Category: Blog

I am delighted to inform you that my latest novel AZANIA FAREWELL is (likely to be) published before the end of the year. This is big stuff.

You may have read two thirds of this book already if you’ve read Umfaan’s Heroes and Laszlo’s Millions. The big news is, finally, the third part of what was always meant to be a trilogy – third book entitled ‘Celine‘ – has been completed and included with the other two in one big fat beautiful volume.

It happened like this: last century Andre Deutsch published Umfaan’s Heroes to much media blah blah in both the UK and Apartheid South Africa, where I hope it infuriated the Masters of Racism, and delighted many who suffered at their hands. In this novel Tom grows up white and Jewish in the mad mad world of the Afrikaner hegemony, the rule by fear and guns by 3 million whites of 15 million Blacks. Terror, fear, secret police. Also satire and comedy.

The sequel, Laszlo’s Millions trotted out of my electric typewriter in hot pursuit and annoyed just about everybody lacking a sense of humour or love of justice. Tom has fled to London where he is recruited by BOSS, the South African secret police, to infiltrate Anti-Apartheid activists. Tom is, as one would expect, a double agent who has rather too many hobbies including drugs, sex and the possibility of inheriting millions from a mad Hungarian Count.

Deutsch dutifully published the book, and then went bust, Not my fault! Blame God if there is one, who decided to take the great Andre Deutsch unto himself, which meant that all of Deutsch was asset stripped and closed down. Gone, great and noble House! Publisher of greats like VS Naipaul, John Updike, Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer, Howard Fast, and little me.

Which meant zero future for the half-written third part of the trilogy, Celine.

I snatched the copyrights of Umfaan’s and Laszlo’s from the buyers of the catalogue and published both in paperback. They are available still in paperback and Kindle as well as the other ebook formats.

I went on to other things, mainly teaching which is another great way to make people laugh and cry. And an opportunity to show off a bit. I liked it.

As time proceeded (despite all my attempts) I got to know how to do it. Within, of course, the constraints and straitjacket imposed by Government, Goves, headless head teachers etc. They gave me awards. But nothing they could do helped me shake off my impostor syndrome. There I was pretending to be a teacher (also, I should add, a Karate sensei which was much more fun) when all I am – everything. Flesh, bones, spirit. All I am. Is a fucking Writer, with a capital W. No point pretending any more.

So tentatively in my spare time I wrote and self-published Sally’s Road about how my dear Aunt might not have died of cancer. And sat back, waiting in vain for applause. Waiting, in short, for someone to read it. I don’t think anyone did.

With a sigh I tackled finishing and editing Celine, the third part of my trilogy. It tied and tangled me up. It’s a great ‘whatif’ book. What if Mandela – and most of the greats of the Anti-apartheid movement – were assassinated by the evil demons who ran the white racist state of South Africa. What? Dystopia, sure. And a country divided into warring states. Add Tom to the mix. Addled, bedraggled, ill-used Tom and his girlfriend, the croupier Celine from Geneva.

Written! Edited. Offered to my wonderful Publisher who said YES. Let’s put out all three books in one. Genius.

And it’s a blockbuster, a doorstopper, a brick, a possible weapon or even a shield. If you’re likely to be shot at, place a copy of Azania Farewell between you and the assassin and you may die happy. (What a silly image.)

I’m so looking forward to this book’s launch and I really hope you are too.

DECEMBER 2026.

WORK IN PROGRESS

I hope you have, by now, read my latest novel, RAGAZZO? My maddest ever excursion into the world of Baroque Opera, the book tells the story of the castrato Guido Suanestino Aka Guido Roccaporca, aka Annaliese Weinhoffer, etc etc. Mass murderer and the greatest singer in the world. If you loved Susskind’s ‘Perfume’ you’ll dab this one all over you. (Another silly image.)

And the sequel is on its way! Tentative working title Diva, the book follows Guido’s escape from the Handel Festival and his adventures through Switzerland, Germany and finally, Naples. It’s a tour through 1920’s Europe when Fascism was born and preparing itself for the same sort of mayhem it’s preparing itself for now. Publication date not yet decided. Soon! Promise.

I still love you.

Have people who live cruel nasty lives ever enjoyed good fiction?

