Cherry Radford's Blog, page 4
March 28, 2012
A CHANCE MEETING...
In April I celebrate the month I started writing Men Dancing, a novel born from the moment I realised that ballet dancer Carlos Acosta must get my train every time he goes to Gatwick…
April is also the month in which the Men Dancing story begins, so it’s a good time to start reading it! My publisher is happy to help some of you do that – by giving away five signed copies. All you have to do is write a few lines telling us which performer you’d like to meet on a train and how you think it would go! Send them to my website http://www.cherryradford.co.uk/#/abou... or Facebook Author Page http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Cher.... It doesn’t matter where you are in the world, and multiple entries are permitted! The winners will be announced on Sunday 15th April.
Meanwhile, here’s what happened in Men Dancing:
I shouldn’t have been on that train. And I don’t like aisle seats, but the train was full of whooping, rucksacked teenage boys; I had to sit down next to one of those annoying men with their legs wide open to accommodate their wares. He was engrossed in a book, and apparently happy to let me perch half-bottomed on my seat to minimise contact with his admittedly well-sculpted thighs.
I took out my research papers but thought, sod it, let’s speed up this train, and switched them for the Margot Fonteyn biography. And then I peeled the lid off my coffee and groaned. ‘Want a black coffee anyone? They gave me the wrong one.’
The boys opposite were lolling against each other, guffawing at images on a mobile phone. So I swivelled and held it out to thigh-man, who thanked me with a nod and a flash of curly-lashed black eyes before grabbing the cup. It was enough: my heart thudded, my cheeks boiled. He seemed smaller and slighter. Instead of the famously broad grin there was a closed, weary smile. But it was definitely him. I’d seen him twice that season alone from the front row of the Royal Opera House; his raw masculinity the cause of much prurient speculation in the after-show dinners with Emma.
‘Sugar?’
‘No, no,’ he said into the cup. Of course not; a cruel review had commented on his increasing heaviness, although, glancing down his tightly shirted and jeaned form, there was no evidence of it.
I considered pretending I didn’t know who he was, but my pink cheeks and Fonteyn book were going to make that somewhat unlikely. I wished I’d brushed my hair properly and put black tights on my April legs, tried to think of something to say.
But then, exhaling loudly with the pleasure of the coffee, he prodded Margot’s face.‘Is good?’
‘Fascinating.’
A lopsided grin. ‘And she has... you know, what happen with her and Nureyev?’
‘Er... It’s not clear. She denied it. And, according to his biography, so did he... but not always... he claims she miscarried his baby.’ I was loosening up, proud to share my research. I took a breath and forged on: ‘But frankly, she slept with most of her other partners, so why on earth wouldn’t she?’
‘Exactamente. Why not?’ He laughed, clearly comfortable in this territory. ‘Worked hard, she deserve it.’ He tilted his head back on his long, powerful neck and gulped down more coffee.
The boy opposite was arranging his hands in a heart shape and pointing at Alejandro and then me, prompting a loud snort and rocking from his mate.
Then I thought that was probably it, so I put my bag on the floor and opened my book to read. Or pretend to. But his book was closed. I sneaked a look at him and found myself meeting his gaze.
‘Are you going to Gatwick? Going back home?’ This was probably alright: the documentary had dwelt on his homesickness for Cuba.
There was a beat where he seemed to hesitate, registering that I knew who he was. ‘Yes. Rehearse, performance, then little holiday before return for Giselle. You go to Opera House?’
‘Yes, but more often to Sadler’s Wells – just down the road from work. Easier to persuade friends to come with me. But I went to Manon a couple of weeks ago – can never tire of that ballet.’
‘Mine?’ he asked, a slight grin playing around his lips.
‘No. But I saw you in it last year.’
‘So why not this time? You don’t like my Des Grieux?’
This was weird: why on earth should he care what some woman on a train thought about one of his roles, when all his performances sold out months ahead?
‘No... I mean, yes, I did... But I saw you in Mayerling, I really liked you in that.’ Liked you: rather inappropriate for such a violent, passionate role.
We were coming into East Croydon. Half way to Gatwick. I wondered how I was going to feel when he got out: certainly not in a fit state for reading the research papers.
‘Why you not like my Des Grieux?’ he persisted.
‘I didn’t say that!’ I said, forcing a laugh, but he didn’t return my smile. The critics might like an occasional carp, but maybe it’d been a long time since anyone had been less than ecstatic about his performance to his face. Des Grieux: the lovesick, gullible theology student. I’d said to Emma, ‘He just doesn’t do humility, does he? Nice costume though.’
‘I dunno. He’s a passive, soppy character. Not really you.’ I was relieved to see him nodding. ‘But what do I know?’
‘I think you’re right.’ He looked down at my bag. ‘So where you work?’
‘At a hospital in the City. I do research... on contact lens-related infections.’
‘You are doctor?’
‘A vision scientist.’
‘Contact lenses are dangerous?’
‘Not very often. But a lot of people wear them, so we have to find out how to make them safer.’
