HOW I TURNED FLAMENCO... and had a Flamenco Baby!

It’s been a slow seduction. Starting with a bit of flamenco ‘fusion’ (Ketama) and ‘chill’ (Chambao) bands in the car in Spain. Followed by my partner’s playing of these and some guitarist albums (Vicente Amigo, Tomatito) at home – for years, he says, with no comment from me. That doesn’t mean I didn’t like them, I protest, but they were just warm Spanish background music; I was into musical theatre at the time.

But maybe there was some subliminal education going on there, because when I went to my first Flamenco Festival at London’s Sadler’s Wells I was so inspired that I decided to use flamenco as a resonant element in my new novel. Research was needed, so I started flamenco dance classes (read the August 2011 post!) and had to take a course in Granada – where I… well, started to turn into a flamenca.

The music took over my iPod and car, the classes intensified; I became entranced by the complex rhythms, the excruciating beauty of those exotic chords, the discordance, the sensuality of it all. Nowadays, even the florid cante (singing) – that used to have me giggling and fast-forwarding – hits me in the gut with its raw emotion.

It isn’t just the music. I also seem to have been taken over by flamenco’s live-in-the-moment ways, where the only things to worry about are being fuera de compás (out of time) or being told ‘no me dice nada’ (you’re not saying anything). I write flamenco: I have ideas as to where the story will go, but let the characters come in and do what they will with it – as long as they keep to pace. Strangely, this creates more truthful and intricate plots than I could devise with my brain. I’ve even started to think flamenco, with less fretting over the future…

Is all this a good thing? Well, there are drawbacks. Such as an increase in dust, clutter and unopened letters round the house. And I’m more easily distracted than ever; there are powerful tracks in my car – like ‘Dos Punales’ (Two Daggers) on Josemi Carmona’s ‘Las Pequenas Cosas’ CD – that often have me ending up in the wrong town.

But there’s no turning back now. On February 15^th 2013 my flamenco seduction will have the happy outcome of the birth of my new novel, FLAMENCO BABY. Olé!

 

RESEARCH - HOW FAR WOULD I GO?

Researching for my books: HOW FAR WOULD I GO? I’d never cause anyone any harm or embarrassment – anyone, that is, other than myself. I’ve had painful feet on an intensive Granada flamenco course, a shoulder problem with salsa, and spent hours plodding around Islington and the Brighton seafront in all weathers. But the worst thing I’ve had to do in the name of research was… stalking. I spent a scary, demeaning but ultimately worthwhile forty minutes waiting for a famous ballet dancer to come out of his house. How else could I have written this scene from Men Dancing?  

It was nearly nine o’clock; according to the day-in-the-life interview, Alejandro should have just finished his breakfast – porridge, eggs, toast and coffee – and be getting ready to leave for his 10.30 class at the Royal Opera House.

Clutching my map, I walked the route I’d already committed to memory, slowing as I neared the road and feeling rather queasy. I walked down the odd-number side until I was opposite 214: a Victorian terrace with a red painted door – his favourite colour. In films there’s always a large-windowed cafe opposite the building that’s being watched, but only a post box was on offer here. Or houses are observed from a slouched-down position in a car, but it would have been very hard to explain to Jez why I was driving to work for the first time in seventeen years.

Nine twenty. My heart was beginning to race; what if Alejandro came out and recognised me? Or worse, spotted me through his net curtains and worried for my sanity? I cursed myself for forgetting my sunglasses, but then they would have looked a bit silly with the spitting rain and darkening sky. I let my hair flop over my face and pretended to be consulting my map, while trying to keep watch out of the corner of my eye.

‘Lost? Where you looking for?’ said a voice next to me.

My heart felt like it had jumped right out of my chest. My only chance was to keep looking down, as if mesmerised by the intricate lacework of yellow and white roads.

‘Oh. It’s okay, I think I’ve got it.’

