Background to the Story
Hopefully, you’re sufficiently intrigued by now to simply sample The Fictionary for yourself.
It occurred to me, however, that some of you might wish to know a bit more about the main characters and, perhaps, a bit more information regarding how the story came about.
The ‘story-of-the-story’ began way back in the mid-1970s in a ‘cosy’ student’s room in Waveney Terrace at the University of East Anglia. I was a great fan of Nick Drake at the time (still am!); so much so I even bothered to listen to the lyrics! One stanza in particular, from a song called "Three Hours", for some strange reason kept lingering in my mind . . .
East from the city
And down to the cave
In search of a master
In search of a slave
The same song also gave me the name of my first principal character – ‘Jacomo’, who was eventually to undergo a complete metamorphosis of character and personality – as well as a sex change – to become ‘Codoné’ (more about that later!).
It was from around that period of my life onwards that the various ingredients of The Fictionary started to assemble in my mind; but they didn’t really begin to take form until several years later – 1983 to be precise – when a key element fell into place . . . Œfiauce!
I was living in Hong Kong at the time (North Point on Hong Kong Island, in case you are familiar with the area); and it was there – in the middle of the typhoon season – that he and I first became acquainted.
Sudden squalls of sharp, cutting rain and fierce gusts of wind were rampaging through the deserted streets like marauding pirates; rattling the ubiquitous neon lights and plucking the odd waif of a plastic bag up high into the air to play with it mercilessly before tossing it back into the gutter, all sad and sodden.
In the midst of the cold and wet; I was standing in a huddle of people in the centre of a wide street, failing to find shelter as I waited for a tram. Suddenly, one of the huge hoarding-posters that the Chinese used to advertise movies – hand-painted on some kind of tarpaulin and stretched to cover the entire side of a building ten stories high – billowed so violently in the rampant storm, it broke free and started flapping wildly like a sail that’s lost its mainstay. Along with the rest of my shelter-seeking-huddle, I looked on helplessly, wondering how long the remaining ties would hold; and it was while I was watching it fluttering like a pennant intent on joining with nature and heading out to sea; that I noticed the movie’s title . . . ‘Oefiauce’, starring Jan-Michael Vincent.
"What a curious title!" I thought. "I wonder what that is about?"
It wasn’t till several days later that I spotted the movie being advertised in the Hong Kong press. There was the same banner poster properly reproduced in its corporate livery this time with Jan-Michael Vincent looking grim and meaningfully holding a stick of some kind against a backdrop of some moustachioed, Che Guevara-type, Latinate menace; and the strap-line, "There comes a time when we have to stand up and be counted. This is the story of one man who did." But, the title was not ‘Oefiauce’ – I did a double take – it was ‘Defiance’!
So amused was I at this apparent gaff; I actually made a point of re-tracing my steps and returning to the tram stop in question, to make sure I’d really seen what I thought I’d seen. Perhaps I had read it wrongly? Perhaps the rain had blurred the lettering in the title? But, no – I’d read it as it was written. There, in the now dead stillness of the more normal humid heat of a long Hong Kong summer; securely re-tied and proudly broadcasting its message on behalf of the local Chinese cinema; in bold letters each one over six feet high and wide – was ‘Oefiauce’!
"Hmm." I thought. "That might make a good name for a rather enigmatic central character." And, he’s been with me ever since.
Now, let us return to Codoné.
By 1985: my first marriage had ended; I’d moved to Nagoya in Japan; and I’d completed the first draft of The Fictionary (which I shall hereafter refer to as ‘Jacomo’s Fictionary’); all whilst sitting cross-legged on in a tatami-matted room, bashing away at an old portable typewriter with a naff ‘Q’ and a crooked ‘Y’ . . . most evenings . . . well into the night . . . for weeks on end . . . drinking copious amounts of Japanese wine . . . and utilising acres of Typpex – in triplicate!
I actually got as far as submitting Jacomo’s Fictionary to a UK publisher; but, even as it was winging its quite-expensive-in-those-days way across oceans and continents; only to trigger the inevitable, obligatory, cursory rejection slip – I became seriously distracted from my quest.
Relieved to have gotten Jacomo’s Fictionary out of the way; I resolved to catch up on my reading, which led me, as was my historical wont, to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s "Historia Regum Britanniae (History of the Kings of Britain)", which, in turn, led me to the legend of St. Ursula and her 11,000 martyr-virgins.
The rest, as they say, is history – well, historical fiction, actually – because, from that moment on I was Ursula-obsessed! Jacomo’s Fictionary was out of my mind, my priorities and my life; and all things Ursuline were in . . . and remained very ‘in’ for twenty years!
Eventually, in 2006; after seven years’ research, three years’ writing, three years re-writing and many years’ publisher-hunting, ‘Ursula’s Maiden Army’ (as my publisher dubbed it) came out in the US; as did ‘Das Heer der Jungfrauen’ (Army of Virgins) in Germany and then, later, ‘L’esercito delle Fanciulle’ (Army of Young Girls) in Italy!
Mega-distraction over; life finally returned to normal. Then, one day, a dim memory stirred deep within me. A curiosity came over me and I suddenly thought, "Whatever happened to that manuscript?" I knew where to look, of course; and, there, at the bottom of a long-undisturbed box, in a corner of the attic behind a pile of old curtains; lost amidst the clutter of other discarded mementos from my days in the Orient (and the odd dead spider) – I found it . . . covered in dust and cobwebs and stained by age; its old, crooked typing now faded on discoloured paper with curling edges.
It was a lazy, sunny Sunday afternoon, and I was in the mood for a trip down memory lane – as well as a long cool beer. Blowing away the cobwebs and dust, I curled up in the garden swing seat and re-read ‘The Fictionary’ for the first time in twenty years, expecting, perhaps, to be mildly amused by my primitive efforts – or, much more likely, highly embarrassed. But, in the event, I was actually in for a pleasant surprise. "Hey!" I thought after skim reading the first few chapters, "There’s some quite good stuff there . . . especially the funny bits!"
Jacomo’s Fictionary desperately needed re-writing – wholesale – but the basic concept and structure still held unexpectedly, and pleasantly, true. The main change needed was the tone. It needed to be re-cast completely in more of a ‘fun’ mold. The overly-serious bits (I tended to be a bit zealous when I was in my 20’s; hot-headed Marxist and all that!) needed to be replaced by more light-hearted motifs. The funny parts needed to be even funnier, and there needed to be more of them. But, the change that was most obviously required – so my bones were telling me – was that Jacomo needed to be a woman!
And, it just so happened that, by sheer coincidence, the young woman I needed was waiting in the wings – stage left!
My acquaintance with Codoné went back nearly ten years – and I owed it entirely to that most English of English poets, John Betjeman.
The name ‘Codoné’ is actually ‘Enodoc’ spelled backwards and is taken from one of my favourite haunts – the delightful and charming church of St. Enodoc; the place where John himself chose to rest, in ageless wonder.
He chose his spot very wisely; for, it is, indeed, one of the loveliest places on God’s earth. My wife and I visit it whenever we can. We love the sensation of becoming lost – and somehow suspended in time and sunshine – as you meander towards its crooked spire that protrudes like a cheeky beacon marking a tiny corner of Heaven that has gotten itself nice-and-cosy-and-settled amidst the gentle sand dunes that dwell in never–ending peace and slumber alongside the Camel estuary on the opposite shore from Padstow in Cornwall.