‘And after a day of that, you eye people go to Sadler’s Wells. I like that. I like the audience there – all different, and young, not like at Opera House – lots of crazy ladies.’
‘Don’t say that, I’m one of those and proud of it!’
‘No, no!’ he said, laughing, his large warm hand shaking my shoulder rather more powerfully than intended, my book falling between my legs to the floor with a loud clap.
‘Ay – perdón.’ He swiftly bent down to pick it up, the hairs on his arm brushing against my knee with pinprick intensity, and the back of his curly dark head so near, and so neat and boyish, that I wanted to touch him there. And then he was up again, putting the book into my hand with an unexpectedly embarrassed smile that left me giddy.
‘So... you must find all this difficult to cope with,’ I said, waving my hand at the windowful of blasted trees and slanting rain. The climate: couldn’t I do better than that? He followed my hand obediently and looked outside, then back at me with a furrowed brow. ‘The weather. Not what you’re used to.’
‘Oh,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘Yes. Is very difficult. Easy to be sad. And I miss the sea too.’ He was reaching into his pocket; in my stupefied state I thought he was going to take out a photo of home. ‘We have to show ticket,’ he said, his hot breath on my ear as he yanked the ticket out, along with a shower of coins that clattered and twirled on the floor. I bent down to help him pick them up. They were all over the place, but somehow we both went for the same coin and collided.
‘Ow!’ We clutched our heads.
‘Aren’t you dancers supposed to have spatial awareness or something?’ I asked, laughing with the pain. ‘How’s yours?’
‘Is bad. Maybe piece of your brain go in my head. I will know if now I can do matemáticas.’
‘Or maybe a bit of yours has gone in mine.’
‘Well...’ started Alejandro, his hand to his mouth, but the ticket inspector was suddenly in front of us.
I opened my bag and dug around, lifting out a cardigan and a bag of Maltesers before finding my pass and letting the man move on.
‘Ah! Is big bag.’ My turn to look puzzled. ‘I like these very much,’ he said, pointing to the Maltesers. ‘Please, we share now, together?’
I looked at his face: the broad grin, the eyebrows crinkled in mock despair. And I thought, what I want to share now, together, is a kiss. Nothing major, just a firm brief one, with my hands either side of your cheeky face. Or maybe in your soft curly hair.
‘Why not,’ I said, and started trying to open the bag. I usually did it with my teeth, but that didn’t seem hygienic for sharing. So I quickly ripped along the dotted line, even though I’d made that mistake before... ‘Oh for f…!’ Chocolate balls sprayed into the air, pattered on to the floor and started running madly all over the place.
‘Sorry,’ I said to the smart elderly ladies the other side of the carriage, and watched as they carefully levered themselves up and crunched their way out of the area. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, turning to Alejandro, but he had his head down, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Then he looked up and mock-punched me. ‘Why you do this? I’m hungry.’
‘I don’t know, I’m always dropping everything.’
‘Yes, I am the same. Not ballerinas of course, or I don’t have job, but all other things.’ He took the ripped bag from me. ‘Is there more? Ah yes... siete, ocho, nueve... four and half each.’
He turned to me, took my wrist as I cupped my hand. We ate two at a time and murmured our pleasure.
‘Why you think we drop everything?’ he asked.
‘I think... well, for me... it’s because I’m always thinking of something else. Either I’m too excited about something, or I’m in a daydream.’ I blushed as it occurred to me that I was talking to the likely new star of my daydreams.
But he was looking down, pensive. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think this is for me too.’ I tried to imagine what he might daydream about: surely he already had everything he wanted? He took the last ball out of the bag. ‘So... you want first or second half?’ He was looking back up at me with a broad grin.
‘What?’
‘Is skill I have, I go first.’ He put the Malteser to his mouth and bit it, then proudly held up a perfect semi-sphere between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Abre. Open.’
‘It’s okay, you—’
‘No. I do this for you. Open.’ I felt his steadying hand on my arm, his fingers on my lips as he put it in my mouth. We smiled at each other, looked down at our laps. He put his head on one side and seemed to be about to say something.
But then I noticed the blue Gatwick signs, saw him follow my gaze, heard the train’s rhythm slowing. I sat in a daze and watched him stand up and reach for his bag on the luggage rack – revealing a taut band of golden tummy and the black band of his boxers – and lift it down, pillow-light, onto the opposite seat. I was mumbling something like ‘Here you are then’ when he grabbed my hand and kissed it firmly, saying ‘Encantado’. And then, with the fluency of a cat, he was out of the train and striding swiftly away down the platform.
It was over. He hadn’t asked for my name; he hadn’t looked back. Why would he? It didn’t matter: it had been special, something I would always remember. But it was suddenly very cold in the train. I moved over to his seat and felt his warmth on my thighs, smiled at the Maltesers still comically rolling around the floor, put a finger to my lips. His scent stayed with me. So did his grin and laughter. Somehow he wasn’t going away. It couldn’t be over.
