Sanman Thapa | Updates

Meet the Author: Sanman Thapa

Sanman Thapa — Fri, 28 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Date: September 26, 2026 | Time: 12- 3 p.m | Location: Community United Methodist Church, 81-10 35th Ave., Jackson Heights, NY 11372

Join Sanman Thapa for an afternoon of stories, conversation, and connection in Jackson Heights. Sanman will talk about his writing journey and his books, A Fight for a Cup of Chai and From the Window: The City of What-Ifs.

Looking forward to great conversation, connection, and Nepali treats. If you'd like a signed copy, books will be available. Everyone is welcome.

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Several Meaningful Milestones

Sanman Thapa — Tue, 30 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

June 30, 2026

The past few weeks have been especially meaningful. A Fight for a Cup of Chai is now available as an audiobook, From the Window has its own landing page, and the first reader reviews have begun to arrive. I'm also excited to offer a Goodreads giveaway to introduce the story to new readers. Each of these milestones reminds me that books find their audience one reader at a time, and I'm grateful to everyone who has joined me on this journey.

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From Factory Floors to Classrooms: A Conversation with Sanman Thapa

Sanman Thapa — Mon, 6 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Update: We had a very successful book talk event. Click here for pictures and VIDEO CLIP

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Join me for an afternoon of conversation and reflection.

We’ll talk about my journey—from working in factories in Nepal to becoming a school counselor in New York—and the experiences that shaped my memoir, A Fight for a Cup of Chai, along with my first novella, which quietly mirrors that journey.

This will not be a formal reading, but an open space for dialogue—about labor, resilience, and the small, often unseen moments that shape our lives.

Books will be available, and I’d be glad to connect and speak with you.

Location: Indian-American Cafe
91 N Main St, Harrisonburg, VA 22802

Sunday, May 24, 2026
12:00–3:00 PM

Contact: 347-944-2173

Come by, grab some amazing food, and let’s connect. Hope to see you there.

For media inquiries, interview requests, or more information about A Fight for a Cup of Chai, visit sanmanthapa.com or contact sanman@sanmanthapa.com.

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Shredded in Fifteen Seconds

Sanman Thapa — Sun, 17 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I was listening to NPR on my way to work in the morning, and a bookstore owner was interviewed. A bookstore owner said something I cannot stop thinking about. She said many books get maybe thirty seconds of attention. Thirty seconds. Someone scans the cover, title, maybe the back, and decides whether it deserves shelf space.

She compared bookstores to real estate.

Limited space.

Then came the part that stayed with me. If books do not sell, many are returned. Some eventually get destroyed. Shredded.

I do not know why that hurt me.

Maybe because I started thinking about what existed before the book. Years of writing after work. Rewriting chapters. Self-doubt. Someone is spending money they did not really have. Someone believed their story mattered enough to put into the world.

Then a machine.

Gone.

The painful reality is that not all books begin equally. A familiar publisher matters. A famous name matters. A sticker that says New York Times Bestseller matters. Readers trust what other people have already approved.

And then there are small publishers that most people have never heard of.

Unknown writers.

First books.

Immigrant stories.

People carrying decades of life experience but no audience.

I kept thinking: what are the chances for someone publishing through a small imprint like Arti-Facts? Not as self-pity. Just statistics.

More than 4 million books are published each year.

Four million!

That means many books are not competing against bad books. They are competing against attention.

Maybe that is the hardest thing to accept.

We grow up believing hard work gets noticed.

I am not sure that is always true.

Sometimes good work disappears quietly.

Sometimes stories survive because of timing, money, connections, or visibility.

And maybe the most painful thought:

How many people live this same reality?

Not books.

People.

Workers.

Mothers.

Immigrants.

Quiet people whose stories never become important because nobody paused long enough to listen.

Still, people write.

I suppose writing is an act of hope.

A stubborn way of saying:

I was here. Even if only a few people noticed.

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The Hunger Remains

Sanman Thapa — Sun, 17 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Reflections on Voltaire, Value, and Why Human Behavior Changes So Little

I was reading Candide by Voltaire and came across the kingdom of El Dorado, where gold, diamonds, and precious stones are treated as ordinary parts of nature. Children play with them casually. Roads are lined with what Europeans would consider unimaginable wealth. The people living there see no special value in these materials because, to them, they are simply part of the earth.

Only the Europeans passing through seem overwhelmed. They stare at the riches with disbelief, instantly assigning value, power, and meaning to objects the people of El Dorado barely notice.

Later that day, I was listening to NPR discuss rare-earth minerals and the growing tensions between the United States and China over access to them. These elements now power modern life: phones, batteries, military technology, electric vehicles, satellites, and artificial intelligence. Nations compete over access because whoever controls these resources may shape the future.

