a culture of language and thought

My latest novel translation went off to the publisher on Monday and the break I was aching for sadly hasn’t happened as deadline after deadline for my government/corporate clients rolled around immediately after. In a way it’s good to have been this busy as I often fall into a bit of a funk when a novel translation is done.

As I’ve said here before, translating a novel feels a bit like joyfully finding out you’re about to have a child, carrying that child until your belly is so heavy and you’re so tired it’s all you can do to take the next step, then suddenly having that child be college age and you’re watching it head out the door into a world that can be alternately wonderful and cruel. It’s scary. Novels are my babies and they occupy my mind, heart and soul for as long as the project lasts, so hitting that “Send” button and suddenly being left without it requires a bit of a grieving process. I’m thrilled to have my life back and yet rather lonely without my constant companion.

I’m the sixth child and this is my sixth novel. Like my parents must have felt with me, this time was a bit easier. Monday afternoon my nerves were tingling on the surface of my skin and a word, a look, a thought brought tears to my eyes. But by the next day, fully ensconced in an urgent deadline, I felt, well, back to normal. The editor had replied to say he’d received the manuscript, to thank me for being on time and so attentive to detail (I’d sent him a list of aspects I thought he should consider when editing!), and that he would pass my notes on to the copyeditor.

It seems this book is going straight from translation to copyediting, bypassing the editing stage. The two are quite different: one looks at the novel as a whole (plot, story, character development), while the other looks at it in infinite detail (grammar, punctuation, style). My notes were definitely for the editing phase, not something a copyeditor is responsible for. Hmm… In years past this would have infuriated me: That’s not right! It’s not fair! The book deserves/needs an editor’s eyes! They’re not going to check X or Y with the author? Etc. Etc.

This time it just led to me wonder yet again why I fret and worry and labor over every single aspect of a translation when others involved in bringing a book to the world are so seemingly cavalier. The question hadn’t even fully formed and the answer was already ringing in my head: Because that’s what I do. I care. I am vested in my translations. It’s a translator’s job to dissect and look at a book from every angle in order to capture every one of its nuances, and our responsibility to point out inconsistencies, errors, comments and suggestions because we have the book’s best interest at heart. Because novel translations are my babies and deserve the very best that I can give them. But at a certain point, when it’s out of my hands and making it’s way in the world, I have to let go.

I’ve been incredibly busy for the last couple of months.  My work days have been 10-14 hours, 6 if not 7 days a week.

In the meantime, Jon redesigned my site (if you hadn’t noticed, take a look around!), and in every e-mail I found the time to write, I asked friends and family for their opinion. My dearest friend, Naomi, replied, ”I did go to your new website and it is fabulous.  You sound so much like you love what you do!  If only it could be that way all of the time.”

Oops. It became clear to me I had ranted about my work woes a little too much, for a little too long. It got me to thinking: I love what I do, don’t I? So why do I get so cranky and give the impression I don’t?

It’s all a matter of balance. The stress of working long hours can take the fun out of any job. Novels are the highlight of my career, the work I most love to do, but they are long, involved projects. Because I can’t say no to my regular clients for months at a time, I find myself continually stretched to the limit. No one is going to get anything but the very best I can give them, so I take the time needed to read each job carefully, translate it well, and revise it closely.

Is this cycle of love and exhaustion just part and parcel of what it means to run my own business? Will I find that elusive middle ground I’ve been striving to find for the past 7 years (at least)? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I know I have to keep it front and center as I plan my business strategy, let it be a major factor I consider every time a new job and deadline are there to be negotiated.

Do you ride the same roller coaster? Any personal experiences or strategies to share? They’d surely be welcome…

If it wasn’t already apparent, I’m Canadian. All of the works I have ever translated have been for U.S. publishers and, while I think that has been very much to my professional advantage, that I am excluded by the Canadian system does bother me at times.

We have a wonderful but terribly underfunded agency, The Canada Council for the Arts. Our current (ultra) Conservative government finds the Arts too highbrow, unnecessary, and funding is pitiful compared to the wealth of talent we have.

