I wanted things to be very different. I thought I had more time. I had a post all planned and set up to download pictures tomorrow (long story), about my wonderful SP8 Alison (who sent a package AGAIN) and my equally wonderful (and patient with international mail service) SP8 spoilee Theresa.
However, life made other plans. A little while ago, I got the phone call from my dad that I have been expecting and dreading for a long time. It's time to say goodbye to my mom. I was going to go to my parents on Monday morning anyway, for my regular stay, but at this point it is best not to take any chances, so we're leaving as soon as I got my head and bags together.
I think I'll be gone for a bit, but then - for shame - I haven't been the most regular poster anyway.
All of my pals in the exchanges I've participated in deserve much more fanfare, because they are so much fun and inspiration (not to mention responsible for the ball-winditis in this house), and I will definitely have a pal party here when I get back. For now, my apologies, ladies.
I am taking my knitting. Lots of it. It's not frivolous, it's therapy.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Saturday, August 19, 2006
How cool is this!
Check out the ladies at Romancing the Yarn.
Ten knitting and crocheting romance writers, it does not get better than this.
No, really, apparently there is something about knitting and romance novels - uh, and I guess the conventional association wouldn't be a flattering one. Never mind, count me in anyway.
Now here I was quietly celebrating the fact that I'm no longer in the romance biz - nothing personal, I just need the break from the vampires - and suddenly I'm discovering a great new blog with at least two authors I know, so to speak. Barbara, Elizabeth, if you ever wanted to know what one of your German voices sounds like - that would be me. Not that I could think of a reason why you would, but there you are.
I was reading through the posts and visiting the ladies' websites, getting all verklempt about the good old days - you know, before the vampires.
Ten years ago, I cut my translating teeth on Barbara Bretton, Operation: Husband. Jeez, was that manuscript red when I got it back. My editor had, well, edited it by hand and made me enter every single change and correction. I hated her, but I learned. I learned enough to be able to appreciate the art of the romance novel and to do my best not to hack them up too badly. I learned about cultural transfer, about different audiences and standards when it came to sex. (German readers have a much more .. uh ... delicate taste, which means I also know all the sexual euphemisms of the German language never dreamed by Goethe and Schiller. Really, try me.)
I may sound full of myself here, but I owe it to those first romance novels that I am, in fact, a pretty darn good translator today. Translating novels is a balancing act. You need to find the creativity that is necessary to turn an "alien" story into something that reads as if it was meant to be written in your language, but you must never forget your responsibility to the author. You are trying to make her work accessible to a new audience, to people who wouldn't have the chance to appreciate it otherwise. And if you screw up, they won't like the book, no matter how lovely it is in the original version.
I never took that lightly.
Yeah, you know what? I can virtually see the curled lips. (Come off it, this isn't Finnegan's Wake, it's romance novels.) Many of my colleagues see it that way. They take romances as a quick and dirty way to make money while waiting for an "important" book to come along. Me? I've never been one for intellectual auto-eroticism. I love stories. All kinds. And retelling them was a joy.
My first ever contract for a "big" book was Once Tempted, by Elizabeth Boyle.
Historical romance. Over 300 pages. And enough wordplays, non-translatable clues and details of dress to drive me mad at times. But I still love that story. And I still remember it in great detail. That's no big deal, really. As a translator, you ponder every single line of a text. Nobody, with the exception of a good editor, will ever read a book as closely and think about it as much as a translator. Full of myself again? Nope. Think about it. You have to understand every shade of meaning of every sentence, every image, every line of dialogue, because you have to rewrite it in a completely different language, yet as close to the original as you possibly can. There is no skipping over things, there is no inventing something else, because you don't get it. Not if you are translating sans curled lip, that is.
The point of this lengthy stroll down literary memory lane? Well, duh, that should have been obvious from the beginning. The ladies are KNITTERS.
Ten knitting and crocheting romance writers, it does not get better than this.
No, really, apparently there is something about knitting and romance novels - uh, and I guess the conventional association wouldn't be a flattering one. Never mind, count me in anyway.
Now here I was quietly celebrating the fact that I'm no longer in the romance biz - nothing personal, I just need the break from the vampires - and suddenly I'm discovering a great new blog with at least two authors I know, so to speak. Barbara, Elizabeth, if you ever wanted to know what one of your German voices sounds like - that would be me. Not that I could think of a reason why you would, but there you are.
I was reading through the posts and visiting the ladies' websites, getting all verklempt about the good old days - you know, before the vampires.