I have been going through an existential writer crisis around this question: what the hell is fiction for? Why invent people, put them into situations, when it’s all lies? It’s Fiction for fucksake. ‘Novel’ means ‘new’. So when I write a fictional novel I am producing new lies.

As if there aren’t enough old ones.

Then I watched some of the footage of ICE carrying out their terrifying project of intimidation, violence against women, children, elderly. There is absolutely nothing holding them back from their attacks. Anybody who doesn’t look like them becomes a legitimate target.

You can only do that job if you have no conscience. No empathy.

They can’t all be psychopaths.

Then I had another thought: I wonder if any of them had ever cried in a movie. Or read a novel that truly moved them. 

Maybe that’s why we read and write fiction. It’s a mutual empathy exercise. For the writer, he or she plunges into the psyche – their own and that of every person they’ve ever met. So that in that incredible, sacred space where reader and writer meet on the page, there is a precious sharing which stimulates and encourages an empathetic response.

So perhaps empathy has to be worked on. Like a muscle. The more it is stimulated the greater it gets. For both reader and writer. 

Interestingly, as I get older I seem far more vulnerable to empathy-inducers. I can’t get through a movie, book, radio play without welling up. From a lost dog poster on a tree to a friend’s bereavement, to the horrible events in Gaza and Iran. I think many older people are the same. The more you experience your empathy, the greater it gets.

If this is true, we should probably find that ICE operatives read little or no fiction, unless you count Trump’s tweets. But then very few of the outpourings of that empty vessel are likely to be mistaken for the product of a human.

Dear fellow ephemera

2,026 years ago, Christian founding myth has it, the ‘Saviour of the World’ was born. (Still waiting for this Dead Guy to do some saving).According to the origins myth, using the genealogies in Genesis the Earth was created 10,000 – 6,000 years ago by God who, in a rash moment – possibly bored – thought it would be a good idea to invent humans, animals, light, dark and all the paraphernalia needed to keep it all going for a while. (…and the While seems to be coming to an end.)

If the above was all true, which it isn’t, it seems obvious that ‘He’ has built mutually assured self-destruction (MAD) into human DNA.

Well what the hell. Greed is, after all, probably proof there is no God – if there was any human characteristic most likely to result in Mutually Assured Destruction, that’s the chap.

The argument against that is, ‘yeh yeh but that’s why he invented Love. So Love and Greed is the perfect combination to ensure the survival of humans. Love – ensures reproduction. Greed – ensures survival.’

Ummmm, here’s the thing. Without limitations, curbs, laws, ethics, MAD is certain. So ‘He’ or we invented Religion. And laws. Government. Arms and armour to enforce it all. War to ensure only the strongest survive.

…..so why doesn’t this huge panoply of a complexity only a God could have created or understood actually work? The richest and most greedy have achieved power worldwide. People whose amygdalas are so underdeveloped they are incapable of loving anyone but themselves?

Major design flaw methinks. And if there is an omnipotent omniscient benevolent ‘God’, he has a major design flaw. Methinks.

But me also thinks this: burdened as I am, and you too no doubt – with compassion, love, a smidgen of intelligence and self-awareness, I have a duty to make nice. As much as possible. Wherever I can. Within the constraints of my own selfishness and limitations. And you too.

So, only one more thing to say:

HAPPY XMAS/HANUKAH/SOLSTICE/SATURNALIA/ETC/

and NEW YEAR!

Celebrate the days getting longer! The year has turned. If only Mankind womankind and childkind would do the same.

I love you all.

Handel’s RomCom at the Colosseum

It’s hard not to go to any production of a Handel Opera for me. Obviously, Mr Mrs Ms and Master Public don’t seem to have a similar problem. They often stay away in droves.

And yet! Not tonight. The glorious Colosseum, a Victorian Palace laden with curlicues of plaster and statuettes representing fables most people have forgotten, was full. Even the prospect of Opera in English didn’t deter them. Swarms. I don’t think there were more than a few seats free.

Even I had not been deterred by the prospect of this Händel opera in English. The version on my iPhone has an Italian libretto and I’m used to guessing wtf is happening and not really caring, because the music is so tasty. I thought, therefore, here’s an opportunity to discover wtf which, once seen on stage, would be far easier to understand than the curlicues of plot in most synopses.