‘O-kay,’ he said with a chuckle, and crossed the road. A tall, dark pony-tailed man, I now saw, in a paint-splattered t-shirt and track suit bottoms. He disappeared into the propped open door of number 212.

I wanted to just keep walking, but my new working hours meant that if I didn’t see this out I’d probably have it hanging over me until the following week. It was a mission that had to be accomplished; a fact-finding one, like finding references in the hospital library, but rather more scary – and as the dark clouds started to give up their wares, a lot more uncomfortable.

Nine thirty. Surely he had to leave before too much longer. I imagined him coming out of the shower, vigorously rubbing himself dry, putting on his dance belt, asking Jessie if his favourite practice clothes were dry. The wave of misery washed over me, followed by the usual irritation; I was becoming familiar with my symptoms. What was the point of this? I had the method, and possibly the participants, but no objectives.

Nine thirty-five. Perhaps he ran on Cuban time. Perhaps he’d leave at the last minute in a contracted cab, the day-in-the-life bit about the bus travel being put in just to make him sound more grounded. In which case he could probably leave at about ten and still make it. I put the map book in my pocket and leaned against a gate post, periodically looking at my watch, taking out my phone and texting, as if the person I was visiting was unexpectedly out. I was getting very wet, my hair slicking down on my head. Come on Alejandro, I thought, I’ve had enough of this.

And then the red door opened. Out came a woman wrestling with an umbrella, followed by another in a hooded mac. They exchanged a few words and went off in different directions. Either could have been Jessie. Seeing the mac I suddenly remembered that my jacket had a hood, but you had to unzip the collar and unfurl it, and later reverse the procedure, so I’d never bothered. But then I hadn’t stood for ages in the rain since I used to watch an 11-year-old Seb in school football matches. I felt for the zip and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. So I yanked the sodden jacket half off my shoulder and craned my neck to see the damn thing, which had stuck its mouth into some of the lining. I wiggled it about to free it, opened the collar and let the flimsy hood fall over my head and face. Cursing  myself for my inattention, I glanced back at number 214.

This time the door was closing, as if someone had arrived, or gone back in because they’d forgotten something. Then a large blue and white CarpetClean van parked in front of me, disgorging two matching blue and white men, and I couldn’t see a thing. I stepped out of the way of a couple of miserable women with buggies and a plump girl posting a bundle of letters. I repeated my act – looking at my watch, pretending to make a call and then a text on my mobile, peering along the street. I was going to have to move down a bit to get a view of 214, but not in the direction I was facing because there was another white van manoeuvring into the space next to CarpetClean. So I turned on my heel to walk the other way – and whacked my shoulder into an elbow.

‘Ay – perdón,’ I heard him say as he strode on, mobile pressed to his ear and a holdall hanging from his shoulder. And I watched him go down the rest of the road, heard him laughing, chatting in Spanish, even his walk looking like it was set to music, and wondered at how all these people in the street could be so unaware of him, who he was, how he was. I put my hand to my shoulder and smiled. He was worth the wait.

HOW I TURNED FLAMENCO…

It’s been a slow seduction. Starting with a bit of flamenco ‘fusion’ (Ketama) and ‘chill’ (Chambao) bands in the car in Spain. Followed by my partner’s playing of these and some guitarist albums (Vicente Amigo, Tomatito) at home – for years, he says, with no comment from me. That doesn’t mean I didn’t like them, I protest, but they were just warm Spanish background music; I was into musical theatre at the time.

But maybe there was some subliminal education going on there, because when I went to my first Flamenco Festival at London’s Sadler’s Wells I was so inspired that I decided to use flamenco as a resonant element in my new novel. Research was needed, so I started flamenco dance classes (read August 2011 post!) and had to take a course in Granada – where I… well, started to turn flamenco.

The music took over my iPod and car, the classes intensified; I became entranced by the complex rhythms, the excruciating beauty of those exotic chords, the discordance, the sensuality of it all. Nowadays, even some of the wailing cante (singing) – that used to have me giggling and fast-forwarding – hits me in the gut with its raw emotion.

