am the lover of beauty, and I seek to inspire art wherever I go.”
The sun was captivated by the words. The sun felt a sparkle ignite within him, a feeling he had
never known. He admired her grace, the way she embraced the world with open arms. It was a
phenomenon born from the dance of the sun after condensation.
To the sun, the cloud was not just a fleeting spectacle; it was a phenomenon. The sun longed to
understand this beautiful creation more deeply.
How do you come to be?” the sun enquired, his voice reverberating across the sky.
“You are exquisite.”
The sun was mesmerized. He had spent countless hours illuminating the world, but he had never considered what the emotions of light could evoke.
As the days turned into weeks, the sun began to observe the world differently. He watched how a ray of light danced in the fields, creating dust, and on ponds and rivers, laughter reflecting and how the indifference of the clouds gave birth to twilight.
He saw the beauty in the mundane. Each moment was a brush stroke on the canvas of life. With newfound purpose, the sun sought to embrace the cloud.
Inspired, he decided to embark on a journey. He began to adjust its light, experimenting with angles and intensities.
The sun found itself admiring the cloud, which was clean, peaceful and white. One fateful day, he found a great storm brewing across the horizon. Dark clouds gathered, rumbling the sun from its slumber. The sun felt a twinge of concern for the cloud, for the cloud was a whimsical being who roamed the sky.
The clouds twirled and spun, laughter echoing through the sky gathering the earth in her arms; the rich greens of the forest, the brown of the fields, the deep blues of the ocean, the fiery red of the autumn leaves, the purple of the twilight and an extraordinary sight emerged. With each moment, she infused raindrops, creating a magical blend. When the storm finally subsided, and the raindrops fell, the sun peeped at the clouds searching for it like a lost lover. It summoned light which pierced through the clouds.
Each colour held a story. Red for love and passion. Orange for warmth and creativity. Yellow for joy and laughter. Green for growth and renewal. Blue for calm and tranquillity. Indigo for mystery and depth, and Violet for dreams and spirituality. Together, they formed a symphony that resonated with every essence of life.
The clouds parted, the sunlight filtering through the droplets creating a breathtaking arc of colours stretching through the sky. It was the rainbow born from the union of his light and the tears of the cloud.
The sun gazed lovingly at its own creation. The colours blended seamlessly, creating an ethereal bridge that connected the earth and the sky. It was unlike anything anyone had ever seen.
The Storm had turned into a moment of celebration. The sky had transformed into a vibrant canvas. From the depths of the storm had emerged something more radiant and beautiful. As the droplets refracted the light, the colours exploded into a magnificent spectrum brighter than ever before. She arched gracefully across the sky, a breathtaking bridge of colours that pulsed with life.
“Who are you, beautiful arc of colours?” the sun called.
“I am born from your light and the tears of the cloud, a bridge between the earth and sky. A reminder that beauty often follows storms.”
Intrigued, the sun continued, “But what makes you so beautiful?”
Each hue represents a feeling, a moment in time. Together, we create harmony that speaks to the heart of those who gaze upon us. I am a reminder that hope can arise from despair.”
“Who are you, brilliant women of the sky?” further prodded the sun.
“Art.”
“Can we dance together?” the sun asked, heart racing with excitement.
“Only when the rain falls.”
5th write-up by Ayesha Hina.
The Listener
From that day on, whenever the rain fell, the sun would shine brightly.
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