My Seville

For five years I worked on a novel—a series of novels—that sprung from and kept returning to Seville—my brother-in-law's home, a favorite destination. I've never left that novel, not entirely. I've always looked for another way in.

Yesterday I printed hundreds and hundreds of pages of my Seville. I sat in a quiet room and began again. Writing olive trees and gypsy songs. Writing down flamenco.

Flamenco is the bend of the body. The play of the soul upon the face. The invention of the moment. She wore her dress like an animal she could not trust. She worked her castanets.