At first, the connection seemed obvious.

Gold then.

Rare earth minerals now.

But the more I read Voltaire, the more I wondered if the materials themselves were never the real story.

Perhaps the story has always been human beings.

In another passage, Candide asks whether humans have always been liars, cheats, thieves, greedy, ambitious, bloodthirsty, hypocritical, and foolish. Martin responds by asking whether hawks have always eaten pigeons. If their nature remains the same, why assume humans have changed theirs?

The question unsettled me.

Because centuries pass and the objects change, but many of the instincts remain strangely familiar.

Gold becomes oil.

Oil becomes lithium.

Lithium becomes a rare-earth mineral.

Empires become multinational corporations.

Colonial expansion becomes a matter of supply chains and geopolitical strategy.

The language changes. The instinct survives.

The language modernizes. The hunger adapts.

The impulse survives.

What one society sees as ordinary earth, another sees as wealth, security, or power.

Someone’s dirt becomes someone else’s treasure.

A stone remains a stone until human desire transforms it.

Throughout history, people have crossed oceans, conquered lands, exploited labor, formed alliances, and justified violence in pursuit of what they deemed valuable. Sometimes it was survival. Often, it was fear. Just as often, ambition.

Voltaire understood something uncomfortable:

Human beings do not compete only for resources.

We compete for status, control, belonging, certainty, and sometimes the illusion that possessing more will protect us from uncertainty.

Perhaps that is why older books continue to matter. They remind us that beneath technological progress and political systems, beneath new inventions and modern language, many of the same human desires continue to move beneath the surface.

History rarely repeats itself exactly.

But human behavior often does.

The world changes.

The hunger remains.

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Happy Mother’s Day

Sanman Thapa — Sun, 10 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There is something strange about old photographs. At first, you see faces. Then, years later, you begin seeing burdens.

This picture was taken sometime around 1988. Five boys standing beside our mother in a field somewhere in rural Nepal. At the time, it probably felt like an ordinary afternoon. Someone had a camera. We lined up. My mother stood quietly at the end as mothers often did back then, never quite placing themselves at the center, even when everything revolved around them.

Looking at it now, all I can think about is how much weight she must have been carrying.

My mother raised six boys. Seven, really, if you count my father, lol.

There was always work waiting for her. Cooking. Cleaning. Feeding animals. Working in the fields. Taking care of children who were always hungry, fighting, running around barefoot, getting sick, and needing something. Village life left little room for rest, especially for women. And somehow she carried all of it without complaint.

What I understand now, as an adult, is how lonely that must have felt sometimes.

There was no daughter beside her in the kitchen. No girl naturally drifts toward her world the way daughters often do in traditional homes. Just six boys filling the house with noise, mud, hunger, and chaos.

People used to joke that my parents kept having children because my father wanted a daughter. Maybe there is truth in that. He never had a sister either. My grandmother was surrounded by boys, too. Strange how certain patterns repeat themselves across generations without anyone planning them.

Somewhere in the middle of us all was another brother between Chandra and me. He died when he was nine months old. Nobody really talks about him anymore. In families like ours, grief was rarely spoken out loud. Life was too busy surviving. People carried on quietly and kept moving.

But he belonged to this family too.

As the older brother, I think I tried, in my own way, to stand closer to my mother’s side. I helped in the kitchen. Looked after my brothers. Fed animals. Worked in the fields. Maybe I sensed her exhaustion long before I understood it.

But still, I was not a daughter.

That sentence feels heavy to write because it says something larger about the lives women carried in that generation. They were expected to hold families together without asking for recognition. Their love appeared through labor more than words. They woke before everyone else and slept after everyone else. Their sacrifices became so normal that nobody thought to call them sacrifices.

Looking at this photograph now, I do not just see my childhood. I see the foundation of who I became. The responsibility. The guilt. The instinct to protect others. The understanding that love is often quiet, exhausting, and unseen.

Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who carried all of us.

And to the mothers whose stories were never fully told.

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Are Books Becoming Obsolete?

Sanman Thapa — Mon, 6 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Sometimes I catch myself wondering if books are slowly becoming something we leave behind. Not all at once, not in any obvious way. Just little by little.

We live in a world where everything moves fast. Information is everywhere. We scroll, we skim, we move on. At that kind of pace, sitting with a book can feel almost out of place.

Growing up in Nepal, books were not always easy to come by. I was lucky if I got my hands on a hand-me-down novel. The pages were already yellowing, the edges worn and curled. Still, I savored every page, the way you would watch a slow movie, not wanting to miss a single moment. They were my windows to the world.