April is also the month in which the Men Dancing story begins, so it’s a good time to start reading it! My publisher is happy to help some of you do that – by giving away five signed copies. All you have to do is write a few lines telling us which performer you’d like to meet on a train and how you think it would go! Send them to my website http://www.cherryradford.co.uk/#/abou... or Facebook Author Page http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Cher.... It doesn’t matter where you are in the world, and multiple entries are permitted! The winners will be announced on Sunday 15th April.
Meanwhile, here’s what happened in Men Dancing:
I shouldn’t have been on that train. And I don’t like aisle seats, but the train was full of whooping, rucksacked teenage boys; I had to sit down next to one of those annoying men with their legs wide open to accommodate their wares. He was engrossed in a book, and apparently happy to let me perch half-bottomed on my seat to minimise contact with his admittedly well-sculpted thighs.
I took out my research papers but thought, sod it, let’s speed up this train, and switched them for the Margot Fonteyn biography. And then I peeled the lid off my coffee and groaned. ‘Want a black coffee anyone? They gave me the wrong one.’
The boys opposite were lolling against each other, guffawing at images on a mobile phone. So I swivelled and held it out to thigh-man, who thanked me with a nod and a flash of curly-lashed black eyes before grabbing the cup. It was enough: my heart thudded, my cheeks boiled. He seemed smaller and slighter. Instead of the famously broad grin there was a closed, weary smile. But it was definitely him. I’d seen him twice that season alone from the front row of the Royal Opera House; his raw masculinity the cause of much prurient speculation in the after-show dinners with Emma.
‘Sugar?’
‘No, no,’ he said into the cup. Of course not; a cruel review had commented on his increasing heaviness, although, glancing down his tightly shirted and jeaned form, there was no evidence of it.
I considered pretending I didn’t know who he was, but my pink cheeks and Fonteyn book were going to make that somewhat unlikely. I wished I’d brushed my hair properly and put black tights on my April legs, tried to think of something to say.
But then, exhaling loudly with the pleasure of the coffee, he prodded Margot’s face.‘Is good?’
‘Fascinating.’
A lopsided grin. ‘And she has... you know, what happen with her and Nureyev?’
‘Er... It’s not clear. She denied it. And, according to his biography, so did he... but not always... he claims she miscarried his baby.’ I was loosening up, proud to share my research. I took a breath and forged on: ‘But frankly, she slept with most of her other partners, so why on earth wouldn’t she?’
‘Exactamente. Why not?’ He laughed, clearly comfortable in this territory. ‘Worked hard, she deserve it.’ He tilted his head back on his long, powerful neck and gulped down more coffee.
The boy opposite was arranging his hands in a heart shape and pointing at Alejandro and then me, prompting a loud snort and rocking from his mate.
Then I thought that was probably it, so I put my bag on the floor and opened my book to read. Or pretend to. But his book was closed. I sneaked a look at him and found myself meeting his gaze.
‘Are you going to Gatwick? Going back home?’ This was probably alright: the documentary had dwelt on his homesickness for Cuba.
There was a beat where he seemed to hesitate, registering that I knew who he was. ‘Yes. Rehearse, performance, then little holiday before return for Giselle. You go to Opera House?’
‘Yes, but more often to Sadler’s Wells – just down the road from work. Easier to persuade friends to come with me. But I went to Manon a couple of weeks ago – can never tire of that ballet.’
‘Mine?’ he asked, a slight grin playing around his lips.
‘No. But I saw you in it last year.’
‘So why not this time? You don’t like my Des Grieux?’
This was weird: why on earth should he care what some woman on a train thought about one of his roles, when all his performances sold out months ahead?
‘No... I mean, yes, I did... But I saw you in Mayerling, I really liked you in that.’ Liked you: rather inappropriate for such a violent, passionate role.
We were coming into East Croydon. Half way to Gatwick. I wondered how I was going to feel when he got out: certainly not in a fit state for reading the research papers.
‘Why you not like my Des Grieux?’ he persisted.
‘I didn’t say that!’ I said, forcing a laugh, but he didn’t return my smile. The critics might like an occasional carp, but maybe it’d been a long time since anyone had been less than ecstatic about his performance to his face. Des Grieux: the lovesick, gullible theology student. I’d said to Emma, ‘He just doesn’t do humility, does he? Nice costume though.’
‘I dunno. He’s a passive, soppy character. Not really you.’ I was relieved to see him nodding. ‘But what do I know?’
‘I think you’re right.’ He looked down at my bag. ‘So where you work?’
‘At a hospital in the City. I do research... on contact lens-related infections.’
‘You are doctor?’
‘A vision scientist.’
‘Contact lenses are dangerous?’
‘Not very often. But a lot of people wear them, so we have to find out how to make them safer.’
‘And after a day of that, you eye people go to Sadler’s Wells. I like that. I like the audience there – all different, and young, not like at Opera House – lots of crazy ladies.’
‘Don’t say that, I’m one of those and proud of it!’