And here’s what I discovered:

1. The plot is far sillier than I could have thought, had I not pre-realised that it was likely to be Baroque Plot number 4. ie this one loves the one but the other one disguised as a woman or a man, not sure which, loves the other one. Then there’s a battle and everyone marries another one and goes off deliriously happy.
2. The music is adorable despite a bit too much da capo shenanigans.
3. The singing was mostly marvellous.
4. The producer and Director think that if they put everyone in modern clothes it’ll be easier to work out the plot. Ooooooh woe is me! Suits and ties, bridge games, a toilet cubicle in the middle of the stage which is used frequently for the singers to express what they think if the production; graffiti, pratfalls up and down the sweep of the white staircase…and during one of the most heartfelt tasty arias, some idjit is hanging washing on a washing line conveniently located stage left.
5. The couple sitting next to me (mother and daughter) were delighted by it all. There I was gnashing my teeth and swearing under my breath and there they were having a wonderful time.

Was I being the Grinch, I wondered and realised: this is Handel’s RomCom! It’s supposed to be funny. But the producers, realising that this opera is a perfect example of the stereotype of German Humour, ie not funny, felt the need to ornament the action with every silly sight-gag they could dream up. So by the time Act 3 came blustering and making fart noises onto the stage, I tried really hard to find it funny. I really didn’t want to spoil the evening for the two lovely neighbours in Row E.

I of course gave them a copy of RAGAZZO to ensure they would remember the evening fondly, and also handed out a few more to various members of the unsuspecting public.

Let’s hope they all take away lovely memories.

(Note to opera producers: I Looooooong to see a production of a Baroque – or any – opera precisely as the composer and librettist would dream of seeing it, The ghost of Händel was screaming in my ears in agony – albeit between bibulous guffaws.)

I love you all.

BUY Ragazzo HERE if you want to read a novel in proper period costume.

And I’ve been rolling with it! Frankly, I can’t take credit for it much as I would like to. My Ragazzo was published last Autumn, so the blossoming and blooming of Baroque in Britain was planned way before Guido stepped onto the literary stage, dagger dripping and a grin plastered over his beautiful face.

Having said that, the novel took eight years to write, edit and publish. So maybe the universe was reading my mind.

Last week at the Vache, my companion John kept using the phrase ‘the Universe has decided…’ which used to irritate me before he used it – but maybe he has something there. Because something amazing is indeed happening all over this mad little island. The Baroque is blooming, and it’s blooming wonderful!

This year, oh the joy of being in the presence of the perfumed, pomaded, curlicued, over-emoting bewigged creations of Herr Handel and Monsieur Campra in particular, listening to their wonderful music and watching incredible productions of their 300+ year-old genius. Seriously! No, just listen:

Herr H twice! Semele at the Royal Opera House – a very grey production, sunken under the modern tendency to try to find modern relevance in a story written as myth. In this case, thousands of years ago. What nonsense. The delicious music was almost ruined at the end when Semele ended up in the microwave.

Then, to my intense relief and delight, the production of Semele at the Waterperry Opera Festival.

In the amazing gardens of a fairly modest Manor there is a miniature amphitheatre, probably a folly. And there Semele lived again, loved again and sang her beautiful heart out. Hilary Cronin sang Semele, evolving in the course of the opera convincingly from reluctant bride to aspiring goddess. The audience loved her! The small orchestra was perfection and the young and lovely cast performed with conviction and bravado. And in the end, she disappears quite rightly in a puff of smoke – no microwave involved. (If you want to know the plot – who cares? – Semele falls in love with Jupiter disguised as a human. Anyone who knows Roman/Greek mythology knows Jupiter/Zeus would, given the chance, seduce a dead rabbit if he’s feeling horny. So silly Semele – who has been given some of the best tunes in the world to sing – is conned by Juno, the jealous wife, into demanding Jupiter appears to her as himself, thinking that will turn her into an immortal goddess. So, sadly, he does and she doesn’t. Blows up instead. Happy Juno.)

I don’t want this blog to turn into a review, even though there are far too few reviews for this wonder of a Festival, largely because it’s over and it won’t therefore help their audience numbers if there’s a gushing review from me. Pity! Having said that, Semele, Don Giovanni (which to my fury I was unable to attend, though I had the privilege of hearing Mozart’s brilliance wafting over the green and lovely garden) and the other concert pieces were packed. More information about the Festival HERE

Packed.