Later, when I moved to the United States for my undergraduate studies, books became more readily available, but the experience remained the same. You would go to the library, ask for a reference book, and borrow it. Sometimes you didn’t even know exactly what you were looking for, but you just knew it was somewhere on those shelves.

I would spend hours in the library, moving from one section to another, flipping through pages, taking notes, going back and forth. It was slow, but it never felt like a waste of time. And then there was that familiar sound—the soft “shhh” when whispers became just a little too loud. It was almost like a reminder that this space was sacred, meant for focus, for quiet, for staying with something a little longer.

Now, things feel different.

I see it with students. They are reading all the time—on their phones, on screens, in short pieces. Information is everywhere, faster than ever. It is still reading, but it feels different.

And I notice it in myself too.

Sometimes I read a page, and before it settles, my hand reaches for my phone. Not because the book failed, but because I have changed.

So I find myself asking, are books becoming obsolete?

Maybe.

But I’m not sure that is the full story.

Books have not really changed. They are still doing what they have always done. They offer something slower, something deeper, something that asks you to stay.

What may be changing is our ability to meet them there.

A book does not compete for your attention. It does not interrupt you or try to keep you hooked every second. It simply waits.

And maybe that is why it feels harder now.

Not because books have lost their value, but because they ask for something the rest of the world no longer requires—time, attention, and stillness.

When was the last time we stayed with one story long enough for it to change us?

I don’t ask that as a writer. I ask that as someone who is also trying to come back to it.

So maybe books are not becoming obsolete.

Maybe they are becoming a choice.

And maybe that choice matters more now than ever.

The story was originally published on https://curiosityistheseedofknowledge.com/2026/03/30/are-books-becoming-obsolete/

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From the Window – Finding Its Way Into the World

Sanman Thapa — Sun, 9 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

There’s a quiet joy in pressing “submit” after months of living inside a story.

Today, I began sending my new novella, From the Window: The City of What-Ifs, to literary publishers and contests.

Set in late-1990s Kathmandu, the story follows a young woman who spends her nights watching the workers in the shoe factory across her alley. When a fire changes everything, she must confront what it means to witness suffering — and the cost of silence.

I wrote this book with the sounds and smells of my own childhood still echoing in my mind — the clang of factory bells blending with the bells from nearby temples, the smell of rubber and rain, the faces that looked older than their years.

Though it’s a work of fiction, From the Window carries the pulse of real lives and the tenderness of memory.

A Fight for a Cup of Chai was my first attempt to make sense of survival and voice.

From the Window continues that conversation — about empathy, labor, love, and the quiet rebellions that often begin in silence.

Whatever happens in the submission process, I already feel grateful. This story reminded me why I write: to remember, to bear witness, and to honor those whose stories might otherwise be forgotten.

Thank you to the friends, mentors, and readers who have walked beside me.

Wish me luck as From the Window searches for its home in the wider world.

— Sanman Thapa

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This Day Is for the Workers We Do Not See

Sanman Thapa — Sat, 30 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

A Memory from a Kathmandu Factory

Today, while going through an old album, I found a photograph that stopped me in my tracks. It was taken on the day I left the shoe factory in Kathmandu. My brothers in labor stood close, their arms around my shoulders, their faces carrying exhaustion, pride, and a silent promise of solidarity.

My factory brothers in Kathmandu, saying goodbye the day I left.

We were young, but the work had already aged us. The machines never stopped; the hours stretched longer than the pay could ever justify. And yet, within those walls, I found family. These men were more than coworkers—they were brothers who shared the weight of survival with me.

One of the smallest battles we fought together was over tea. A cup of chai, so ordinary in daily life, became extraordinary inside the factory. It became a fight for dignity, for a moment to breathe, for the recognition that our labor was more than just mechanical output. That cup of tea meant we mattered.

Labor Day in America carries a different tradition—barbecues, parades, a long weekend. But when I see this photo, I don’t just remember the factory. I remember how those years shaped me, how even the smallest fight for respect can leave an imprint on a life. And I see more than my past — I see the countless unseen workers today whose labor makes our world possible. This day is for them too.

I wrote A Fight for a Cup of Chai to honor those faces and to preserve their voices. But more than that, I wrote it to remind myself — and hopefully others — that labor is never just about work. It is about dignity, solidarity, and the hope for a better tomorrow.

This Labor Day, may we celebrate not just with rest, but with remembrance. And may we never forget the stories carried in the hands of workers everywhere.

Labor Day in America carries a different tradition—barbecues, parades, a long weekend. But when I see this photo, I’m reminded that labor is not only about work. It is about dignity, connection, and the friendships that carried me through some of my hardest days.