‘No, no!’ he said, laughing, his large warm hand shaking my shoulder rather more powerfully than intended, my book falling between my legs to the floor with a loud clap.
‘Ay – perdón.’ He swiftly bent down to pick it up, the hairs on his arm brushing against my knee with pinprick intensity, and the back of his curly dark head so near, and so neat and boyish, that I wanted to touch him there. And then he was up again, putting the book into my hand with an unexpectedly embarrassed smile that left me giddy.
‘So... you must find all this difficult to cope with,’ I said, waving my hand at the windowful of blasted trees and slanting rain. The climate: couldn’t I do better than that? He followed my hand obediently and looked outside, then back at me with a furrowed brow. ‘The weather. Not what you’re used to.’
‘Oh,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘Yes. Is very difficult. Easy to be sad. And I miss the sea too.’ He was reaching into his pocket; in my stupefied state I thought he was going to take out a photo of home. ‘We have to show ticket,’ he said, his hot breath on my ear as he yanked the ticket out, along with a shower of coins that clattered and twirled on the floor. I bent down to help him pick them up. They were all over the place, but somehow we both went for the same coin and collided.
‘Ow!’ We clutched our heads.
‘Aren’t you dancers supposed to have spatial awareness or something?’ I asked, laughing with the pain. ‘How’s yours?’
‘Is bad. Maybe piece of your brain go in my head. I will know if now I can do matemáticas.’
‘Or maybe a bit of yours has gone in mine.’
‘Well...’ started Alejandro, his hand to his mouth, but the ticket inspector was suddenly in front of us.
I opened my bag and dug around, lifting out a cardigan and a bag of Maltesers before finding my pass and letting the man move on.
‘Ah! Is big bag.’ My turn to look puzzled. ‘I like these very much,’ he said, pointing to the Maltesers. ‘Please, we share now, together?’
I looked at his face: the broad grin, the eyebrows crinkled in mock despair. And I thought, what I want to share now, together, is a kiss. Nothing major, just a firm brief one, with my hands either side of your cheeky face. Or maybe in your soft curly hair.
‘Why not,’ I said, and started trying to open the bag. I usually did it with my teeth, but that didn’t seem hygienic for sharing. So I quickly ripped along the dotted line, even though I’d made that mistake before... ‘Oh for f…!’ Chocolate balls sprayed into the air, pattered on to the floor and started running madly all over the place.
‘Sorry,’ I said to the smart elderly ladies the other side of the carriage, and watched as they carefully levered themselves up and crunched their way out of the area. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, turning to Alejandro, but he had his head down, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Then he looked up and mock-punched me. ‘Why you do this? I’m hungry.’
‘I don’t know, I’m always dropping everything.’
‘Yes, I am the same. Not ballerinas of course, or I don’t have job, but all other things.’ He took the ripped bag from me. ‘Is there more? Ah yes... siete, ocho, nueve... four and half each.’
He turned to me, took my wrist as I cupped my hand. We ate two at a time and murmured our pleasure.
‘Why you think we drop everything?’ he asked.
‘I think... well, for me... it’s because I’m always thinking of something else. Either I’m too excited about something, or I’m in a daydream.’ I blushed as it occurred to me that I was talking to the likely new star of my daydreams.
But he was looking down, pensive. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think this is for me too.’ I tried to imagine what he might daydream about: surely he already had everything he wanted? He took the last ball out of the bag. ‘So... you want first or second half?’ He was looking back up at me with a broad grin.
‘What?’
‘Is skill I have, I go first.’ He put the Malteser to his mouth and bit it, then proudly held up a perfect semi-sphere between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Abre. Open.’
‘It’s okay, you—’
‘No. I do this for you. Open.’ I felt his steadying hand on my arm, his fingers on my lips as he put it in my mouth. We smiled at each other, looked down at our laps. He put his head on one side and seemed to be about to say something.
But then I noticed the blue Gatwick signs, saw him follow my gaze, heard the train’s rhythm slowing. I sat in a daze and watched him stand up and reach for his bag on the luggage rack – revealing a taut band of golden tummy and the black band of his boxers – and lift it down, pillow-light, onto the opposite seat. I was mumbling something like ‘Here you are then’ when he grabbed my hand and kissed it firmly, saying ‘Encantado’. And then, with the fluency of a cat, he was out of the train and striding swiftly away down the platform.
It was over. He hadn’t asked for my name; he hadn’t looked back. Why would he? It didn’t matter: it had been special, something I would always remember. But it was suddenly very cold in the train. I moved over to his seat and felt his warmth on my thighs, smiled at the Maltesers still comically rolling around the floor, put a finger to my lips. His scent stayed with me. So did his grin and laughter. Somehow he wasn’t going away. It couldn’t be over.
March 14, 2012
MOTHERS’ DAY – DO I DESERVE IT?