Of course there were the usual Grey Eminences, with their picnic baskets rammed with Fortnum goodies and white-knuckle grasped parasols. Like me and my delightful friends, Simon who kindly made me accompany him, his perfectly named friends Amadeus and Netty. But there was also a significant number of young – ! – and beautiful people, keen and full of sparkle.

(Had they been reading Ragazzo?)

And then there was the Vache.

For which I have to thank the ever-resourceful Anthony who booked it and then contracted a nasty streaming cold. His substitute John N was an excellent substitute companion.

Another rather perfect English Manor House with a gorgeous garden. The house is a mishmash of Tudor, Elizabethan, Jacobean, etcetraen, restored to the limit. A little too much perfection.

Campra’s Le Carnaval de Venise, in a marquee on the lawn in front of the house. I have never attended an Opera performance like it. Circus, acrobatics, carnival, Commedia del’Arte, and a love story like so many others in Baroque opera, admittedly (including Cavalleria Rusticana which isn’t even Baroque) and all surrounded by, infused with and decorated by glorious music. (Boy loves girl but girl loves someone else. Boy is jealous, hires an assassin who kills the wrong person blah blah, something like that. Or not. Then, for no reason whatsoever, everybody performs Orpheus in the Underworld, or a version thereof and it ends happily ever after. Who cares about the plot! The music is utterly tasty throughout.)

I had never heard of the Composer Campra before, frankly. But judging from this production he was a man with joy driving his every creation. Wiki tells me HERE that he was immensely prolific and popular, until he was infected by religion in 1720 and became boring. Lost his joy. Died poor and miserable, his beautiful soul murdered by intolerant religious bores.

I have never been so deeply immersed in luscious joy since my last acid trip a century ago. My companions, John and Stefan, felt the same though I doubt they’ve ever acid tripped.

And the place was packed. Packed!

…with a predominantly younger audience, many between 20 and 35 – as was the cast. And the orchestra. The youngsters were tremendous. Katie Bray, Julieth Lozano – feisty and exciting – hey, I’m not writing a review! But I do have to specially mention Plutone, played by an almost perfect clone of our friend Stefan by Giuseppe Pellingra- a terrifying God of the Underworld. To the extent that when we came together afterwards for the picnic, we had to compliment Stefan on his quick change.

Country House opera is everywhere. Obviously, not all Baroque. There are the Pop Ops too, your Verdi, Puccini, Rossini, etc. Mozart too, though he’s too good to be dismissed as ‘pop’.

But if you want to sink into an orgy of delight, go for the Baroque. Handel, Scarlatti, Vivaldi, Telemann, the too-often ignored marvellous Keiser, Bononcini, Vinci, Purcell, Monteverdi or even the French Lully and Rameau. (If you can stand all the dancing and adoration for Louis XIV which sounds a little like Trump’s Cabinet adoring the orange monster) The dates you should be looking at are around 1600 – 1760. The golden era of Baroque.

No LSD needed.

Picnic on the grounds! Wander around the house if they’ll let you. No real need to dress up, although it is fun if you want to. Obviously, good old Glyndebourne always has a marvellous season, but if you buy standing tickets beware of the ushers, they have no sympathy for age and infirmity. There’s Garsington (expensive) and Grange Park. There’s a good summary here. And watch out for new venues, more evidence of Blooming Baroque.They;re appearing all the time!

But next Summer, make sure you visit the Vache and Waterperry. Rather special and not yet spoiled by the eminence grise.

RAGAZZO published by ALIEN RABBIT available now from Amazon

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It really is months since I’ve blogged. Actually, the last blog was last year.

And now, possibly my last year. Ahead, probably my last summer.

I have been scrolling my way through the almost ten years of this website – so many words! Some of them relevant. Many of them written by others.

I suppose it’s about teaching. I’ve always loved being a teacher: centre of attention, a platform for showing off, an opportunity to open minds and eyes. How Narcissistic! As if I actually know anything useful.

Nostalgia. The wonderful Megasaga competitions, which allowed me to reach out and shout – ‘here’s how you write!’ They enabled me to really think about the Craft and come to my own conclusions about what makes good writing great – and to reward fellow seekers with a few paltry pounds, a pat on the back.

The Writing Tips: the content is good, the tone makes me squirm now. I wonder if anyone used them to improve their writing?