Though not new, I only recently discovered that one of our most brilliant writers, Yann Martel, author of The Life of Pi, sends our Prime Minister a new book every two weeks on this premise: “No doubt being Prime Minister fills his entire consideration and froths his sense of busied importance to the very brim. And no doubt he sounds and governs like one who cares little for the arts. But he must have moments of stillness. And so this is what I propose to do: not to educate—that would be arrogant, less than that—to make suggestions to his stillness.” I love it.

While we are lucky to have the CCA, and I heartily encourage more funding for it, I must admit I’m also a little miffed with them: they still refuse to consider translators as artists in their own right. There are excellent translation grants for up to (Canadian) $25,000, paying $0.18 to $0.25 per word – a very good rate by most literary translation standards. But the catch is that, not only must the translator be Canadian, the *author* and the *publisher* must also be Canadian. I understand the reasoning behind this, but if we were considered artists in our own right, would a translation grant for a work from abroad not also further their cause by promoting Canadian artists?? I’m Canadian! I’m an artist!

Where I do feel particularly proud is with respect to our copyright organization, Access Copyright. Here we are on par with Europe and far ahead of the United States, in that copyright is licensed to businesses, organizations and establishments throughout the country in order to give copyright holders their due(s). If you are a Canadian who holds copyright on any publication, by registering with them you will be entitled to payment for your works. “Through its licensing framework, Access Copyright provides users with access to valuable content while passing the royalties on to creators – like you.”

Three of my six works are registered with them thus far (registration is only once a year, from February to May, so there can be a delay depending on when your books are published). Each year they poll libraries and for 2009, I was thrilled to see that my books are readily available across Canada: The Matter of Desire is in 3 out of 7, Turing’s Delirium in 6 out of 7, and Everything Under the Sky in 7 out of 7!

I never remember when Access Copyright payments are made and am thus always pleasantly surprised to see a sudden deposit in my account or a cheque in the mail. This year I earned over $600! It’s a wonderful thing to know my books are out there, and that I will reap the rewards of that personally and financially.

Care to share your thoughts on the arts, translation and copyright, here or elsewhere?

I had to share this post on Publishing Perspectives by Alex de Campi, a graphic novelist. She and her co-novelist, Christine Larsen, are to be congratulated for their approach to new media, publishing, and translation… In my opinion they have done *everything* right:

* They have embraced a new model of publishing, providing readers with various digital formats (iPhone, Kindle, Android, and eReader) to choose from.

* They started out at a low price point to get readers interested – and are they ever!

* Both of these approaches will garner a large readership quite quickly, which will help them eventually find a traditional publisher.

* They are using Creative Commons copyright protection.

* They are offering their work simultaneously in 14 languages (and growing).

* The translators they hire are professionals – for the most part -, often authors in their own right.

* The payment model for translators is that they will earn 50% of the profit for their language edition, thereby ensuring they are committed not only to the translation but to the marketing and the success of the publication.

Brilliant… in every way. Wouldn’t you agree?

What exactly are the limits of my job as a literary translator? I’ve been asking myself this question for the past seven years, ever since I got my first novel contract. You’d think I would have a tried and true answer to it by now, and yet I don’t… not entirely, anyhow.

Every single project is different and requires a myriad of decisions.

I remember Edmundo Paz Soldán, the author of the first two works I translated, saying, “Take it and run with it, Lisa. Make the translation your own. Make it your book in English.” I didn’t quite have the expertise – or confidence – to do that at the time. But when I look back, I also didn’t need to. By faithfully translating his words and his style, as best as I was able, the very best of what Edmundo has to offer as a writer shone through.

Lately, I’ve found myself in situations where the writing in the original does not shine through. Sure, there are elements that are intriguing, whether it be storyline, concepts, certain phrases, descriptions. But I find myself wanting to make more editing decisions than ever before to correct what appear to be flaws and make what is good even better.

I know my job as a translator is to reproduce a work, to accurately convey content and style while following the conventions for good writing in English. But I also know I have to keep the reader in mind at all times: who is my audience, how will they read this, how will they react?

So, what if there’s a factual error? If I can confirm without a shadow of a doubt that it *is* an error, and the misrepresentation wasn’t used for any specific literary purpose, then, yes, I correct it. It was wrong; it needs to be right.