Mother’s Day. Do I deserve it? Let’s see. The baby stage – hopeless with the paraphernalia (once trapped my finger in the pram for a full fifteen minutes). The toddler stage – Jesus. Only survived by spending every possible moment within the sticky but reassuring walls of soft-play gyms. Primary school age – conversation, books, music, football… at last, the motherhood I’d dreamed about. But by then I had a second child, who – although now delightful at 13 – has Asperger’s Syndrome and Attention Deficit; we had a chequered and often painful first ten years. The adolescent stage – I never discuss work-in-progress! But if you read Men Dancing you’ll form an opinion as to my success there. I’m hoping to redeem myself with the young adult period.
Meanwhile I’ll leave you with this not completely fictional excerpt in which Rosie takes her Aspie son to his second dance class:
His shoulders were going up: not a good sign.
‘That’s Charles,’ he said loudly. Oh dear. The same height as Kenny, meaning he’d be two years older and therefore about four years ahead in social skills. Charles walked past with a gracious nod and sat down to change into his dancing shoes.
‘I want those,’ Kenny said.
‘Please may I have. Of course we’ll buy you some, once we know you’re...’ Once we know you’re not going to get kicked out. Because otherwise they’ll hurt me every time I open your wardrobe – just like the taekwondo outfit, Arties overall and Dolphins swimming cap do.
The teacher arrived with her register and cash box. She was vast; do these ballroom dancing teachers so miss competing, when they get older, that they eat themselves into elegant battleships? But fat and jolly she was not. She took my four pounds without a word and left me wondering whether I was supposed to watch the class, in case Kenny became difficult, or wait in the cramped reception area – where pictures of her and her protégées encouraged you to question whether you were wasting her time.
I took a seat just outside the door. Kenny was talking at the black-girl-with-wet-hands, who smiled briefly and moved away. Battleship was demonstrating the steps, her thickly muscular legs improbably supported by dainty high-heeled feet. They were asked to pair up. In my salsa class the out-numbered men are immediately grabbed like musical chairs, but for these pre-teen girls this potential new partner, a real boy for heaven’s sake, seemed to be surrounded by a negative force field.
There was music now – a passionate Latin number that could have been a tango. A couple of older girls arrived early for the next class and pushed the door open wider.
‘A new boy – look.’
The other girl nudged her out of the way. ‘Oh yes.’ She watched for a while. ‘Charles doesn’t look too happy.’
So I wondered whether Kenny had latched on to Charles and bored him to bits. Or taken offence at a misread facial expression and stuck his leg out. Either way, distraction of the class star would be a heinous and probably unforgivable crime.
The girls sat down to share a bag of crisps so I took up their position. But I couldn’t see Kenny; either he was on the far side of the room or he’d been told to sit down.
So I went back to my chair and texted one of the most talented male dancers in the country. Then sat daydreaming about him teaching my oddball son to dance salsa... with one of his sister’s sunny-natured daughters. That’s it; she and her children would be over from Cuba and staying with him in his flat, in the spare room. He’d move the sofa over to make space and put on a Cuban CD, show Kenny how to lead his niece put his shoulders down and look like a man...
‘Kenny’s Mum?’ She turned on her heel before I could answer.
Shit. I was tempted to say no, we’re leaving, fuck-you. After all, it wasn’t school; I didn’t have to listen to her. But I followed her into the studio, where other parents, I now noticed, had been sitting on chairs watching.
‘I just need to catch Charles’ mother,’ she said, sailing over to her.
‘Did you have a good time?’ I asked a spinning Kenny.
‘A good time? It’s good time, good timing, time to be good...’ I nodded and looked away. He was on overdrive; there was no chance of getting anything sensible out of him.
She’d floated back.
‘Have you ever done any of this kind of dancing yourself?’
‘No, I er…’
‘You’re going to have to learn.’
Ah. Here we go. Like Taekwondo. I’m going to have to be here at every lesson, a sort of Dance Learning Support Assistant, and if I can’t she won’t have Kenny in the class.
‘Or Kenny could come for one-to-one.’
Aha. Like the swimming teacher. At a monstrous price but that’s what Disability Living Allowance is for. But Kenny would want to dance with a little girl, not a battleship.
‘Or maybe both, because it’s early days I know... but I’m looking at Blackpool.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Junior Dance Festival. Probably with Keisha.’
And I thought, male dancers: a rarity. Musical chairs. Probably any boy that can be sow’s-eared into it will do.
‘He’s only had two lessons. Don’t you think it’s a bit soon to tell? And... my husband did tell you, about Kenny...?’
‘Yes, but if he wants to do it... Show Mummy your waltz Kenny.’ She patted his shoulders firmly. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do on these,’ she said. I nodded.
She pressed the button of the music player and counted him in. He took hold of her and waltzed her round the room as if she were Cinderella.
Meanwhile I’ll leave you with this not completely fictional excerpt in which Rosie takes her Aspie son to his second dance class:
His shoulders were going up: not a good sign.
‘That’s Charles,’ he said loudly. Oh dear. The same height as Kenny, meaning he’d be two years older and therefore about four years ahead in social skills. Charles walked past with a gracious nod and sat down to change into his dancing shoes.
‘I want those,’ Kenny said.