Looking at their faces now, I don’t just remember the factory. I remember how those years shaped me, how even the smallest fight for respect can leave an imprint on a life. This Labor Day, I carry their memory with me, quietly, like a thread that still binds me to that time and to those brothers.

When I look at that photo, I don’t just see my past. I see the countless unseen workers today whose labor makes our world possible. This day is for them too.

This Labor Day, may we celebrate not just with rest, but with remembrance. And may we never forget the stories carried in the hands of workers everywhere.

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Beyond the Shelf: What I Learned as a First-Time Self-Published Author

Sanman Thapa — Thu, 28 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Author’s Note (2025): I first wrote this piece soon after publishing my debut memoir, but the lessons remain just as relevant today. Even now, my inbox fills with waves of promotional emails and lofty promises. The reflections here continue to guide me—and I hope they might help other writers, too.

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When I first set out to write A Fight for a Cup of Chai, I thought the hardest part would be telling the story—reliving the pain, shaping the truth, and honoring the lives that crossed mine in the factories of Kathmandu. And while writing was certainly emotional, it turned out to be the most grounded part of the journey. Everything that came after—the publishing, the promoting, the endless pitching and explaining—was something I never fully expected.

As a self-published author, I wear every hat: writer, editor, publisher, marketer, event planner, and sometimes, amateur tech support. I learned how to format a book, track ISBNs, build a website, design bookmarks, pitch to bookstores, and follow up without sounding desperate. I learned to deal with silence, rejection, unexpected costs, and the ever-lingering question: Am I doing enough?

But one thing I wasn’t prepared for? The flood of solicitations. Almost the moment my book was listed online, my inbox was overwhelmed with messages promising the world—“We’ll get your book on best-seller lists!” “Guaranteed five-star reviews!” “Promote your story to thousands!” Some sounded polished, others suspiciously generic. All of them required money—and almost none of them felt authentic.

It’s hard to know who to trust when you’re doing this alone. I’ve been approached by so many companies offering marketing, promotion, and “author support” services, often with vague results and inflated promises. When you’re already exhausted from doing it all yourself, it’s easy to feel tempted. But I’ve learned to slow down, read the fine print, and ask questions. The hard truth is: many services are selling hope, not results.

Recently, I received an email from a local bookstore letting me know that my time in their local author program was ending. They had taken six copies of my book, and not one had sold. I was invited to pick them up. I responded with gratitude, but privately, I felt the sting. I had hoped for more—more traction, more curiosity, more conversations sparked by a story that matters to me. But this is part of the reality, too.

And yet—A Fight for a Cup of Chai has found readers. Maybe not always in the ways I imagined, but in powerful, personal ways. In classrooms. In libraries. In one-on-one conversations. In moments when a stranger says, “Thank you for writing this.”

Epilogue: 5 Lessons I Wish I Knew Before Self-Publishing

Writing the book is only half the journey. Once the manuscript is done, the real marathon begins—editing, formatting, distribution, pitching, and promoting. Be prepared to become a team of one, wearing many hats. Pace yourself.
Not every opportunity leads to sales—and that’s okay. Having my book on a local bookstore’s shelf felt like a win. But when none of the six copies sold, it humbled me. Still, visibility has value. It’s a step, not a setback.
Beware of promises wrapped in pretty emails. The moment your book is live, the floodgates open. Dozens of services will claim they can make you a star—for a fee. Most are selling dreams, not guarantees. Trust your gut, ask for proof, and don't be afraid to say no.
Celebrate small wins—they’re not small. A student who connects with your story. A teacher who reaches out. A heartfelt review. These moments may not show up on bestseller lists, but they’re where your book lives and breathes.
You are not alone. It may feel isolating at times, but there are others walking this path. Connect with fellow authors, share your journey, and lean on your community. Even quiet encouragement goes a long way.

Self-publishing isn’t easy—but it’s worth it. If you're on this path or thinking about it, know that your voice matters. The journey may be long and unpredictable, but it’s also full of meaning. Every story deserves a space in the world—including yours.

If this reflection resonated with you, feel free to share it—or reach out. I’d love to hear from fellow writers navigating this journey.

Additional Resource

If you're new to self-publishing or unsure about which services to trust, the Authors Guild maintains a helpful and regularly updated page on publishing scams and misleading solicitations:

https://authorsguild.org/resource/publishing-scam-alerts/

https://writerbeware.blog/scam-archive/

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The Only Child Mirror: What Raising an Only Child Taught Me About Myself

Sanman Thapa — Sun, 22 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

By Sanman Thapa

I wasn’t just Aiden’s dad — for much of his childhood, I was his only playmate. As a stay-at-home father, I played every role: goalie, chess rival, LEGO architect, and pirate ship opponent armed with wooden swords and eye patches. We had no cousins down the block or siblings squabbling over toys. There was just me. And in that closeness — beautiful and intense — I became not just a parent, but a kind of surrogate sibling.

