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

—***---

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, 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.