It isn’t just the music. I also seem to have been taken over by flamenco’s live-in-the-moment ways, where the only things to worry about are being fuera de compás (out of time) or being told ‘no me dice nada’ (you’re not saying anything). I write flamenco: I have ideas as to where the story will go, but let the characters come in and do what they will with it – as long as they keep to pace. Strangely, this creates more truthful and intricate plots than I could devise with my brain. I’ve even started to think flamenco, with less fretting over the future…

Is all this a good thing? Probably – thanks to my tolerant and equally crazy loved ones – but there are drawbacks. Such as an increase in dust, clutter and unopened letters round the house. And I’m more easily distracted than ever; there are powerful tracks in my car – like ‘Dos Punales’ (Two Daggers?) on Josemi Carmona’s ‘Las Pequenas Cosas’ CD – that often have me ending up in the wrong town.

But one thing’s for certain: my flamenco seduction will have the happy outcome of the birth of my new novel, FLAMENCO BABY. Olé!

WRITING’S JUST DAYDREAMS AND SELLOTAPE; AUTHORING’S ANOTHER MATTER

(Adapted from an interview for Hampton Reviews at http://hampton-networks.com)

Where are you from?

Cobham in Surrey, UK – but the bungalows in our tidy little cul-de-sac have now been replaced by footballer mansions. Brighton is my home town now; I love the pier and find my characters turn up there for important scenes. 

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

An author, of course! I was making sellotaped books at six years old. But when I was about ten my mother sent a story I’d written to Pony Weekly and I got my first rejection; it rather put me off. I switched to music and composing, and then, much later – don’t ask me why – to science… I’m now back where I started, but with someone else sticking the books together.

Tell us about MEN DANCING. And do you have anything new in the works?

MEN DANCING is the story of a married, mother-of-two scientist whose world tilts after a chance meeting with a charismatic male Royal Ballet dancer. I’d call it a darkly humorous romance.

My next novel, FLAMENCO BABY, is still at the tinkering stage. It follows a bodyclock-deafened musician who asks her gay best friend to donate sperm. When he unexpectedly declines and offers a flamenco course instead, his consolation prize changes both their lives… 

Why did you write MEN DANCING?

Like the main character Rosie, I was feverishly in love with ballet and looking for a more creative existence.

How did you come up with the title?

It was originally called The Dancer, as he’s the catalyst for everything that happens. But then I realized it was about her relationships with all of the men in her life, including her sons. In her ballet-obsessed mind she sees them as dance partners.

How did you choose your genre?

I didn’t, it chose me. I always aspired to be quite literary, given my reading tastes, but as soon as I started writing there was this flippancy that wouldn’t go away. I’ve learnt to work with it.

What inspired you to be a writer?

My daydreams; I’ve spent half my life in them. I’ve probably got ‘Maladaptive Daydreaming’, according to the net, but it’s damn useful for writing dialogue.

Who is your favourite character in your books?

I should say Emma, since I took her with me into the second novel; she’s the girlfriend that tells you when you’re talking complete crap. But I also recall being all aflutter before some of the scenes with sexy boy-man ballet dancer Alejandro…

Have you ever used contemporary events or stories “ripped from the headlines” in your work?

Headlines – no, and I’m not likely to as I never know what’s going on. But contemporary events – yes, if you count the programming at Sadler’s Wells Theatre and the Royal Opera House. Oh, and the Spanish World Cup matches that I had on the telly in FLAMENCO BABY. For both novels I put all these dates in a diary – along with school and public holidays, Spanish fiestas, music / literary festivals and any other real dates that may affect my characters’ lives. I seldom change these things; they act as a comforting constraint – stopping me sitting there staring at a blank page of countless possibilities. 

What's the weirdest thing you've ever done in the name of research?