That closeness was a gift, but it also came with pressure. Pressure to always show up. Pressure to get it right. And moments when I forgot who the adult in the room was. We argued about LEGO pieces. I got overly invested in a spaceship built, and Kim — my wife — would chime in from the kitchen, "Sanman, are you the kid or Aiden?" I knew she was right. Looking back, it’s funny. At the time, it felt personal.

Volleyball was harder. When I missed the ball, Aiden would shout, “You’re not even trying!” forgetting that I was trying — but I’m missing a left hand. What he wanted wasn’t just a successful toss — he wanted certainty. For the game to go right. For me to be the person who could always deliver.

That’s the invisible dance of raising an only child. You are everything. The joy, the blame, the buffer, the mirror.

And Aiden is a mirror — one who reflects back both my tenderness and my triggers. He’s sharp. At two and a half, he could pronounce dinosaur names I still can’t say. He grew up surrounded by words, thanks in part to Kim’s nightly reading routines. He’s artistic, verbal, and creative. He’s performed in school plays, had his artwork featured in community centers and libraries, and edits my blog posts better than I do.

But he also pushes back. He argues. He wants the last word. And during one recent blowout — a real emotional collision — he finally said:

“You treat me like an adult, but also expect me to be a child. I’m confused.”

And then:

“When we argue, I feel like I have to win.”

That moment made me pause, as a father, but also as a counselor who studied sibling dynamics in graduate school. Aiden had just named what so much research affirms about only children: they often grow up in adult-centered environments, developing advanced verbal and intellectual abilities, but also experiencing emotional tension, role confusion, and pressure to perform.

What the Research Says

Toni Falbo, a leading researcher in the field, found that only children tend to outperform children with siblings in verbal intelligence and academic achievement (Falbo & Polit, 1986). A 2024 Nature Human Behavior study echoed these findings: only children demonstrated stronger mental health, language skills, creativity, and prosocial behavior than their peers (Zhang et al., 2024).

Further behavioral and brain imaging studies support this, suggesting that only children may develop stronger creativity and emotional sensitivity, but also show differences in agreeableness and social flexibility compared to children with siblings (Yang et al., 2017).

And yet, the same qualities that shine — confidence, autonomy, articulate reasoning — can be mistaken for arrogance, stubbornness, or defiance. As a parent, I know I’ve made that mistake. Many times.

There were moments — more than I care to admit — when I called Aiden selfish, spoiled, self-absorbed, even arrogant. Not in my best counselor voice, not with any therapeutic finesse, but in frustration, exhaustion, and helplessness. I knew better. But I still said it. Not because he was those things, but because I couldn’t untangle his strong opinions and independence from my own bruised ego or unmet expectations.

Looking back, I realize those words echoed every outdated stereotype about only children. And they didn’t help either of us. Research has long shown that the so-called "only child syndrome" — a term used to suggest spoiled or maladjusted behavior — simply doesn’t hold up. What matters far more is parenting style, not sibling count (Abrams, 2024; American Psychological Association, 2022).

If you're interested in hearing more from the researcher herself, I highly recommend this conversation with Toni Falbo, PhD, on the APA podcast Speaking of Psychology:

🎧 Busting myths about only children — Watch on YouTube

Aiden wasn’t trying to control the room. He was trying to find his place in it.

Second Drafts

Raising Aiden has meant rewriting the scripts I was handed. It’s taught me how to apologize better. How to listen through my own frustration. How to understand that being close doesn’t mean being flawless — it means staying open.

Maybe that’s the quiet gift of raising an only child. You build each other. You knock things down, and then start again. Like LEGOs after a meltdown. Like a volleyball toss after a missed return. Like a conversation, you’ll keep getting better at it.

Maybe, just maybe, you become each other’s second draft.

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References:

Abrams, Z. (2024, September 1). Only children are often misunderstood. Take a closer look at the science. Monitor on psychology. https://www.apa.org/monitor/2024/09/only-children

Falbo, T., & Polit, D. F. (1986). Quantitative review of the only child literature: Research evidence and theory development. Psychological Bulletin, 100(2), 176–189. https://doi.org/10.1037/0033-2909.100.2.176

Falbo, T. (n.d.). Busting myths about only children, with Toni Falbo, PhD | Speaking of Psychology. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uA-QNWF9c_k

Yang, Junyi & Hou, Xin & Wei, Dongtao & Wang, Kangcheng & Li, Yadan & Qiu, Jiang. (2017). Only-child and non-only-child exhibit differences in creativity and agreeableness: evidence from behavioral and anatomical structural studies. Brain Imaging and Behavior. 11. 10.1007/s11682-016-9530-9.

https://rdcu.be/esHUN

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Prey: The Post Publication Minefield: Scams, Solicitors, and the Hope They Feed On

Sanman Thapa — Sun, 18 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Author’s Note

When I published my debut memoir A Fight for a Cup of Chai, I knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy—but I didn’t expect what came next. Within days of celebrating one of the most meaningful achievements of my life, I was flooded with messages that weren’t truly about my book. They were about buying back the spotlight I had already earned.

