Postcards from a Flat Land

On Translating Sex

This week I translated a sex scene for the first time. It's a short scene and I went through it, in first draft form, just as I would any other scene. When I read back what I'd translated, I started to get nervous. The English version was awful – I mean much worse than first draft awful. I read through the Dutch version again, without thinking about my own language. Straight away, I knew a little more.

I let myself accept that What? was going to come before Why? Literally picturing the scene. The left leg goes here and the right arm goes there…

I read the Dutch version again. I understood more, again. By the time I'd read each version about five times, with re-jigs to the English version in between, I smiled. Next time, reading the English version, I laughed. In a place I am supposed to laugh.

I realised that, to begin with, I had needed to be able to picture all those basic moves clearly, in order to get past them to the emotional content. And even after that I needed to work in a layered process. While I was still preoccupied with movement I couldn't yet see the scene, which has a lot of humour to it, so it functions on a number of levels.

How does translating a sex scene differ from writing one, then? Massively, I've decided. I really don't think about the legs and arms if I'm writing one. I might read through afterwards and decide that an arm really couldn't get into that position unless the character is double jointed, but even that is unlikely. The emotion comes first. It dictates. Whereas, as a translator, it's a bit like being on an archaeological dig, looking for the buried treasure.

Towards the end of the novel, there's a rape scene. I'm curious about how translating that is going to work.

Notes on Translation: Part One

The English language is probably more my home, than any particular place. Yet, for a Brit, I don’t do badly. Dutch, French, dormant Spanish, and nascent German. Well, the latter may not grow much in the coming months as translating a novel from Dutch to English is going to be taking up most of my time. The novel is ‘Mede Namens Mijn Vrouw’ by Aliefka Bijlsma. We’re not entirely sure what the English title will be as yet. I’m going to be blogging here about my experiences. What is it like for me as a writer, translating a novel. I’m between my own first and second novels. Will translating have an impact? I’ve only been working on the translation for a week, so it’s hard to tell, but these are some of my basic observations.

I suspect that what I like most about writing is creating voice. So far, translating prose feels much like rewriting, the stage when, as a writer, I am polishing voice. Character needs voice. It’s like air, breath. I’ve translated screenplays before, but this is a bit different. Translating this novel, it feels as if one of the hardest things for me, will be to make sure that the two central characters are as significantly whole and different from each other, in English, as they are in Dutch. The novel swaps from one point of view to another for quite substantial chunks. The reader must be able to get back under each character’s skin again after each swap. Recognition is important. This may sound obvious but, at the moment, it feels like a very sensitive thing. Sometimes I get a little unnerved by the responsibility.

One peculiarity of ‘Mede Namens Mijn Vrouw’ is that it is a Dutch novel, with Dutch central characters, but set in Brazil. The story takes place in the Dutch diplomatic world. Among other things, it has to do with how different people tackle living in cultures that aren’t their own. On a practical level, this makes the trappings of Holland, such as an Etos plastic bag (Etos is the Dutch version of Boots), or pindakaas (peanut butter - which the Dutch eat like the British eat Marmite), stick out in a way they wouldn’t if the story took place in Holland. They have relevance as objects from ‘home’ - objects from one culture in another - that needs translating in a broader sense than just the words. Such codes are interesting for me because I’m very aware that, because I lived in Amsterdam for almost eleven years, my English has acquired elements of Dutch code, even though I don't live there anymore.

I'm at a very early stage in the job. I’m sure there will be lots more to tell and that I may change my mind about some things. Any thoughts are welcome.

Latest Writing News

I have a couple of pieces online at the moment. A story called 'The Word' at Metazen. And at good old 4'33" you can hear me reading my story 'Windowpanes' at the Betsy Trotwood in Clerkenwell last November. It was a great reading and it's lovely to hear how well it's come out.

My other news is that I'm about to start translating a novel, 'Mede Namens Mijn Vrouw' by Aliefka Bijlsma. I'm going to write more about that soon. I plan to try and blog regularly about how translating works for me, as a writer, and what I'm learning that I might be able to put into practice in my own work.

Berlin In The Cold

This morning I went out. It was kind of a dare to myself with such low temperatures. Strange, but it didn't feel any colder than it did a week ago, when it was possibly a good ten degrees warmer.

I took a couple of photos.

I like the shape of this tree.

 

When I got home, I caught my daugther doing something I've never caught her doing before. Walking round the house reading a book to herself. I say caught because, well, it's like that...