My satirical stuff – the Trump-as Alien, the BJ etc – all Dad jokes, painful but they still make me laugh. They really are absolute crap but I don’t care – I wrote them for me and Rob, whose sense of humour is as bad as mine.

I will now, finally, make some confessions since my time is short and my sleep long.

1. I am Grigor. Every blog I wrote, mine was the first comment under that name – an opportunity for a spot of metacognition, looking at my words as if I were another person and reacting accordingly. Have you ever done that? Walked into your house with an estate agent, or a new lover, and seen your home with new eyes? What a mess.
2. Many of the stories in the Megasaga competition, therefore, were by me. I never awarded myself the prize I swear! Unlike when I edited the School newspaper at the King Edward VII School in Johannesburg. There, I awarded myself every prize for every competition, largely because no-one ever entered. In the Megasaga competition I just wanted to set a standard, arrogantly, because there were so many entries, some of which were pretty awful. The winners all deserved their prizes – their stories had heart, soul and love in them. Making mine look dull and pedestrian.
3. I am pretty proud of my books, I admit it. Except for the poems – some are bearable, some are tosh. I grew up thinking I was becoming the greatest writer ever, that my future would inevitably result in everybody realising this truth and I would be lionised every lunchtime. It took me quite a while to understand that every writer thinks this. And my goodness, there are some awful wordsmiths – or wordshits – out there! Amazon has opened the floodgates and even if my stuff was any good, it would be drowned.
4. My best book is probably Laszlo’s Millions. While Ragazzo was a huge self-indulgence, lush and luscious, Laszlo’s Millions is the best crafted of the lot.
5. I have spent my life acting. If I have any talents at all, acting is the main one. Folks, I am the ultimate chameleon – or rather I was. I stopped bothering too actively years ago. But I am still able to walk into a room and immediately assume the colours and flavours of the dominant tribe there. And the accent and even the opinions, though I do hold certain inalienable convictions – which I have become a great expert at hiding. If you want to attach a label to them, maybe Semi-Woke Leftie with some holes and tatters. This is a confessional piece so I will also admit to having mildly intolerant attitudes to organised religion. Which I am able to hide when in one of their Income-generation machines. As to sexuality, tried both. It’s overrated. I am too old for you to be the slightest bit interested in what I do with my bits. Suffice it to say, very little and none that concerns you.
6. I have come to the conclusion that we are indeed doomed as a specie, although there is still a small chance that after a major cataclysm a small tribe or two will survive for few thousand years, long enough to fuck up all over again.

I’m going to sleep on this blog (not literally, the Mac has sharp edges). I wonder if anyone will read it…there were loads of people who read my ramblings a couple of years ago. Most will have moved on.

Except Grigor. He will always be with me.

I love you all.

• an extract from RAGAZZO, published September 2024 by Alien Rabbit

Katsoumi Tabatabee was the son of the Persian revolutionary Mohammad Tabatabee, who became obsessed with overturning the Monarchy when some sugar merchants were punished by having their feet beaten for refusing to lower their prices. For ten years, until the final establishment of the Majlis, the Persian parliament, this genuinely liberal man fought for a form of democracy in a country riddled with poverty and privilege. 

            And as an advocate of Western Democracy, Big Daddy ensured that his boy children were taught languages, mathematics, politics and science at Teheran’s famous International School.  He was far too busy attending meetings, leading demonstrations and writing articles in newspapers to do other than occasionally barking at them in the few hours he spent at home. 

Being his son was hard cheese. Or soft cheese. Panir, as they call it. Soft and crumbly, full of holes and in poor Tabby Kat’s case (the name was given to him by Roland Grieve, the son of the British Consul) full of worms. For much of the boy’s schooling at the International School in Tehran, the name chased him around the quadrangle, sought him out in notes sneaked into his pocket, even followed him in whispers to the one place he should have felt safe, the toilet block. In class, a plaintive miaow would trickle out of a mouth, waft like a barely discernible scent over to the cringing boy where he would feel suffocated by it and desperate to escape.

            As a boy there can be no doubt Katsoumi was somewhat feline. As slim and svelte as a starved panther, he didn’t so much move as slink. Partly, this was learned as an attempt to remain invisible, to blend into the dappled shadows of the tree-lined quadrangle. Mostly it was an attempt to escape the shabby overwhelming reality of his victimhood. 