I stalked a famous dancer’s London home for what felt like all morning but was in fact less than an hour. It was awful: scary and demeaning. And of course it rained and there was no café opposite like in the films…

Do you ever suffer from writer's block?

No. I have periods where I mull rather than actually scribble or type, but that’s part of the process.

Who is your favorite author? What books have most influenced your life?

Penelope Lively. I find her writing deliciously elegant, insightful, humorous, moving… Uh, I have one massive crush on this lady! Can’t wait to read her new novel HOW IT ALL BEGAN, out this month. But as for books that have most influenced my life… well, my own humble produce I suppose.

Is there anything you find particularly challenging about writing?

No, writing is all pleasure for me. But authoring is another matter, lots of challenges there – mastering social media, bookshop events (I’m more shy than I let on). But the worst? I can’t stand it when people ask who my characters ‘are’, and the way they assume that everything my female protagonist does is something I’ve actually done or (worse) want to do. Listen once and for all, people: it’s made up! Obviously I write about things I need to explore, but it’s like dreaming — you shouldn’t take it literally.

What tools do you feel are must-haves for writers?

A computer obviously. But also a tactile elasticated notebook you can stick a (preferably coordinating colour) pen in, with a pocket in the inside back cover for keeping a print out of your diary and last chapter. I never go anywhere without it.

What advice would you give to writers just starting out?

Skim read about five books on how to write novels, then find something you really have to write about. Mull over a plot for a few months, but don’t get too bogged down with the details – and particularly the ending – as once your characters come to life they’ll do what the hell they like with it. Then just start; there’ll never be a perfect time, so why put it off?

How did you deal with rejection letters?

Badly. Still traumatized by Pony Weekly…

HOW COME YOU'VE SUDDENLY GOT A... BOOK?

Like many people, I always thought I’d write a novel one day; I just needed to be older, wiser and a lot less busy. But a few years ago I was visited by an idea that came crashing in and didn’t care about these things – or the fact that I was supposed to be concentrating at a work conference abroad. But perhaps I’d seen it coming, because in the bag with the cures for unexpected afflictions I’d packed a little notebook-with-an-attached-pen.

      Suddenly everything other than writing was unbearably irksome. I never doubted that I’d reach the end; it wasn’t a case of hard work or self-discipline, I just had to follow the natural course of the thing. It took only six months. Elation.

      But then depression; I needed another idea, quickly. And I needed to get MEN DANCING published, so I’d have a chance of being able to afford to spend more of my week writing. So after experiences with literary consultancies that ranged from bad (don’t ask) to invaluable (Cornerstones), I bought the Writer’s Handbook and started sending submissions to literary agents.

      A lot of them. In retrospect it was crazy of me to have put myself through this so many times, but among the standard rejections there were positive remarks that kept giving me hope. Anyway, by then I had the welcome distraction of researching and starting my second novel. Then it happened: two literary agencies asked to read the full manuscript, and there were four agonizing months… and two more ‘no’s, even if one wants to read my second novel...

      I’d had enough. Sod the agents, I thought, you don’t need one for independent publishers. Although they are also neck-high in submissions… Then just when I was considering self-publishing, two independents offered to publish my novel. As I believe is common for these smaller publishers, they offered no advance but a generous percentage of the sales.
      I chose Indepenpress; I’d liked them at the London Book Fair, and by coincidence they’re based in Brighton so it’s easy for me to pop in and see them. I’ve been delighted with the friendly and helpful attention I’ve received – and their tolerance of my occasional wobbles about one thing or another. I don’t know how I would have coped with a big publisher for whom I was just an expendable Grand National horse; I’ve heard awful stories about lack of involvement in the cover design and inadequate marketing. Okay, my independent can’t afford to buy me on to the 3-for-2 table, or put up huge posters at all the London stations. But at least I’ve been involved in everything and don’t have to live with a book cover showing a male ballet dancer’s buttocks.