This was the book. 'This is the best reading I've ever done,' she said, grinning.

I couldn't remember where we'd bought it. She could. At the market in Amsterdam. Years ago. 'I was wrong to think I wouldn't like it.' Another grin.

 

Writing, Life And Some Birdboxes

I knew I hadn't blogged for some time, but I was surprised to see that my last piece was posted in August. Why? Well, an intensive German class for one. Not sure how much I learnt. Less than I had hoped. And putting finishing touches to my novel, with my agent on board. A great process, that I'll talk about more another time. As much as anything else, though, I think life got the better of me. I've been busy out in the real world in a way I haven't been for some time, and it's been pleasant.

 
But now it's January and there's even a little bit of snow on the ground. It's bitterly cold here in Berlin. I'm going to start writing a second novel in a few months time (and no, for those of you who read my last post, I didn't just go for it) but not until the weather gets better. I'm thinking about blogging about the writing process. There's this sort of fatalistic stigma attached to the second film, so I'm interested to see how it goes with a second novel and sharing my experiences.

 

I have a flash piece live at Metazen in the next few days. I'm not sure this one is typical of me, but I love it a little bit extra for that. I've also had an acceptance from Fractured West. I'm not sure when that piece will be published, but I'll keep you posted. This is all good going, two submissions this year, two acceptances. I doubt it will continue this way unless I actually write some more flash. Not much lying around to submit and, last year, I worked almost entirely on my novel. The coming year will hopefully be a bit of both.

To Research Or To Write?

Life seems to be full of perplexing experiences at the moment. I'm not sure I like 'perplexing'. I had twelve whole child free days to write a fortnight ago. I didn't enjoy them. I wrote, or rather I planned. This was a film project I've been trying to get 'good enough' to submit for development money for some time. My experience writing a novel has made me much more of perfectionist. I find it hard to slam a synopsis together, submit and say 'let's see'. So, I picked away at my story, stuck post-it notes - with fluorescent coloured name tags attached to them for the sake of beautification – all over the bedroom wall, ate too many crisps and drank too much wine. Plus ça change…

An interesting thing happened though, on the day before my daughter returned. Whilst planning my screenplay, in the evenings, I'd been researching an idea for a new novel, which involved reading about the eighteenth century German military. In German. A painstaking task for someone who's lived in Germany for a year and relies almost entirely on good Dutch to communicate in German. But something, an idea, a feeling, had been developing as I forced myself through between two and six pages of reading per day. With a few hours of freedom left, I sat down and wrote. Within a couple of sentences, I was excited, because I knew I had a voice for my central character. I've just read through what I wrote. It's less than a thousand words, but I was right, it's a voice.

I'm not sure what to do next. I'd thought that I would research for months. But now I have a voice, and I sort of know where I want the story to go, I'm tempted to write first and research later to fill in the gaps. Part of me, though, knows that I'm not the world's strongest researcher in the first place. Hey, if were interested in facts, I'd write non-fiction, wouldn't I? While writing my first novel, also set in the past, I did have 'film director moments' where I stared blankly round the room wondering where my art director was. As I didn't have one, I decided to ignore the areas of architecture, furniture and clothing. Except when I needed one or other of them to have a psychological impact on one of my characters. If I leap in now with my new novel, it'll be same again. Possibly even more so.

There's also the risk that I want to throw myself in at the deep end straight away just for the buzz of writing a first draft. I could seriously do with an adrenaline rush at the moment. During my twelve days alone I really missed what a commissioning editor I once met referred to as 'doing the vomit'. Writing feels so much better than planning. So I am aware of my own desperate need for the pleasure of getting words down on paper.

But, the screenplays I've written that I've actually ended up directing, have been written like this. There's been a strong urge. Screenplays are shorter, though. I can complete a feature script first draft in a fortnight. For a novel I need far more staying power, and life will get in the way. Will I be able to keep up the momentum?  

Well, I'll have to see. My daughter has just come to sit beside me and is singing 'Everybody, everybody wants to be a cat.' The school holidays are nearly over… but not quite.

Preserving Memories

Today it's mainly raining. A summer holiday has taken on the feeling of Christmas, the other time we are usually here. My parents are napping, we guests are staring at computer screens. Father and daughter are trying to compose music together; cooperation is proving tricky.