            Roland was his tormentor-in chief. Tall for his age, Roland had the nervous energy of a rabid dog and the looks of a Borzoi. Always dressed elegantly and impeccably, he would have been regarded as effete by the other boys if he hadn’t always been so very manic. So much so, in fact, that his father hadn’t followed the usual practice of British Diplomats abroad and sent the boy to an exclusive Public School as a boarder. ‘I want him by me! You never know what the blighter will do next!’ he would say if you were to ask. Besides, the International School in Tehran was an excellent educational establishment which based its curriculum and ethos on the Public Schools of England. The Grand Master (too grand to be called High Master or Headmaster) had once been a Deputy at St Paul’s in London. The boys there were not just the sons of diplomats, but princes and sons of the aristocratic elite.

            The son of a cleric and revolutionary would never feel comfortable here in the very throat of the Establishment, and Roland was certainly going to make him know it.

            For his part, papa Tabatabee, if you were to ask this: ‘Tell me papa T, how can you have your son educated at such an establishment where the establishment of the establishment learn how to oppress the people?’ he would reply ‘Know thy enemy! The boy will learn how they think! What they think! And will know how to undermine them, right?’ Or perhaps, wrong.

            When Katsoumi came home bruised, or muddy, or even once with a black eye, would Papa regret sending him there? Or even ask how it happened? Mama would, sometimes, but would Papa listen to her? Or would he just say, ‘The boy must toughen up! These are bad people. I am abused every day! Do I cry about it? Until there is a democratic parliament in this country…’ Yes he would. And then launch into a rant on politics and freedom and the great legacy for the Persian peoples and Mama would shut her ears and long for a sweet swift death. Then he would find Katsoumi and say ‘Khak too Saret!’ Idiot. Shame on you. And go off to a meeting.

            As he grew up in all this misery, Katsoumi would take refuge in reading history. Yes, including Herodotus and Xenophon – in this, he was so similar to Guido. But what interested him most was the glimpse these writers afforded into ancient Persia. Into the Persian Empire before Mohamed, before Christ or the Sassanids. The great kings Cyrus, Darius, Xerxes. Yet there were no modern writers who had satisfactorily – and more pertinent, unbiasedly researched and recorded the history of what was once the greatest empire in the world.  

I am so fascinated by Persian history I wrote the music for two operas about ancient Persia. When I wrote the music for Serse (Xerxes), and Siroe if only I had Google then I could tell those librettists what ignorant idiots they are. (Very well I admit I adapted the libretto of Serse myself. It was so humourless I had to. This is a secret. No-one liked it at first.) 

Archaeological discoveries were happening all the time. Cuneiform, the ancient script of the lands between the Tigris and the Euphrates, had been deciphered 50 years ago. But where were the translations? Where had all the clay tablets been gathered and used as source material for a real history of these ancient lands?

All he wanted to do with his life was to become the greatest historian in Persia, and to produce volumes of history based on fact and research. But first he needed to kill Roland.

The desire started as a sparklet of light in his dark world as he lay weeping on his bed, blood and sand spattering the milk-white pillow. The encounter with Roland after school had been ugly.

How to kill him.

The Persian princes at the ancient court were taught to ride, shoot a straight arrow, and tell the truth. 

He would shoot him with an arrow! He could lurk unseen behind a wall or a bush, bow and arrow ready, whoosh! Then vanish!

There was a peremptory knock at the door. Enter Muhamad Tabatabee, the father himself.

Dad: Boy! Get up! Why aren’t you studying!

Son: I was reading – 

Dad: What is this. (Whips a book off the bed) Thucydides? What will that tell you. I told you read Plato. Did you pray this afternoon?

Son: (Lying) Yes.

Dad: Wash your face! You look dirty. By God, you are… (removes a package from the bag he’s carrying)…it’s time for you to be a man. A man! Do you know where I was this last week?

Son: No father.

Dad: Indonesia. For a meeting with the most powerful people in the world. I brought you a present. Stand straight!

Son: ? (Dad hardly ever brought presents. This was absolutely out of character.)

(Muhamad Tabatabee unwraps the Kris, nestled in its decorated leather scabbard. Drops the wrapping paper onto the floor.)

