Breaking in as a travel writer is virtually impossible these days. No publisher worth their salt will take an unsolicited manuscript, and getting a commission is out of the question. You have to get an agent and rely on them to sweet talk the publisher into taking you on. But getting an agent is no easy task in itself.

I wrote BEYOND THE DEVIL'S TEETH when I was twenty-three. I had no agent, no publisher, but a raging enthusiasm to produce a book from adventures in India, Africa and South America. I had been obsessed by the theme of Gondwanaland and the Indian tribe of the Gonds for a long while, and had made journeys based loosely on these themes.

The problem was that once I'd finished the book, no publisher would take it on. I sent the manuscript to dozens of publishing houses -- great and small -- and received the standard letters of refusal. After that I tried getting an agent. There was still no luck. I was turned down by absolutely everyone, and became depressed about it. I thought the book would never get in print. I put it on a shelf for three years and tried not to think about it. Then, one morning, I had an idea. I decided to get a letter-heading printed, a fabulous one, with many colours and expensive-looking type. It announced the services of a media agency, under the direction of a ficticious chief agent, Mr. William Watkins.

Then I sent the manuscript to as many famous people I could think of, including former US Presidents, chiefs of companies, illustrious explorers and vissionaries. A small percentage of them wrote back with very good quotes for use in publicity. I printed these on large sheets of brown wrapping paper, wrapped BEYOND THE DEVIL'S TEETH inside, and sent them out again from my own literary agency.

Then I waited. Days passed. After that a week or two. Then one afternoon I was sitting in my studio flat in north London eating Campbell's soup from a can, wondering how I would ever make enough money to travel again, when the telephone rang. I'd just about given up on getting the book published. I picked up the receiver. It was a big publisher calling from the top floor of a tall glass building in the West End. A publisher had never called me before. The woman at the other end asked to be put through William Watkins, the chief agent. She obviously took me for a receptionist. Thinking as fast as I could, I asked the lady to hold on while I put her through. Realising that an important chief agent would never be instantly available, I laid the receiver on a chair and took the time to finish my cold soup. After three or four minutes, I picked it up, cleared my throat, and replied in the silky smooth obsequious voice I assumed my ficticious agent Watkins would have. Yes, I confirmed, I was the agent for the up and coming genius Tahir Shah and, yes, BEYOND THE DEVIL'S TEETH was still available, although I said, lying, the work had sparked considerable interest in the literary establishment.

The woman, a commissioning editor, said she very much wanted to meet Tahir Shah. She asked if I could find out when he was available.
'He is always available,' I said bruskly.
'Are you sure?' she replied.
'Quite certain.'
'Always?'
'Always!'
We made an appointment for the next afternoon. Before hanging up, the editor said that, as the agent, I was quite free to come along to the meeting as well.
'Madame,' I lisped, 'how very kind, but it may be rather difficult for me to attend as well as Mr. Shah.'