Ten years ago, I cut my translating teeth on Barbara Bretton, Operation: Husband. Jeez, was that manuscript red when I got it back. My editor had, well, edited it by hand and made me enter every single change and correction. I hated her, but I learned. I learned enough to be able to appreciate the art of the romance novel and to do my best not to hack them up too badly. I learned about cultural transfer, about different audiences and standards when it came to sex. (German readers have a much more .. uh ... delicate taste, which means I also know all the sexual euphemisms of the German language never dreamed by Goethe and Schiller. Really, try me.)
I may sound full of myself here, but I owe it to those first romance novels that I am, in fact, a pretty darn good translator today. Translating novels is a balancing act. You need to find the creativity that is necessary to turn an "alien" story into something that reads as if it was meant to be written in your language, but you must never forget your responsibility to the author. You are trying to make her work accessible to a new audience, to people who wouldn't have the chance to appreciate it otherwise. And if you screw up, they won't like the book, no matter how lovely it is in the original version.
I never took that lightly.
Yeah, you know what? I can virtually see the curled lips. (Come off it, this isn't Finnegan's Wake, it's romance novels.) Many of my colleagues see it that way. They take romances as a quick and dirty way to make money while waiting for an "important" book to come along. Me? I've never been one for intellectual auto-eroticism. I love stories. All kinds. And retelling them was a joy.
My first ever contract for a "big" book was Once Tempted, by Elizabeth Boyle.
Historical romance. Over 300 pages. And enough wordplays, non-translatable clues and details of dress to drive me mad at times. But I still love that story. And I still remember it in great detail. That's no big deal, really. As a translator, you ponder every single line of a text. Nobody, with the exception of a good editor, will ever read a book as closely and think about it as much as a translator. Full of myself again? Nope. Think about it. You have to understand every shade of meaning of every sentence, every image, every line of dialogue, because you have to rewrite it in a completely different language, yet as close to the original as you possibly can. There is no skipping over things, there is no inventing something else, because you don't get it. Not if you are translating sans curled lip, that is.
The point of this lengthy stroll down literary memory lane? Well, duh, that should have been obvious from the beginning. The ladies are KNITTERS.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Work in transit
Whoosh!
Where did my home week go? I guess there is a reason why I usually need two weeks to do two weeks' worth of work, errands and house stuff. Not to mention knitting.
I was going to write a long entry about my works in progress and the latest cool secret pal stuff (a lovely hair band in self-patterning American flag yarn, three cute fabric-covered pins in shades of blue, Mexican "hot chocolate" chocolate and another very "me" card with Wendy the sheep) with tons of pictures. However, my ailing camera didn't think that was a good idea. It took about three crappy pictures, flashing or under-exposing at will (yes, I do know how to use it) and then died rather unceremoniously. Whatever. I've had it. This time I'm getting a new camera.
The Garnstudio cardigan is inching along on both sleeves.
I've put the blue crochet not-a-hoodie-anymore aside, because with our heatwave it felt as if I was buried under tons of fiber when I had it in my lap to knit on the ribbing. But I want to work on it, because I think it could be something really nice and wearable after all.
And I can't say anything about my last WIP yet, because it's for my One Skein Not So Secret Pal (hi Claudia). But I will say that getting to know her and her blog has inspired me to look at and think about Japanese arts and crafts, and that I've learned a little something along those lines specifically for this project to thank her for opening this world to me through her blog.
Well, I'm off to pack my knitting and head for the sheep pastures of Lower Saxony. But before I go ... it seems to me that I've been whining a lot on this blog lately. Yeah, things are rather on the rough side right now, and what with all the little everyday things it's hard sometimes to remember something that I do want to remember always, because it is one of the few things I believe in with all my heart. So I'll leave this post be with a few words by my favourite spiritual writer ever.
Joy and Sorrow
Then a woman said, 'Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.'
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, 'Joy is greater than sorrow,'
and others say, 'Nay, sorrow is the greater.'
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board,
remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
Kahlil Gibran
Where did my home week go? I guess there is a reason why I usually need two weeks to do two weeks' worth of work, errands and house stuff. Not to mention knitting.
I was going to write a long entry about my works in progress and the latest cool secret pal stuff (a lovely hair band in self-patterning American flag yarn, three cute fabric-covered pins in shades of blue, Mexican "hot chocolate" chocolate and another very "me" card with Wendy the sheep) with tons of pictures. However, my ailing camera didn't think that was a good idea. It took about three crappy pictures, flashing or under-exposing at will (yes, I do know how to use it) and then died rather unceremoniously. Whatever. I've had it. This time I'm getting a new camera.