Dad: Do you know what this is? (Slowly, he withdraws the knife from the scabbard. The blade glows. He turns it this way and that, so that a sparkle of lethal light jumps from the zigzag of the blade across walls, floor and ceiling. The boy gasps.)

Son: (Awed) It’s a knife.

Father: When a boy is grown in Persia his father gives him a sword to defend his Faith, to defend his country. You are fourteen, so you get a knife. It will save you from your nemesis. The sword comes later. 

(He returns the knife to the sheath and then with both hands, passes it ceremoniously to his son. There is a tear in the Father’s eye.)

Son: Thank you Father. Thank you God.

FOR THE WHOLE STORY, part of the tale of Guido, the Castrato, click here to BUY THE BOOK

HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL – AND GET IT PUBLISHED

I am always asked, ‘how long did it take you to write?’ ‘What was the process of editing?’ ‘How did you get an agent/publisher?‘

My beautiful RAGAZZO is to be published by Alien Rabbit on 26th September 2024 seven years after I wrote the first word.

On 1st February 2019 I posted ‘My Novel’s Finished!’ and proudly boasted that it had taken two years to write. Little did I know! My baby had so many babies. My hard disk is creaking, (and that’s not just the hard disk of the computer!) with about 16 versions of the RAGAZZO. Edits, re-edits, revisions, rewrites.

My email outbox is jammed with my brilliantly written offers to agents and publishers. My inbox, in contrast, with few responses, mostly form rejections. A few reports from fiction ‘experts’ loving the book, carping about irrelevances to justify the silly fees they demand.

PART 1: THE WRITING

It starts with those magic words, ‘what if – ‘. Sparked, usually by a person, a word, an experience, a location – an idea. Then that seed starts to grow and grow. First, it invades the head, then the heart, and pays a visit to the loins too. Is it a unique Whatif? Is it exciting? Crazy enough? (that’s me – a Whatif doesn’t have to be crazy to be viable! Providing plot and character can be tied in beautifully)

My Whatif was sparked by Julius Caesar. Or, to be accurate, Giulio Cesare by Händel. I watched this clip by mistake: Va Tacito (Glyndebourne) and was tickled as if by a feather at the feet wielded by a eunuch – not just the hilarious Silly Walk but the music! What a great and catchy tune. So I watched the rest of the Opera. And thought, so many great and catchy tunes I had to watch hundreds more Baroque operas. The convoluted, often absurd plots and pomaded puffery of the productions! Even those in modern dress are artificial beyond artifice. And some of the music is heartrending, life changing. Try this: Ombra mai fu with Andreas Scholl.

So I plunged into Wiki to find out why some of these leading men sing like a girl – and discovered that for more than two hundred years thousands of young boys were castrated to preserve their high voices.

This is abuse on a massive scale, for art.

So there are thousands of Whatifs, waiting to be explored.

Each one an amazing story.

Where to start. So I started with two fat rich old men in a brothel long after the practice had been outlawed, exploring a Whatif. Whatif they were to create a Castrato – could they revive the long dead operas of Händel?

Snowball rolls downhill. Uphill. Up the mountain through a valley but up the metaphors already. The writing pours out. Every day I couldn’t wait for the next day to find out what happens next. I don’t plot my books. My characters do. In this case, however, I decided to let Händel plot the finale.

Two years later I had a completed manuscript. It had pictures, too. The pictures in my head were so vivid, I had to search the web for the nearest approximations.

Finishing the writing was only a third of the process. After the creative explosion, comes the cleanup of the editing. Rewrites. Doubts. New ideas.

This is when, dear reader, you MUST find two types of Editor – a Developmental Editor and a Copy Editor. Sometimes they are the same person.

The Developmental editor (there are different titles for this person – ) must check for plot flaws, contradictions, continuity, flow, style, character consistency, believability. Remember, the good liar has to have a good memory. As a writer of fiction, always remember the meaning of the word. (Your job is to reveal the truth through lies, ok?)

The Copy Editor‘s job is to thoroughly check your spelling, grammar and punctuation, paragraphing, layout and the physical appearance of the ms on the page. There are templates available – publishers have very strict rules about the manuscripts they will consider for publication.

