Ra Back Home!
I got an email today from a writer called Alan Emmins who was asking me about promoting his book. It's called Mop Men. I reckon he must have got to me through putting Simon Trewin of PFD into Google. Simon Trewin is his agent. I sent a package with three chapters to PFD in February and I've heard zilch since. Simon Trewin might have sent me a nice email though. Pat Kavanagh of PFD hasn't replied to my proposal of marraige. I'm not sure if this is because I can't spell marriage, but I suspect more than this may be involved. Actually, the idea of anyone asking my advice about books, promoting them or otherwise, is hilarious.
I feel as if it's a million years since I was at the Samye Ling. Sensei had got a Bulldog 44. This sounds like a big gun. If they were legal here, I could get one and shoot some people. Then I could get put in jail for life. For a long time I've thought the only way I'd ever get enlightened was to spend some time in solitary confinement. Tilopa, the grandaddy of the 6 dharmas of Naropa, spent twelve years chained to a wall. With a Bulldog 44 I could get some people to do that for me.
Adolf is blogging about losing his virginity in the early days of the Third Reich. He has posted a photie of his poor partner though where she's put the white stick I wouldn't really like to conjecture.
I sent off another twenty emails to folk on the site Everyone Who is Anyone. Eight of them came back as duff links. Despite that, if I do manage to get an agent using that site, I will have to send the boy who set up the site a few bob. I must have sent emails to about sixty agents on the site by this time. So far I have had responses from Ben Mason, Euan Thorneycroft, and maybe Robin Jones, or Wade. Also, Will Francis. I think I sent them all email attachments of the first three chapters of my new novel and not a cheep out of any of them!! I think in a couple of weeks I should have got nothing from everyone on the site, which should be every agent in Britain. After that, I'll start on publishers and ask them if they ever publish books without agents contacting them. Of course, they'll lie. Getting a kidsbook published without an agent seems to be impossible. Maybe adult books are different. I'd like to find out before I finish the book. If I'm not going to get it published, that's okay. I'll get one of them big guns and smuggle it in.
I feel as if it's a million years since I was at the Samye Ling. Sensei had got a Bulldog 44. This sounds like a big gun. If they were legal here, I could get one and shoot some people. Then I could get put in jail for life. For a long time I've thought the only way I'd ever get enlightened was to spend some time in solitary confinement. Tilopa, the grandaddy of the 6 dharmas of Naropa, spent twelve years chained to a wall. With a Bulldog 44 I could get some people to do that for me.
Adolf is blogging about losing his virginity in the early days of the Third Reich. He has posted a photie of his poor partner though where she's put the white stick I wouldn't really like to conjecture.
I sent off another twenty emails to folk on the site Everyone Who is Anyone. Eight of them came back as duff links. Despite that, if I do manage to get an agent using that site, I will have to send the boy who set up the site a few bob. I must have sent emails to about sixty agents on the site by this time. So far I have had responses from Ben Mason, Euan Thorneycroft, and maybe Robin Jones, or Wade. Also, Will Francis. I think I sent them all email attachments of the first three chapters of my new novel and not a cheep out of any of them!! I think in a couple of weeks I should have got nothing from everyone on the site, which should be every agent in Britain. After that, I'll start on publishers and ask them if they ever publish books without agents contacting them. Of course, they'll lie. Getting a kidsbook published without an agent seems to be impossible. Maybe adult books are different. I'd like to find out before I finish the book. If I'm not going to get it published, that's okay. I'll get one of them big guns and smuggle it in.
posted by Hotboy at 5:14 PM
6 Comments:
I say, well done Hotboy old chap, on reaching new levels of bliss.
I've just finished reading a biography of an old family friend, Colin Turnbull. He was another one for all this meditation lark. Became a Getsul, took the vows and moved to Nechung in Dharasala for a while, where I bumped into him in the early nineties. Until I read the biog, I hadn't realised he's fallen out with Thubten, though.
My dear father, MM II (known to us as 'Paw Paw', due to his liking for the fruit) knew Colin when he worked with Patrick Putnam in the Congo, in the early fifties.
Poor Patrick - went a bit peculiar due to that parasitic infection in his brain.
Looking at that picture of Patrick, though, my goodness - spitting image for someone I used to play bridge with!
MM III
Postscript.
I should point out that Patrick is the one on the left, in that photo.
MM III
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
MM III. I have deleted my previous comment, which I posted before I had "twigged".
I have now had a closer look at your "Colin Turnbull" website. I hadn't realised Michael Palin had written some new Ripping Yarns for the web.
It's so well done, many readers will conclude it's true, but I think that his love affair with the gay pygmy, and apprenticeship with the Dalai Lama's eldest brother tends to give the game away. Not even hotboy would try that with a straight face.
Full marks though to the writer, Colin's right up there with 'Golden Gordon' and 'Roger Of The Raj'.
robmcj
You've completely lost me there, old bean.
Good old Colin, though I suspect he too suffered from the brain parasites towards the end, wrote a number of popular anthropological works, including 'The Mountain People' about the Ik of north east Uganda. Never went there myself. Horrible place. No bars. No nothing. And before that, 'The Forrest People' about the (then)Congo (better place, by the way).
There's no proof that he consumated an affair with a gay pigmy.
Neither did he write 'The Village People'.
Dear old Peter Brook, with whom I travelled to Africa (described in "Conference of the birds") performed a play about the Ik in Paris, called 'Les Iks' - details here.
MM III
mm iii
I enjoyed Peter's Mahabharata in Glasgow, was that after your time with him?
robmcj
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