Now, what if there’s a character inconsistency? For example, there is a woman with a Ph.D. in science and she asks someone what the Latin word terra means… Would she really not know that? Does this answer alter a reader’s perception of her? It certainly altered mine, and there was no reason why this needed to be the case. To keep her speech true to her character, I modified the line slightly. She still asked a question, but she no longer seems uncharacteristically dumb.

Or, what if every character in the book – major or minor – uses the expression “my dear friend”? When I hear that, I think of a Sherlock Holme’s type character with a pipe in his mouth and a British accent. Those three little words are quite affected and add a whole dimension to a reader’s perception of the character. Isn’t it too watered down when everyone uses it? I decided to reserve it for one character in particular, one who might really say that, and it adds punch to his speech.

Now, what about the overuse of repetition? Generally, it’s a real no-no in English, but there are times when it can be a useful device:

“Did you know Fred has been accused of killing his wife?”

“He has?” Mary asked in disbelief.

“He has,” Joe replied.

It’s not particularly elegant dialogue, I realize, but the repetition adds to the character’s shocked reaction. If almost every conversational exchange is like this, however, it detracts. It can make the character or characters look stupid:

“The blue bus over there.”

“The blue bus?”

“The blue bus.”

Not to mention that it becomes boring as hell for the reader…

A minor edit like the following makes the first exchange slightly more varied and yet doesn’t change the intent of the conversation:

“Did you know Fred has been accused of killing his wife?”

“No! Really?” Mary asked in disbelief.

“It’s true,” Fred replied.

The question I come back to with every decision is, am I overstepping my bounds as a translator, becoming an editor? Perhaps. But if I examine the true purpose of translation, I know these edits are part of what I have to do. It’s a fine line to walk, to be sure, being faithful to the author and the audience, but as long as I keep that in mind with every single decision I make and reconcile the two as best I can, I’m doing my job. Well, I hope.

Thoughts? Similar experiences? A different point of view? Do comment.

…your brain literally refuses to cooperate?!

Your workload is heavy, deadlines roll in one after the after, you’re putting in long hours to stay on top of things, and one afternoon you look down at your most recent project and nothing makes sense. The words float up at you like ciphered messages but, try as you might, you can’t crack the code. Vocabulary that normally drips off fingers into the word processor has been summarily erased from your brain and the page on screen has more highlighted question marks than actual translated phrases.

That’s what happened to me yesterday. I pushed on for a while longer, determined to make progress, knowing the deadline was today, that, like it or not, the work had to get done. But at a certain point I had to admit that not only was I not being productive, the nonsense I was putting on paper was actually counterproductive: it would take more time to revise this morning than to simply translate from scratch when my head was fresh and clear.

It isn’t the first time I’ve hit the proverbial wall. It’s always when I’ve taken on a little too much, so if one project is proving to be impossible I can sometimes turn to another, simpler assignment and work on that for a while. Maybe I have a marriage certificate that needs revising; all I’m doing are checking the names, dates, and numbers — my brain can handle that. Or there’s usually some filing stacked on my scanner for a complete change of pace.

But sometimes you simply have to stop work, give your brain the rest it is clearly demanding, have some dinner, watch a show, go to bed early, and tomorrow will be another day.

Care to share your brain freeze strategies?

What exactly is “literary merit”? And how is it defined? More importantly, who defines it?

These thoughts have been swimming around my head for months now, in part after the ALTA Conference in Pasadena, where I found the divisions/strata/hierarchy of profs versus poetry translators versus literary translators versus pulp fiction translators versus commercial translators almost more than I could bear. (Not to mention the “old” members versus the  ”new” members hierarchy… I’ll save that for another day!)

I haven’t written about the conference in part because the incredible plenary speakers (Ilan Stavans and John Nathan), the wonderful readings and presentations, even my own well-received workshop on Defining and Capturing Style with Lisa Dillman and panel presentation on The Translator in Fiction, were soured by the less than convivial, judgment filled derision I felt floating around.

Now, let me freely admit that I’m quite sensitive and have been feeling that my own literary trajectory has changed course without really noticing it, so the perception of the conference may be entirely mine alone. Still, that doesn’t obviate the valid questions: What is literary merit and who has the right to judge it?