This piece isn’t just about calling out scams. It’s about reclaiming power. It’s about exposing a pattern that preys on the very vulnerability it pretends to celebrate. It’s for every independent author trying to navigate this landscape with heart, integrity, and grit.

If you’ve ever questioned whether you were the only one—this is for you. You’re not alone.

—Sanman Thapa

PREY

By Sanman Thapa

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The Post-Publication Minefield: Scams, Solicitors, and the Hope They Feed On

I almost didn’t go.

Not because I wasn’t ready. Not because my book wasn’t ready. I almost didn’t go to the LA Times Festival of Books—one of the largest literary events in the country—because of a man named J.P. from Bookmarc Alliance.

His message was warm. Polished. Encouraging. He said my book had been recommended by Amazon, and that it deserved a national spotlight. For a moment, I believed him. After all, wasn’t this what I had worked for? A chance to share my story, to be seen, to be read?

By the time I saw the cracks, I had already paid. Already committed. Already started second-guessing myself.

That’s how it begins—not with a scam, but with hope. With a belief that someone out there finally sees your story for what it is. That’s how authors like me become prey.

The First Bait: A Festival, a Booth, and a Promise

The LA Times Festival of Books was supposed to be a celebration. But after signing up through Bookmarc Alliance, things shifted. The package they offered wasn’t what it seemed. The booth space I thought I’d have? Misrepresented. The promotional support? Minimal. The genre section? Misaligned—wedged between comic books and children’s fiction. My memoir about labor struggles in Nepal had no business sitting there, invisible to the crowd it was meant to reach.

Eventually, after I pushed back and reminded them of the promises, they carved out a brief signing slot. One hour. One table. One sliver of dignity salvaged.

And yet—even after all that—what followed was worse: the after-festival flood of messages from strangers who claimed to care about my book.

The Pattern: Praise First, Pitch Later

After the festival, the messages multiplied. They came through email, Facebook, Messenger, and even Instagram DMs. The tone was always familiar, flattering, and just vague enough to sound sincere.

They began like this:

“Hey, storyteller…”

“Your book moved me deeply.”

“I haven’t read it yet, but I can feel how powerful it is.”

“What if your book could speak through film?”

It didn’t take long to see the rhythm—each one starting with admiration and ending with a service offer. Some were almost poetic in their delivery, others more direct. But the goal was the same: to sell me something in the name of helping my story “reach the world.”

These weren’t just emails. They were scripts, cut and pasted into hundreds of inboxes, preying on the same emotions that drove me to write my book in the first place: purpose, hope, and a longing to be heard.

So I started saving them.

Not just out of frustration, but out of curiosity. I wanted to understand the anatomy of these messages. And the more I collected, the more I noticed something strange—they weren’t just alike in structure. They could almost be categorized.

The Cast of Prey: Characters You Didn’t Ask For

1. The Phantom Flatterer

Subject: Your Book Deserves the World

“I came across A Fight for a Cup of Chai and felt compelled to reach out. Your story is raw, honest, and deeply moving.”

(Spoiler: They never read the book. They just read the title.)

2. The Guilt-Tripper

“I’m still waiting to hear back from you, Phillip.”

Wrong name. Same desperation. Somehow I became Phillip—multiple times.

3. The Soft Sell Spiritualist

“Before I talk shop, how’s your heart and mind today?”

A kind intro, until they pivot to how they can “amplify your meaningful work.”

4. The Algorithmic Abigail

“Your book cover looks amazing! By the way, what’s your favorite scene?”

Asked me that twice. Didn’t realize she already had.

5. The Acronym Evangelist

“Let me walk you through my Comparative Bestseller Roadmap (BSR), Genre–Purpose–Value (GPV), and Quality–Purpose–Visibility (QPV) strategies.”

I half-expected her to throw in a MAP to my ATM.

6. The Book Club Dealer

“We’ll place your book in 150+ book clubs and deliver 80–90 genuine reviews.”

Organic? No. Orchestrated? Absolutely.

7. The Redeemer

“I take full responsibility. Please don’t blame the rest of the team.”

A real message. A real person. But still protecting a machine designed to prey on hope.

