How Maestro and Tidldibab Was Created: Behind the Scenes of the Novel

A conversation with dr. Eva Premk Bogataj, the author of Maestro and Tidldibab

How did it all begin?

After reviewing my monograph on Prof. Dr. Marja Boršnik, the First Lady of Slovenian Slavic Studies (co-authored with DDr. Francka Premk), Ljuben Dimkaroski — a multi-talented musician, trumpeter, researcher, visionary, a man of profound inner depth — suggested that I write a book about him as well.

Was it a casual suggestion or a clear intention?

He was very determined. He told me to choose the timing, form, tone, narrative path, structure — everything.The only thing he stated with absolute precision was who he wanted in the book, and who he did not.

And then he added a sentence that still gives me chills:“I will pay you.”

I remember thinking, How will he pay me if he is dying?

It wasn’t just a gesture; it was responsibility — and absolute trust.

How long did the conversations last? How much material was created?

We recorded more than sixty conversations — some lasting several hours.

Long, dense talks saturated with music, memories, doubts, and visions.

At that time, there was no software that could transcribe audio automatically.

I transcribed everything by hand — often late into the night.

It took three years before these conversations even became organized, readable material.

And then seven years of writing?

Always “in between life,” whenever I could find time.

For seven years I built a biography — and when it was almost finished, I realized, with the instincts of a former literary critic, that something essential was missing.

It simply… didn’t breathe.

What was the turning point — the moment you shifted from biography to novel?

A night.

One of those nights spent thinking and traveling between worlds.

Somewhere between wakefulness and dreaming.

And suddenly it became clear: this wouldn’t be a biography.

It could only be a novel.

A novel that weaves together reality, myth, history, sound, and inner worlds.

And you started again?

Completely from scratch. A blank page.

I began writing all over again.

And the story flowed — as if it had been waiting for me to remove the unnecessary barrier of wanting to mummify reality.

Science plays an important role in the novel. How did you approach the research?

As a linguist and literary scholar, I had to enter completely new fields.

But since this is what I’ve been doing for twenty years — shifting between domains — it felt natural to me.

I studied paleogenetics — how Neanderthal traces live within us.

Paleoanthropology — how Neanderthals thought, felt, created.

The archaeology of Divje Babe.

Archaeomusicology — the science of prehistoric sound.

I am not a specialist in any of these fields, but I can navigate them with ease now.

Why such depth?

Because I had to answer a question many are afraid to ask: Why is Slovenian academia hesitant to declare the Divje Babe find the oldest musical instrument in the world?

Why have archaeologists clearly proven that it is an instrument, yet musicologists do not dare take a stance?

Why isn’t every Slovenian proud of the world’s oldest instrument — the way the Swiss are proud of their watches, cheese, and chocolate?

Once you understand the political background and the economic impact of such titles, it becomes clear how geopolitical sound really is — and what it means to have the cradle of music in Slovenia.

This is no small thing.

You once said that sports helped you too?

Sports have always been part of me, just like art.

It’s true that recreational cycling marathons gave me confidence — maybe also rhythm, structure, discipline.

And rhythm is the heart of every narrative.

What was the writing process like?

It was work that joined two poles: strict scholarly research and complete playfulness.

I had to immerse myself in a period of history that was foreign to me, in discoveries about evolution; I did not know enough about music, nor about the politics and culture surrounding the topic — and at the same time I had to preserve intuition, lyricism, and freedom.

The novel has 364 pages?

Yes. Every chapter contains connections to other literary or non-literary works.

The novel carries many lives.

Now I understand why Ljuben Dimkaroski wanted me to be the one to write the book.

I’m a bridge between worlds.

I connect languages, culture, music, history, science, metaphysics, ethics — and I’ve been writing since childhood.

This book needed all of that.

Perhaps that is also why no one else wanted to write it.

Did you try to pass the story on to someone else?

I did. I offered my collected materials to several well-known writers and public figures.

All of them declined.

The topic was too heavy.

The story too demanding.

The responsibility enormous.

A novel about the oldest musical instrument in the world can only be written once for the first time.

And from that weight came the lightness?

In a way.

When the novel was finished, I felt for the first time that it breathed.

That it had several layers, as a classical novel should.

That every reader could find their own truth.

I do not impose mine.

You sent the manuscript to several publishers?

To six. Five responded positively.I chose Lux&Rosen — because they are young, agile, and have a clear, determined vision: to bring this story to readers of different cultures and languages.

And today? How do you see the novel?

Maestro in Tidldibab has grown beyond the boundaries of a book.

It is becoming a bridge between worlds — between science and myth, prehistory and the present, sound and silence.

It is a story about a human being, about melody, and about the courage to look deeper.

It is grief. It is inspiration. It is tragedy. It is death. It is life. It is faith. It is a memory that refuses to go quiet. It is a question that won’t let you go. It is a glimpse into human vulnerability — and proof that there is more light in us than we dare admit.

The novel is also an homage to creativity — that wild, primal force that survives all regimes, wars, and illnesses.

It is an attempt to understand why a sound from prehistory still shakes our bones today.

Why music transcends language.

Why art remains when everything else falls apart.

And it is a journey: through archaeology and Balkan history, through illness, memories, metaphysical traditions, through the caves of Divje Babe and the daily struggle for meaning.

It is a book that does not ask whether you have time for it — but whether you have the courage to look within.