ome years ago, an author earned a nomination for a prestigious literary prize. What should have been viewed as a celebrated milestone passed with little or no acknowledgement in the mainstream press. The notable lack of interest in this achievement would have shattered the resolve of any writer. Instead, her wry humour spared her from cynicism. She joked that the announcement was greeted with “the sound of crickets.”

Quiet admiration for a writer’s work or accomplishments can easily be mistaken for indifference. When praise isn’t voiced, it loses its value. Not every writer possesses the gift of countering apathy with resilience and humour. In a world where validation is a form of currency, the “sound of crickets” can morph into a deafening silence that stifles the creative spirit.

Literary citizenship operates on the same logic. By emphasising the need for community involvement, it serves as an antidote to the heavy silence surrounding creative labour. At its core, the concept rests on the principle of reciprocity, whereby writers are expected to contribute to, as well as benefit from, the literary community and the publishing world.

Some might view this notion as an attempt to broker a truce in an inherently competitive literary world. Optimists often liken literary citizenship to a peace building initiative that urges writers to lay down their scythes, eschew competition and embrace the spirit of unity. If literary citizenship is nurtured, writers become each other’s cheerleaders and let go of their roles as sworn enemies.

However, not everyone is likely to be convinced by this logic. Sceptics might wonder why the onus should fall on individual writers rather than on the powerful figures in the publishing industry, whose resources can easily support such endeavours. Many of them will assert that ‘cheerleading’ constitutes voluntary, unpaid labour, which can be a demanding and difficult undertaking for some writers who lack the time or bandwidth to be good literary citizens. Furthermore, the literary world operates within the constraints of a neoliberal order. This makes it difficult to gauge whether acts of literary citizenship truly benefit writers or serve the narrow interests of external players who profit from their creative labour.

Be that as it may, literary citizenship can strengthen Pakistan’s inherently fragmented and fractured literary landscape. Through community involvement, writers can look beyond the confines of their limited worldviews, acknowledge marginalised voices and actively learn from one another.

Despite the unspoken hesitation to embrace literary citizenship, it is encouraging to witness some writers stepping out of their comfort zones to support their peers.

Compass and torch

Sana Pirzada, a Karachi-based author of Victorian gothic fiction, believes that literary citizenship is the antidote to creative isolation.

“In a country where the writing [community] is relatively small, authors must recognise the value of standing together rather than working in isolation,” she says. “Having written for over a decade as a self-published writer, I have learned that the literary journey is often arduous and lonely— it need not be so.”

Pirzada asserts that literary citizenship stems from small, yet meaningful, acts, which reveal the value of encouragement over indifference. She believes that writers can become good literary citizens by “attending each other’s book launches [and] publicly acknowledging new work.”

At the same time, she feels that solidarity within the literary community can act as both compass and torch, illuminating the path forward.

In a world where validation is a form of currency, the ‘sound of crickets’ can morph into a deafening silence that stifles the creative spirit.

“[Literary citizenship] grows through mentorship. More experienced writers guide others through the practical challenges of writing, publishing and [gaining] visibility,” states Pirzada, who has recently published her sixth work of fiction, titled The Gavel and the Lotus. “Sharing opportunities, introducing fellow writers to publishers, reviewers and cultural platforms, and providing honest, constructive feedback all help create a healthier literary ecosystem.”

According to Pirzada, writers can cultivate an “inclusive, generous and enduring literary culture in Pakistan” through deeper community engagement.

Marginality and

gatekeeping

Echoing these sentiments, Maliha Rao, the author of Dark Tales of Wonder, perceives literary citizenship as an attempt to support writers who have been sidelined or overlooked.

“Right now, academic, political and traditional narratives [are getting] all the attention,” she says. “Speculative fiction, horror, fantasy, mystery and contemporary voices are pushed aside. [Literary] festivals and big publishing houses need to expand how they think about literature.”

According to Rao, a palpable shift in priorities can only be achieved by addressing the long-standing practice of gatekeeping that ensures the hegemony of a few leading authors who are published, recognised and celebrated.

“What we need is a more open, supportive ecosystem where new voices—especially in genre fiction—can thrive,” Rao says.

She believes that literary citizenship involves “choosing collaboration over competition, inclusion over authority and imagination over the [traditional] limitations of what literature should be.”

Beyond the fringes

Muhammad Ali Samejo, who has recently released his third work of fiction titled The Special, asserts that reading the work of Pakistani authors constitutes a meaningful act of literary citizenship.

“Last year, I read some Pakistani authors I had never heard of,” Samejo states. “Not only did they have compelling and gripping stories, but the writing was top-notch.”

He laments that these books weren’t widely reviewed or advertised on the online bookstore he bought them from.

“This is a recurring problem for emerging authors across Pakistan,” Samejo says. “They have very limited avenues to help them find a readership in the country. Major bookstores and book communities thrive on promoting international literature.”

According to Samejo, only Pakistani authors who “have the benefit of good public relations” gain traction. Though he doesn’t question the credentials of these authors, Samejo argues that “new and younger voices writing stories relevant to [our] times should merit the same opportunities.” He urges Pakistanis to read a book by a new local author every month and discuss it at book clubs and literary events.

“Let people know about the brilliant storytelling happening in our own backyard,” he adds.

Digital doom

Kamila Rahim Habib, co-founder of the digital library My Bookshelf, believes discussions surrounding literary citizenship are inextricably linked to the excessive digitisation of daily life.

“If we can manage, even for a little while, to put our phones down,” Habib says, “we can start thinking about how to improve reading habits, how to support authors and how to save bookshops that are closing by the dozen.”

She remarks that once we begin thinking about these concerns, we will be led out of our “inertia.” Only then will we be in a better position to “become ‘book citizens’ and save our literary landscape from slow extinction.”

Introspection and intentionality are the only forces that can save humanity from digital doom, she adds. “[We need to] save the physical book, save the author [and] save literature festivals,” she opines. “[We need to] save ourselves from a world where reading is replaced with ‘bed rotting’, engaging conversation is replaced with doom-scrolling and attending book festivals is replaced with gaming.”

If literary citizenship is to counter the ‘sound of crickets,’ it has to be accepted with genuine commitment, not just in a narrow, superficial way. A healthy dose of camaraderie could transform Pakistan’s literary landscape, serving as a panacea for the prevailing atmosphere of fierce competition.

The writer is a freelance journalist and the author of No Funeral for Nazia