The Emotional Trap: Why It Works

The most dangerous part of these messages isn’t the pitch—it’s the praise.

They don’t open with “Buy this service.” They open with you. Your story. Your heart. Your labor. They say things like:

“I haven’t read your book yet, but the title alone speaks volumes.”

“Your words are rooted in a genuine desire to connect with readers.”

“Before I talk shop, how’s your heart and mind today?”

And here’s the thing: when you’ve poured years into writing something honest and hard and human, it feels good to be seen—even if just for a moment. That’s what makes it dangerous.

Because they’re not selling marketing services.

They’re selling validation.

They’re telling you that your story matters. That your pain is powerful. That your voice deserves a stage. And it does. But the stage they offer? It’s pay-to-play.

No spotlight. No real readers. Just invoices in the shape of opportunity.

For a long time, I kept reading their messages hoping one of them might be different.

Real.

Genuine.

Not a setup in slow motion.

Because when you write something that costs you a part of your past to put on the page, you want it to reach people. You want it to matter. These people know that—and they don’t need to manipulate your logic.

They only need to speak to your longing.

The Breaking Point: From Belief to Boundaries

It didn’t happen all at once. I wanted to believe there was someone out there who truly believed in my book. Someone who saw the heart behind A Fight for a Cup of Chai and wanted to help—not sell.

So I read the messages.

I responded politely, sometimes with curiosity, and sometimes with skepticism. I asked for data. I questioned vague phrases like “massive exposure” and “highly engaged audiences.” I checked their websites, their “author testimonials,” and their overly perfect sales language.

What I found were templated services, recycled promises, and a revolving door of author “success stories” that all sounded the same.

Then came the Bookmarc Alliance experience. That was the moment it became clear.

I had already paid to be featured at a prestigious literary event. I had believed the pitch. But what I got was a booth placed in the wrong genre section, surrounded by children’s books and comics. A memoir about labor struggle buried in the background noise.

When I pushed back, they gave me one hour at a table. One hour to make the most of what they had oversold and underdelivered.

And still, after that, more came knocking.

Rachel C. with her “Goodreads strategy.”

Louis R. with his “emotional reels.”

Della G. with her “handpicked book club network.”

Victoria O.—still calling me Phillip.

Tijani, who asked how my heart was before offering to help amplify my work.

That was when I knew.

This wasn’t about me. This wasn’t personal. It was a system. One that fed off indie authors’ hope, loneliness, and exhaustion. One designed to extract—not elevate.

So I stopped replying.

And I started saving.

Each email, each DM, each desperate “follow-up” became part of a folder labeled simply: Prey.

Because if I couldn’t stop the messages, I could at least name what they were doing.

I could reclaim the narrative.

The Awakening: You’re Not Alone, and You’re Not Naive

There was a time I wondered if I was the only one. If maybe I had fallen for something others saw coming from a mile away. But the more I looked, the more I realized: I wasn’t alone.

There were dozens—hundreds—of authors like me, all walking through the same storm. People with powerful stories, tender hearts, and empty inboxes suddenly flooded with praise. People who had worked in silence for years only to be welcomed by a machine that thrives on post-publication vulnerability.

This isn’t about being naive.

This is about a system designed to blur the line between opportunity and exploitation. A system that knows how much validation means after you’ve poured your soul into a page. That offers you hope in the shape of a logo, a “campaign,” a $500 invoice.

But here’s the truth: if your story moved you, it will move someone else. You don’t need a funnel, a feature, or a fast track to make your work meaningful. You need time, truth, and a reader who finds your book without being baited.

You’re not behind. You’re not invisible.

You’re just doing it the slow, honest way—and that’s the only kind that lasts.

The Message: Protect Your Story

To every author who’s ever stared at an inbox full of promises—read this carefully:

You don’t need to pay someone to believe in your story.

You don’t need acronyms, curated lists, or algorithm-hacked exposure to be a real writer.

And you definitely don’t need validation from strangers whose business model is built on flattering your hope.

You need your own voice. Your own readers. Your own timeline.

Yes, the post-publication world can feel isolating. Yes, the silence can be louder than you imagined. But don’t mistake that silence for failure. It’s just the sound of a book becoming—reaching people slowly, organically, in the wild way good books do.

So when the next message lands in your inbox, full of admiration and urgency, remember this: they aren’t reaching out because your story is weak.

They’re reaching out because it’s strong.

Because it costs you something.

Because it has value.

Because they want a piece of it.

Don’t give it away.

You are not a client.

You are not a lead.

You are not prey.

You are the author.