‘Please may I have. Of course we’ll buy you some, once we know you’re...’ Once we know you’re not going to get kicked out. Because otherwise they’ll hurt me every time I open your wardrobe – just like the taekwondo outfit, Arties overall and Dolphins swimming cap do.
The teacher arrived with her register and cash box. She was vast; do these ballroom dancing teachers so miss competing, when they get older, that they eat themselves into elegant battleships? But fat and jolly she was not. She took my four pounds without a word and left me wondering whether I was supposed to watch the class, in case Kenny became difficult, or wait in the cramped reception area – where pictures of her and her protégées encouraged you to question whether you were wasting her time.
I took a seat just outside the door. Kenny was talking at the black-girl-with-wet-hands, who smiled briefly and moved away. Battleship was demonstrating the steps, her thickly muscular legs improbably supported by dainty high-heeled feet. They were asked to pair up. In my salsa class the out-numbered men are immediately grabbed like musical chairs, but for these pre-teen girls this potential new partner, a real boy for heaven’s sake, seemed to be surrounded by a negative force field.
There was music now – a passionate Latin number that could have been a tango. A couple of older girls arrived early for the next class and pushed the door open wider.
‘A new boy – look.’
The other girl nudged her out of the way. ‘Oh yes.’ She watched for a while. ‘Charles doesn’t look too happy.’
So I wondered whether Kenny had latched on to Charles and bored him to bits. Or taken offence at a misread facial expression and stuck his leg out. Either way, distraction of the class star would be a heinous and probably unforgivable crime.
The girls sat down to share a bag of crisps so I took up their position. But I couldn’t see Kenny; either he was on the far side of the room or he’d been told to sit down.
So I went back to my chair and texted one of the most talented male dancers in the country. Then sat daydreaming about him teaching my oddball son to dance salsa... with one of his sister’s sunny-natured daughters. That’s it; she and her children would be over from Cuba and staying with him in his flat, in the spare room. He’d move the sofa over to make space and put on a Cuban CD, show Kenny how to lead his niece put his shoulders down and look like a man...
‘Kenny’s Mum?’ She turned on her heel before I could answer.
Shit. I was tempted to say no, we’re leaving, fuck-you. After all, it wasn’t school; I didn’t have to listen to her. But I followed her into the studio, where other parents, I now noticed, had been sitting on chairs watching.
‘I just need to catch Charles’ mother,’ she said, sailing over to her.
‘Did you have a good time?’ I asked a spinning Kenny.
‘A good time? It’s good time, good timing, time to be good...’ I nodded and looked away. He was on overdrive; there was no chance of getting anything sensible out of him.
She’d floated back.
‘Have you ever done any of this kind of dancing yourself?’
‘No, I er…’
‘You’re going to have to learn.’
Ah. Here we go. Like Taekwondo. I’m going to have to be here at every lesson, a sort of Dance Learning Support Assistant, and if I can’t she won’t have Kenny in the class.
‘Or Kenny could come for one-to-one.’
Aha. Like the swimming teacher. At a monstrous price but that’s what Disability Living Allowance is for. But Kenny would want to dance with a little girl, not a battleship.
‘Or maybe both, because it’s early days I know... but I’m looking at Blackpool.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Junior Dance Festival. Probably with Keisha.’
And I thought, male dancers: a rarity. Musical chairs. Probably any boy that can be sow’s-eared into it will do.
‘He’s only had two lessons. Don’t you think it’s a bit soon to tell? And... my husband did tell you, about Kenny...?’
‘Yes, but if he wants to do it... Show Mummy your waltz Kenny.’ She patted his shoulders firmly. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do on these,’ she said. I nodded.
She pressed the button of the music player and counted him in. He took hold of her and waltzed her round the room as if she were Cinderella.
February 8, 2012
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!
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!
January 16, 2012
THOSE BALLET PRINCES...
Balletomane ladies, don’t tell me you’ve never fallen for one of those ballet princes. Come on, I’ve just seen a 14-page forum comparing their charms, and look at all the tweets about the in every way gorgeous Marcelo Gomes. (And my friends’ reactions on hearing that he ‘Follows’ me on Twitter – don’t worry girls, the sweetie probably just mistook my MEN DANCING novel for a technique book).
Perhaps I’ll start the ball rolling by admitting to having checked into Acostaholics Anonymous. Well, the next best thing: I wrote a novel about a woman’s obsession with a ballet dancer – a guy who’s probably a mixture between Carlos Acosta, Rudolf Nureyev and my charismatic salsa teacher. It helped. I got over it. But then I’ve also been busy with research on flamenco artists for my second novel…
Anyway, here’s an excerpt from MEN DANCING, when my (sorry, ‘the’) character is very much at the beginning of her journey to recovery…
He made his entrance to the usual burst of applause: all handsome Russian prince and swirling overcoat, looking mightily pleased with himself. And then he came towards us with that male ballet dancer walk that’s always both courtly elegance and potent, crotch-displaying swagger. He took his seat: legs politely arranged – unlike in the train – but at an angle that drew my eye up from the gracefully arched feet to the shapely calves, to those sculpted thighs, to the irresistibly slim, belted waist and then, uncontrollably, back down to the mystery of that bulge, where on occasion – and this was one of them – one could pick out a provocative bit of outline behind the padding.