Yesterday, walking past a whole field full of purple flowers, I surprised a family of deer, a mother and two young ones. The mother ran off into the wood next to the field and one of the young ones followed. The other stood on the narrow band of earth between field and woods, lost. I could feel my memory closing its fingers round the moment, trying not to let go. That morning I'd been out for a walk with my camera. I had another 'deer moment' and just managed to capture it, but the image was disappointing. Not as good as the real thing. This second time round, I was glad I didn't have my camera with me. If I'd tried to capture the moment, I could never have mirrored its emotional power. Instead of watching the young deer figure out which way its mother had gone and, eventually, follow her, I would have been busy clicking and trying to preserve the moment to show to others. Now, it's like a have a very special secret. I'll remember it better because I can't look back at it on a computer screen.

Here are some images I did capture, though, on my walk yesterday morning.

 

See that deer? It's there, but it looks more like a speck of dust on the lens.

The weather has cleared, so the whole family is off for a walk down the same route I took when I saw the deer family yesterday. This time, there's one thing I think I'd dare say I guarantee. No deer.

 

Buddies and Readers

I'm at point where I'm looking back on how I wrote my first novel. I think I'm figuring out a second one, but there are a number of stories to chose from and various reasons to hop one way or another. Or to procrastinate by thinking about which one to write. But in the thinking I wondered about something relating to how I wrote the first one.

When I started the novel, I was escaping from writing screenplays where I felt there were too many fingers in a pie that, in its early stages at least, should have been all mine. So, for a year I wrote, showed no-one, and talked about process with 'buddies' - one in particular - while we either ate cake or walked round the park, depending on the weather. When I'd finished, I didn't know who to get to read my novel. My friends are mainly writers, but friends is what they are and I want them to stay that way. Screenwriting experiences have made me wary of asking people I love to give me feedback - and vice versa. I sent my novel out to agents. At first I got little feedback. I plucked up the courage to ask some writers I had met recently, and respected very much, to read for me. Their comments were pretty positive. I got a report done, but it took me ages to find someone to do it in whom I had sufficient confidence.

The thing that worries me, as far as writing the next novel is concerned, is that I don't feel I have any more sense of who my beta-readers should be now, than I did then. And I mean beta-readers in the sense of fairly early-stage readers, who are prepared to dig in. I think this is very difficult with a project as long as a novel. I'm very curious about how other authors deal with this. Have you found trusted readers, for whom you possibly read too? I have an agent now, but I can't help feeling there should be an in-between stage, where I whisper to someone off-stage that I think I'm ready, but I know I'm not really, so would that someone very special, that very tender, yet very honest person, please come and take a look.

Leipzig Book Fair - An Ant's Eye View

Yesterday, I went to Leipzig Book Fair. I've never been to a book fair before and this was something of a whim, because my daughter had a day off school. The book fair was meant to have lots of books for kids. It did have some, but really, what the book fair had most of, was people. There were books, don't get me wrong, but when we went into Leipzig itself, later, we hit a big bookshop and it seemed to have far more books in it than the book fair did. And you could find somewhere to sit and you didn't have to carry your coat for miles if you hadn't taken it off at the cloak rooms by the entrance, just after you'd come in out of the cold and rain - and didn't know how hot it would be inside.

So, I thought to myself what is a book fair for? Well, if your book's just been published, here's your chance to read from it for an audience, to talk about it. But there was a problem at Leipzig, a problem called acoustics. Even when sections were walled off for readings, you could hear all the mumbling crowds in the background. I watched an audience of kids being read to, and not one was looking at the person reading to them. I know that kids aren't the best concentraters in the world, but this was extreme. They all looked a little depressed in fact. And that was how I started to feel. At one point, heading back into the meleé after a quiet moment, I wondered what would happen if I did what I felt like doing. If I stood stock still, and screamed…

One thing that brought relief were the hordes of teenagers in fancy dress in the comics and 'Japanese stuff' section. They were having fun, they knew exactly why they were there. Unfortunately, I was less sure.

Ways to Write when not Writing

I'm just not in the mood lately. Usually, when I'm not in the mood, I get the metaphorical whip out. But not at the moment. I know it won't work. So I found a way to write without writing. This morning I went and took photos of the area where I'd like to make my first German film. It's probably a pretty predictable area to want to make a film in. So, I'll have to promise that my story will be original. I'm always a little afraid of research; I feel it limits my palate. I prefer to fit in what is there afterwards, but I know that in these next few years, I have an opportunity to inspired by place that will dissipate, the longer I live here. So, here are some photos...