—***---

Author Bio

Sanman Thapa is a Nepali-American writer, school counselor, and advocate for labor rights and immigrant voices. He is the author of A Fight for a Cup of Chai, a memoir chronicling his journey from factory life in 1990s Nepal to rebuilding a life in the United States. He lives in New York with his family and continues to write stories rooted in resilience, identity, and social justice.

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Meet Sanman Thapa at the LA Times Festival of Books, Booth #832

Sanman Thapa — Sat, 15 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

📅 Dates: April 26-27, 2025

📍 Location: University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA

Booth #832

📖 Event Highlights: Book signing, author Q&A, and a chance to discuss the themes of A Fight for a Cup of Chai with festivalgoers.

For media inquiries, interview requests, or more information about A Fight for a Cup of Chai, visit www.sanmanthapa.com or contact sanman.thapa@gmail.com.

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The Power of Story Telling: You Matter and Your Story Matters

Sanman Thapa — Sat, 29 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000

A Fight for a Cup of Chai: A Journey Through Labor, Loss, and Hope

By Sanman Thapa | March, 29, 2025 | 11:00 am

Have you ever felt a quiet tug—that ticking urge to share your story with the world—only to be silenced by a voice that says, Who would care?

You’re not alone. I was one of those people, too.

Reaching middle age brought with it a wave of self-reflection and, with it, a deep desire to finally own my story. I’ve always loved to write. While digging through the attic one day, I stumbled upon a box of old notebooks filled with poems, essays, and even early attempts at romantic novels. But for years, I never had the courage—or the platform—to share any of it.

That changed about a year and a half ago when I finally decided to start a blog.

If you believe in the power of storytelling, I think you’ll connect with A Fight for a Cup of Chai—a short but powerful memoir about one young man’s journey from the factory floors of Kathmandu to a classroom in New York City. When I wrote it, I never imagined it would be taught in high schools as part of literacy, civic, and global history lessons. I was simply sharing my truth.

You never know who your story will touch.

But here’s what I’ve come to learn: Stories matter.

Your story matters.

Have you ever wondered how small acts of courage can spark change?

Or how unity and perseverance can shape not just individual lives, but entire communities?

These are the questions at the heart of A Fight for a Cup of Chai.

Inspired by my lived experiences, this book invites readers into the world of factory workers in 1990s Nepal—ordinary people fighting for their rights during a time of sweeping economic and political change. It’s a story of resilience, solidarity, and dignity, told through characters who reflect both personal truths and broader collective struggles.

Writing this book was more than a creative project—it was a labor of love, an act of healing, and a bridge between my past in Nepal and my present life as a school counselor in New York. The lessons I learned—about courage, community, and the power of collective action—are ones I carry with me every day. And I believe they’ll resonate with you, too.

Inside A Fight for a Cup of Chai, you’ll discover:

● The untold struggles of factory workers during a pivotal time in Nepal’s history

● An homage to the unsung heroes—workers, neighbors, friends—who taught me what resilience and hope really mean

● Themes of personal growth, advocacy, and the pursuit of justice

● A heartfelt journey that weaves together culture, identity, and the enduring strength of the human spirit

Whether you love stories of triumph over adversity, want to better understand global labor struggles, or simply enjoy a good read with your tea, this book has something for you.

You can find A Fight for a Cup of Chai on:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Google Play | IngramSpark | and at The Next Chapter, LI (a local independent bookstore).

Or visit www.sanmanthapa.com to learn more.

Here’s the direct Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/sanman.thapa

Let’s Meet in Person!

If you’ll be in California this spring, I’d love to connect in person:

📍 Meet Sanman Thapa at the LA Times Festival of Books

📅 April 26–27, 2025

📍 University of Southern California, Los Angeles, CA

📖 Book signing, author Q&A, and conversations about the themes of A Fight for a Cup of Chai

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for caring about stories like this.

And maybe, just maybe, this is your sign to start telling your own.

-***-

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Join Me for a Book Launch!

Sanman Thapa — Sat, 15 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Highlights from the Event: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/160sKqTcc2SUU031czuHbJtNgJm8oIwM1?usp=drive_link

I’m excited to announce the official book launch of A Fight for a Cup of Chai on March 15, 2025, from 12:00 PM to 3:00 PM at Himalayan Restaurant & Bar (74-14 37th Ave, Jackson Heights, NY 11372).

This deeply personal book explores resilience, identity, and the struggles that shape us. Whether you’ve already read it or are just discovering it, I’d love to meet you, share stories, and sign your copy!

Come by, grab some amazing food, and let’s connect! Hope to see you there.

For media inquiries, interview requests, or more information about A Fight for a Cup of Chai, visit www.sanmanthapa.com or contact sanman.thapa@gmail.com.

#BookSigning #AFightForACupOfTea #JacksonHeights #NepaliStories

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