There was a nudge from Emma, pulling a box of Maltesers from her bag; cruel, but then it was my fault for not telling her about what had happened.
The prince’s mother arrived and was doing ring-on-finger mime about how he had to choose a bride. But he wasn’t ready to marry, and nor was the spoilt ballet prince inside of course – but at least his mother had managed to instil a sense of family. He didn’t want to miss playing baseball with his kids while flying around the world performing, he’d said in an interview, so he’d wait until he retired and then go back to Cuba and have them. Around the time I’d be contemplating the menopause.
Then the prince beamed as he prepared for his solo, defying the mothers’ plans, living for the moment, the party guests dispersing to give him centre stage. There was the pure joy of his elegant side steps to the sweeping music of the waltz, the effortless jumps and turns, the ecstatic extension of his legs in flight… then a moment where his powerful but seemingly weightless limbs lifted into a statue – perfection right to the twist of his wrist and sensitive hands. A ravishing fusion of athleticism and art, of virility and gentleness.
http://www.cherryradford.co.uk/
Perhaps I’ll start the ball rolling by admitting to having checked into Acostaholics Anonymous. Well, the next best thing: I wrote a novel about a woman’s obsession with a ballet dancer – a guy who’s probably a mixture between Carlos Acosta, Rudolf Nureyev and my charismatic salsa teacher. It helped. I got over it. But then I’ve also been busy with research on flamenco artists for my second novel…
Anyway, here’s an excerpt from MEN DANCING, when my (sorry, ‘the’) character is very much at the beginning of her journey to recovery…
He made his entrance to the usual burst of applause: all handsome Russian prince and swirling overcoat, looking mightily pleased with himself. And then he came towards us with that male ballet dancer walk that’s always both courtly elegance and potent, crotch-displaying swagger. He took his seat: legs politely arranged – unlike in the train – but at an angle that drew my eye up from the gracefully arched feet to the shapely calves, to those sculpted thighs, to the irresistibly slim, belted waist and then, uncontrollably, back down to the mystery of that bulge, where on occasion – and this was one of them – one could pick out a provocative bit of outline behind the padding.
There was a nudge from Emma, pulling a box of Maltesers from her bag; cruel, but then it was my fault for not telling her about what had happened.
The prince’s mother arrived and was doing ring-on-finger mime about how he had to choose a bride. But he wasn’t ready to marry, and nor was the spoilt ballet prince inside of course – but at least his mother had managed to instil a sense of family. He didn’t want to miss playing baseball with his kids while flying around the world performing, he’d said in an interview, so he’d wait until he retired and then go back to Cuba and have them. Around the time I’d be contemplating the menopause.
Then the prince beamed as he prepared for his solo, defying the mothers’ plans, living for the moment, the party guests dispersing to give him centre stage. There was the pure joy of his elegant side steps to the sweeping music of the waltz, the effortless jumps and turns, the ecstatic extension of his legs in flight… then a moment where his powerful but seemingly weightless limbs lifted into a statue – perfection right to the twist of his wrist and sensitive hands. A ravishing fusion of athleticism and art, of virility and gentleness.
http://www.cherryradford.co.uk/
December 11, 2011
ADTWENTURES IN TWITTERLAND
‘Twitter? I’ve got a rifle aimed…’ I emailed to my publisher. ‘It keeps saying Cannot send a message, how crap is that? Sorry, Facebook yes, but I’m just not doing this.’
An emergency meeting. An impossibly young thing from Marketing, an illustrated hand-out. Sipping tea while watching myself christened @CherryRad and assigned a ‘profile’ that would surely make the Twitterworld think I was the sassy salsera on my book cover – was that a good idea? Thanks, thanks but no thanks.
Although a flutter of interest when a handsome ballet dancer suddenly popped up and ‘followed’ me – perhaps thinking Men Dancing was a technique book. Next came a grinning fellow author woman from Texas with whom I was a perfect match with regards to genre, piano playing and chocolate. I was allowed home once I’d been seen graciously reciprocating their fan-ship.
The idea, I’d been told, was to attract Followers. Before my novel was even out. Utterly ludicrous. But I set to, feverishly clicking Follow next to every woman claiming to be an avid reader and/or Strictly Come Dancing fan. Tweets: 0, Following: 83, Followers: 7 (but including my publisher and the local pizza take-away). Occasionally pausing to reward myself with some non-productive following of top flamenco artists, marvelling at their real-time exchanges about a show or a plate of tapitas.
But I’d forgotten something. An email from Impossibly Young said well done, but now Tweet. Meaning create clever <140 character sentences designed to sell the book, you-are-a-writer-after-all. I deliberated. Pithy one-liners not a strength. Selling not a strength. I nervously put out thoughts about the usual things I bang on about – writing, Spanish, dance and chocolate.
