(on the page)
For many years I've been at work on a novel that takes place in Seville. Last April, finding myself one draft away from sharing the book with editors, I put it aside, again, to focus on other things.
But it's now the new year, and the book beckons—perhaps a dozen small scenes to work in. Printing it out, settling in, is like returning to an old and trusted friend.
Here, below, are the opening lines. But before I get too nested in Seville, I'm headed to the Big Apple today to see West Side Story, a gift from my brother who remembers my ice skating days and my final choreographed performance to "Somewhere," my favorite song from that brilliant show. I love "Somewhere" so much that I scened it into Undercover, my quasi-autobiographical novel about a Radnor High School poet who finds her voice (and one idea of beauty) when she learns to skate.
The streets of Seville are the size of sidewalks, and there are alleys that leak off from the street, and in the back of the cab, where I sit alone, I watch the past rushing by. I roll the smeary window down, stick out my arm. I run one finger against the crumble-down walls. Touch them for you: Hello, Seville.
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Oh my goodness, was it cold in New York City—the confetti Eve aftermath kicked up with the Times Square wind, mixed in with the slightest suggestion of new snow (that could not fall, could only whip, for the wind came in that hard).