I’ve been pondering this again because of a particular assignment: I’ve been asked to provide my opinion on whether a Spanish work displays enough literary merit to be considered for a writing grant. I thought the samples were incredible and will tell the panel the author clearly deserves consideration. But what is it that makes them incredible? Here are some of the characteristics I’ve chosen to represent literary merit:

* Voice. Is the author’s voice distinctive enough to be recognizable across the samples?

* Style. What elements of style make the writing come alive?

* Language. How is language used to enhance the story?

* Content. Is the story itself believable/compelling/well-crafted?

I guess I think literary merit means a work is fresh not formulaic. That might be it in a nutshell. What do you think? How might you define literary merit?

In a few short minutes I’ll be jumping in the car, off to the airport and winging my way to Pasadena, California for the American Literary Translators Association annual conference. I’ll be giving a workshop with Lisa Dillman on Defining and Capturing Style on Friday, November 13 from 3:00 to 4:15 pm, and sitting on a panel on The Translator in Fiction on Saturday, November 14 from 2:00 to 3:15 pm. If you’re going to be at the conference as well, please do try to find me.

For those who won’t be there, I’ll post some of my thoughts upon my return. ’Til then…

This is a wonderfully useful and interesting little book edited by Gill Paul that I came across one day when I was reading Words Without Borders and surfed over to the Dalkey Archive Press site to find out more about it. I ordered a copy right away and it arrived the next week.

Based on a one day meeting held in March of 2008, between translators, editors and publishers, it looks at the practicalities of literary translation from both sides of what can often seem like a gaping chasm more than a divide. Because it is written from a European/British perspective, I was particularly interested to see how things differ between their reality and ours here in North America.

There were definitely a few points that caught my attention. Royalties were one: “According to the 1976 UNESCO Nairobi Recommendation Concerning the International Exchange of Cultural Property, translators are considered to be authors and should be treated as such, which means they have a right to royalties on copies of the book sold.” Music to my ears! However, we’re talking about a declaration from 1976… and some thirty years later, we’re still arguing about this point and fighting for our rights. I am currently on my sixth book translation, all of which have been published in the US. I have only ever been given royalties – a measly but greatly appreciated 1% – and only after a hard won fight.

Another instance where the UK differs vastly is with respect to the sale of rights: “Contracts should contain full details of the fee payment stages, the royalties and the split between author and translator for the subsequent sale of rights and for any serialization. In most cases, 80 percent of the gross proceeds go to the author, and 20 percent go to the translator, or there may be a 75/25 split. This is, of course, a matter for negotiation.” I have a huge exclamation point penciled in next to this paragraph. In every contract I have ever signed there is a clause where I grant those rights to the publisher. Thus, for example, if a book I have translated makes it to the big screen, those negotiations are handled through the publisher and I get, well… nothing. I started to wonder whether I’ve been duped all these years, so I posed the question on the American Literary Translators Association (ALTA) listserv. Not one person said they have ever seen such a sale of rights clause in North America; as a matter of course they are always granted back to the publisher. Perhaps it’s time for that to change…

It was extremely welcome to read a book on literary translation that includes the editor/publisher’s perspective. There are wonderful guides published by ALTA, and books like Cliff Landers’ Literary Translation: A Practical Guide (which I read when I was starting out and found incredibly helpful), but they are written solely from the translator’s perspective. Knowing what the other side thinks or wants has only ever been available through personal experience, as I find these are topics we’re even reticent to talk about among ourselves. Translation in Practice should therefore be promoted by professional associations and required reading for first-time translation editors, in my opinion. “Both translator and editor are seeking the same goal – a high-quality novel that does justice to the original text while being accessible and compelling for readers in the new market.” We are not, in fact, adversaries but are on the same side and much would change if we kept this in mind.

There’s a lot more to say about this little book, but I’ll leave that for a second post very soon. In the meantime, if you’ve read it and/or have your own thoughts on the topics I’ve raised do let me know in a comment.

For the past several weeks, I’ve been finishing a novel translation for HarperCollins. As each day passes, and the delivery date draws closer, my anxiety level rises higher, reaching Mount Everest proportions. (At this point, apologies are in order to everyone who had to deal with me, particularly Jon who had to *live* with me.) Did I make the right decisions? Did I follow the style closely enough? Too closely? Have I balanced that by also making the translation my own, so that it reads well in English?