The Garnstudio cardigan is inching along on both sleeves.
What did I tell you about the crappy pictures?
I really want to wear this (did I mention that I love the Garnstudio designs? Clear, no-frill designs for stuff I would actually wear. And plenty of sizes, too.) but the plain stockinette sleeves haven't held my interest for long lately.
Not when I'm in love with Seasilk. Boy, is that yarn beautiful!
This (I'm not even going to comment on the quality of this picture)
is one half of a rectangular shawl. I'm knitting two halves to be grafted in the middle because of the directional pattern. The ivory hues of the yarn are so gorgeous (please scroll back two entries for a better idea of what it's like) that I wanted a pretty substantial lace pattern that would show off all that gorgeousness. And I wanted it to look like just "a piece of lace", so it's one pattern all over, ostrich plume with a narrow seed stitch border, instead of a combination. My two skeins are going to make a very generous shawl, and I can't wait. Go and get yourself some Seasilk, you have to see it in person.
Here's another WIP with a better picture, because I took it a while back and forgot to post it.
This is going to be a bag made with two lovely secret pal gifts, inspired by Noni' "In the sculpture garden". Inspired by, because I'm basically just using the colour combination (sorta) making everything else up as I go along. It's going to be roughly the shape of the crochet bag I made a while back, with the handles my SP8 sent me. And I'm not sure what colour the felted flowers will be. I'm going to felt it by hand, because I'm a scaredy-cat :o). The swatch I felted worked beautifully, and the fabric is solid but still unbelievably soft.
I succumbed to the lure of Lang Silkdream. It was just stronger than me. Soft, shimmering silk/merino at less than half the price of Lion and Lamb. I'm only human.
So, yeah, I'm the last person on earth to knit Clapotis. In Silkdream in plum, dark red and rosé. I'm loving every single stitch of it.
I've put the blue crochet not-a-hoodie-anymore aside, because with our heatwave it felt as if I was buried under tons of fiber when I had it in my lap to knit on the ribbing. But I want to work on it, because I think it could be something really nice and wearable after all.And I can't say anything about my last WIP yet, because it's for my One Skein Not So Secret Pal (hi Claudia). But I will say that getting to know her and her blog has inspired me to look at and think about Japanese arts and crafts, and that I've learned a little something along those lines specifically for this project to thank her for opening this world to me through her blog.
Well, I'm off to pack my knitting and head for the sheep pastures of Lower Saxony. But before I go ... it seems to me that I've been whining a lot on this blog lately. Yeah, things are rather on the rough side right now, and what with all the little everyday things it's hard sometimes to remember something that I do want to remember always, because it is one of the few things I believe in with all my heart. So I'll leave this post be with a few words by my favourite spiritual writer ever.
Joy and Sorrow
Then a woman said, 'Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.'
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, 'Joy is greater than sorrow,'
and others say, 'Nay, sorrow is the greater.'
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board,
remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
Kahlil Gibran
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Outpost
Greetings from Lower Saxony.
I've decided that I'm going to try and post at least once during the week I'm on my care mission. Picture-free, unencumbered by content :o).
There has been lace knitting, especially last night when Mom and I watched two movies - an unheard-of record - while waiting for Dad to return from his city council meeting. Pictures on the weekend. Of the knitting, not the movies, which were ... eh.
So far, it has been a productive week. I've solved the mystery of the non-disconnecting internet connection, a problem if you pay by the minute. I've uncovered the secrets of the incontinence pants - place them where you think they should go in the back, then lower them by four inches. I've mastered the art of the bedpan - if you don't hurt the patient a little now, you need to hurt them a lot more later when you change the sheets. It's a learning curve, but so far, so good.
The Sea Silk is a dream to wórk with - see lace knitting above, and I'm so going to show off when I get home.
I've decided that I'm going to try and post at least once during the week I'm on my care mission. Picture-free, unencumbered by content :o).
There has been lace knitting, especially last night when Mom and I watched two movies - an unheard-of record - while waiting for Dad to return from his city council meeting. Pictures on the weekend. Of the knitting, not the movies, which were ... eh.
So far, it has been a productive week. I've solved the mystery of the non-disconnecting internet connection, a problem if you pay by the minute. I've uncovered the secrets of the incontinence pants - place them where you think they should go in the back, then lower them by four inches. I've mastered the art of the bedpan - if you don't hurt the patient a little now, you need to hurt them a lot more later when you change the sheets. It's a learning curve, but so far, so good.
The Sea Silk is a dream to wórk with - see lace knitting above, and I'm so going to show off when I get home.
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