Something happened. A host of characters started to emerge – I felt like I’d fallen down a hole and entered an extraordinary new world. Yes, people do say what they’ve had for breakfast. Yes, I’m ‘followed’ by individuals with inexplicable motives (war veterans, hot rod racers and female porn stars), and a stream of people shouting about their novel or steadily working their way through a book of quotes. Can’t like everyone; worlds are like that. But I now enjoy the company of some wonderful human beings with whom I’ve got much more in common than many of the people I call friends. They’ve taken over my instruction; questions about Retweets and #hashtags prompted a flurry of helping hands. We share our passions and humour, good days and bad. I’m now Tweets: 589, Following: 347, Followers: 400. Books Sold: who cares. Oh, and I’m swapping languages with my favourite flamenco artist in the vaulted Direct Messaging area. #Whowouldhavethought.
An emergency meeting. An impossibly young thing from Marketing, an illustrated hand-out. Sipping tea while watching myself christened @CherryRad and assigned a ‘profile’ that would surely make the Twitterworld think I was the sassy salsera on my book cover – was that a good idea? Thanks, thanks but no thanks.
Although a flutter of interest when a handsome ballet dancer suddenly popped up and ‘followed’ me – perhaps thinking Men Dancing was a technique book. Next came a grinning fellow author woman from Texas with whom I was a perfect match with regards to genre, piano playing and chocolate. I was allowed home once I’d been seen graciously reciprocating their fan-ship.
The idea, I’d been told, was to attract Followers. Before my novel was even out. Utterly ludicrous. But I set to, feverishly clicking Follow next to every woman claiming to be an avid reader and/or Strictly Come Dancing fan. Tweets: 0, Following: 83, Followers: 7 (but including my publisher and the local pizza take-away). Occasionally pausing to reward myself with some non-productive following of top flamenco artists, marvelling at their real-time exchanges about a show or a plate of tapitas.
But I’d forgotten something. An email from Impossibly Young said well done, but now Tweet. Meaning create clever <140 character sentences designed to sell the book, you-are-a-writer-after-all. I deliberated. Pithy one-liners not a strength. Selling not a strength. I nervously put out thoughts about the usual things I bang on about – writing, Spanish, dance and chocolate.
Something happened. A host of characters started to emerge – I felt like I’d fallen down a hole and entered an extraordinary new world. Yes, people do say what they’ve had for breakfast. Yes, I’m ‘followed’ by individuals with inexplicable motives (war veterans, hot rod racers and female porn stars), and a stream of people shouting about their novel or steadily working their way through a book of quotes. Can’t like everyone; worlds are like that. But I now enjoy the company of some wonderful human beings with whom I’ve got much more in common than many of the people I call friends. They’ve taken over my instruction; questions about Retweets and #hashtags prompted a flurry of helping hands. We share our passions and humour, good days and bad. I’m now Tweets: 589, Following: 347, Followers: 400. Books Sold: who cares. Oh, and I’m swapping languages with my favourite flamenco artist in the vaulted Direct Messaging area. #Whowouldhavethought.
November 16, 2011
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…
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…
October 18, 2011
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.
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.
August 18, 2011
BACK TO (DANCE) SCHOOL – BUT WHICH?
AUTUMN! Do I leave the country, top myself, or somehow find a reason to go on... Better book my September dance classes. But which?
Ballet is always the first to come to mind – but that’s where it stays. I talk about it, tell everyone else to do it – get the exciting email from the English National Ballet about their Adult classes – but never actually go. Perhaps because I love ballet too much; trying to get anywhere with it would be like sleeping with an adored platonic friend. And there’s also the summer Frappuccino Factor: would ballet – at my level – burn off enough cals? Probably not.
Salsa will though, and tones your butt too. I'm getting over a foot sprain (a ballet dancer injury!), but might manage back in 'Improvers'. Salsa’s fun, friendly, and the slinky music thaws winter blues...
But Flamenco is my dance. It’s got a soul. And doesn’t demand youth and a perfect body, even among professionals. Get an idea of my first lesson in the extract from Flamenco Baby on www.cherryradford.co.uk. Bailamos!
Ballet is always the first to come to mind – but that’s where it stays. I talk about it, tell everyone else to do it – get the exciting email from the English National Ballet about their Adult classes – but never actually go. Perhaps because I love ballet too much; trying to get anywhere with it would be like sleeping with an adored platonic friend. And there’s also the summer Frappuccino Factor: would ballet – at my level – burn off enough cals? Probably not.
Salsa will though, and tones your butt too. I'm getting over a foot sprain (a ballet dancer injury!), but might manage back in 'Improvers'. Salsa’s fun, friendly, and the slinky music thaws winter blues...
But Flamenco is my dance. It’s got a soul. And doesn’t demand youth and a perfect body, even among professionals. Get an idea of my first lesson in the extract from Flamenco Baby on www.cherryradford.co.uk. Bailamos!