Where do you find your editor/s? Google is your friend. There is a massive amount of help out there, and many writers’ organisations who’ll fall over themselves to recommend editors. Google one or many of the following: Reedsy, Jericho Writers, The Literary Consultancy – editing costs between £500 and £2,000 – it’s essential. Sorry. That’s why all these organisations exist – for their cut. Some charge subscriptions. Everyone is after your money, except me.

I found a wonderful editor through Reedsy – Joie Davidow is not just an editor, she’s a novelist and an opera singer. Couldn’t be better! And she loves the book. It takes time, of course. Weeks. During which you live on a diet of fingernails and junk food.

Eventually, your manuscript pops back on your desktop – covered in flourishes of changes, annotations, comments and queries. Nightmare. Time to connect with your editor, to discuss. Time for Zoom. Or Teams. Or that Google Meet thing. Shared screens. Arguments and accommodations. Don’t assume your editor is always right! Don’t assume your editor is always wrong! Above all – don’t let your editor suck your style out of you ok? Although bear in mind that s/he has probably critically edited dozens of books, and does know a thing or two.

The dust settles. The manuscript is finalised. There isn’t another word or paragraph that needs fixing. (Oh yeh? If you’re me, you keep thinking of changes, right up to the Author’s Proof stage. I drive them crazy.)

PART 2: PLACING THE BOOK

So you think you’d like an Agent? All the advice to writers sites will tell you to craft a beautiful ‘Query’. A Query is simply your offer letter, which includes a brief description of the book, why you think that Agent would be right for you, (having carefully checked their website to find an agent who represents writers for your genre), a one page synopsis and the first 10,000 words of your book. There’s TONS of advice on creating the perfect query. There are courses. Google is full to bursting with the stuff. Go on, type ‘perfect query’ into Google.

Reality check: most agents are young women aged 25 – 35, upper class Oxbridge grads with a daddy in publishing. Some of them get up to sixty (60) (6 tea) query letters a day. Many of them will take on a maximum (Max!) of ONE new client a YEAR. These are the gatekeepers. The effective barrier against any new, innovative, creative, experimental fiction.

Still want an Agent? O.K. Get hold of the latest edition of the Writers and Artists’ Yearbook, first. Either a physical copy or online (if you register online you get a discount. I told you everyone wants their cut). I suggest a physical copy from Amazon so you can write all over the entries. Things like ‘sent 3/5/24. NO 5/10/24.’ Or ‘sent 23/6/24. No Reply as at 23/12/25’

Most agents don’t reply.

I tried 23. My Query was superb. Crafted, sculpted adapted to every individual agent I sent it to.

It’s bollox mate. Some people report over 300 queries sent out over a period of 18 months without success. For every JK Rowling (12 publisher rejections and over 60 agent rejections I think) there are thousands of you and mes humping our goods from in-box to in-box.

NEXT STEPS:

1. Craft the perfect ‘Query’ : The Writers’ Digest helps.
2. Send to 10 carefully chosen agents, specialists in your genre, adapted to each. They want 10,000 words, a synopsis and a biog usually.
3. Receive the few rejections they bother to send and have another coffee, glass of wine or favourite drug.
4. Create the perfect ‘Offer’ letter. Send to the few big publishers who accept submissions direct from authors. Some have ‘offer windows’, at particular times of year.
5. Receive the few rejections from those who bother to send them. Make wallpaper from them, then paint the wallpaper black (keep a record!)
6. Do what I did. Throw the whole fandangled fussery into your trash. Have another drug or two.
7. Then do what I did next: write to a few small publishers, the indies who actually care about good writing. Small publishers: Bloomsbury Press was a tiny indy until they said ‘yes’ to JK Rowling. Type UK Independent publishers into Google. Explore their websites, to find out if their genre suits yours. Write your offer from the heart, ignore all the rules.
8. And IGNORE all the ads from the Pay-for Play boys, the Vanity Press, the ones who want your money above all. Up to and until there are no further options, and Auntie has left you a few grand in her will. Some of these are better than others. Some do a good job. Most don’t. Do your research! Find genuine feedback from their authors.
9. Look at the Writer Beware Facebook group for warnings about all the crooks out there. There are fake Agents – clue: they ask for money. Fake publishers – clue: they ask for money. Research anyone who contacts you: basically, if they contact you, rather than you contacting them, they are probably crooks.

GOOD LUCK and MUCH LOVE to my fellow wordsmiths, you brave wonderful people you!