There are endless choices to be made when translating. In this case, Voltaire’s Calligrapher is the story of – well, guess who? It is years after Dalessius worked for Voltaire; he is now in exile in Argentina and writing his memoir. The events he describes take place in 1650s France. Obviously, the vocabulary must be appropriate to that time period. Has an errant, modern-day word slipped in? Did I correct that use of “gym” (a word that only appears in English in the 1800s) to “gymnasium” (a word that dates back to 1598)?  www.etymonline.com is a dear friend.

Then, what about titles? Mention is made of the marquis d’Argenson, a French statesman who was a close friend of Voltaire’s. (The Encyclopaedia Britannica was another constant companion.) If Argenson’s title is appropriately left in French, what about Dalessius’ uncle? He’s a marshal, a society title that is not terribly common, at least in English. Should I maintain consistency and use the French, maréchal? Yes. Absolutely But then, when Jon read “maréchal Dalessius” the first time, he thought it was a typo, that I had forgotten to capitalize his first name. So I should use the English title, Marshal Dalessius. No. That most certainly sounds like a first and last name, which it’s not. So what’s the right decision?!

Now, what about style? I initially translated Chapter 1 as a sample for the author to review before I was awarded the contract. I submitted that, oh, in October or November of 2008.  It wasn’t until March of 2009 when I got the go ahead. I could thus look at Chapter 1 with completely fresh eyes, and revise it accordingly. Now, as I was revising the entire novel, I really liked that chapter, it felt right, deep down in my gut, but things immediately started to go awry in Chapter 2. Why was that? What was the difference? I had to sit down and analyze the two, comparing the translation versus the Spanish. What had I done? Aha! In Chapter 1 I had mimicked the author’s style quite closely, but when a sentence didn’t work in English, I very much made it my own (while still respecting the way the author writes, no easy task). In subsequent chapters I tried to make the sentence style a little more true to English, one an editor should love. Only it lost the flavor that makes Pablo De Santis‘ work Pablo De Santis’ work! The motto I jotted in my notebook: “BALANCE: Stay true to PDS, but also to yourself.”

After long weeks of long days, I reached a point where I could no longer see the forest for the trees, or the trees for the forest, or trees or forests or the printed page or my computer screen. My head was *full*. I had done my very best. It was time to let go. It was time to attach the manuscript to an e-mail and just hit that Send button. Done. Gone. Phew. Relief. Or that’s what you’d think… A job well done. Time to put the drafts in the filing cabinet, the reference materials back on the shelf, to dust the eraser bits off the desk, to clear my mind for what comes next. But instead the anxiety only grows. Why hasn’t the editor acknowledged receipt? Did it get lost in cyberspace? Does he therefore think I’ve missed my deadline? Or maybe he hates it. Maybe I’ve done a terrible job and he’s drafting a legal document to demand the first half of the payment back! No. He’s just busy. It takes a few days. But he says that what he’s read so far is “wonderful”! Yay!

OK, so now I should definitely be feeling calm, excited about taking a little time to refresh and regroup. Instead I feel a bit bereft. Like a piece of me is gone. It has been my entire purpose over the last seven months, it is the work that defines me, and now that it’s gone, it’s out of my hands and into another’s, who am I? I sit at my desk, but there’s no all-consuming purpose to be there, so I wander into the kitchen for coffee. I feel that familiar need to gulp hot coffee as I gobble my toast, to hurry and get back to my desk, only I don’t *have* to do that any longer. So I sit on the couch, determined to find pleasure in relaxing over breakfast, but there’s a nagging emptiness in my belly. And it makes me feel sad. Unbidden, unwanted, tears spring to my eyes. I’m grieving.

If you hadn’t noticed already, I have a slight propensity for being overly emotional. It’s not that I’m unaware of this. I am quite conscious of it. So I dive in and allow myself to mourn the loss of my project, my baby, in the knowledge that soon enough (I hope) I’ll swing to the manic high of a new manuscript in hand, a new project to vest heart and soul into, a new voice to capture, new translation challenges to tackle. Oooh, the very thought of it brings the start of a Cheshire cat smile to my face.

How vested are you in your work? Bare your soul in a comment… please.