In the words of the Other

Every time I sit down at the computer and start - quite feverishly - a new posting for this blog that in many ways, still feels foreign to me - I cannot help but marveling at the easy flow of words.
I am not saying that I am a natural-born writer and that my prose is so brilliant that I, along with my readers, need sunglasses in order to move on.
(Even though I surely wish it were the case. It would end my bad case of I-wonder-what-to-do-next-with-my-life, and with the money I would no doubt make selling millions of books to frantic fans, I would at the very least be able to buy new living room furniture to replace the love seat and sofa recently soiled by my shameless cat)
End of fantasy.

What I mean though is that I never really thought I would ever write in another language. I never thought it would be somewhat 'easy' to do. I remember being terrified by the compulsory elective class that I had to take to complete my curriculum because of the final paper that came with it.
A paper in ENGLISH, God forbid.
The irony is that I ended up quitting school last week without having to brave this ordeal. My writing in English started self-imposed. I am loving it.

It is different. Stylistically, grammatically, rhythmically - if it makes any sense. The musicality of the language itself is distinct, new, other.
But it doesn't feel any different. The words come through the same channels, full of meaning and emotions, ready to be laid on an electronic page as white as the paper one. Mostly they sound the same. I discovered that even though I don't speak the same language, even though the idioms are different - I have the same voice.
And that's a comfortable surprise.

I am currently working on a big translation project, something that is going to carry over the summer and, on a more trivial note, feed me for a while now that I am not teaching anymore. It is my first book, my first real one. From beginning to end, it will be my job and only mine, to convey meaning from one set of words to another one. Quite exciting indeed. Notwithstanding the subject. This time having to get immersed in the history of international treaties in the nuclear field between 1945 and the mid-1970s doesn't particularly excite me. And to be totally honest it has never been the case; I am dreaming of a confidential, beautiful, artfully crafted jewel of a book, a precious piece of literature that would magically find its way on my lap, waiting to be whispered in French.
A massive best-seller, Wall Street #1 for X weeks would totally seal the deal too.
Fantasy seems pretty hard to off tonight.
Anyway.

Translating is a tedious work. It wears you out. It requires intense attention, a very sharp mind and most of all a sense of language that I would almost qualify of - forgive the repetition - sensual. I rub my fingers together as I type the word because it really is a matter of touch. You seize the words, cradle them in your palm, stroke them with your fingertips. Let them linger sometimes. Creating a good translation is not as easy as it may seem. Knowledge is merely sufficient. To be successful (and talented) you have to be more than a converter. Exchanging apple for pomme can only take you that far. It works in some cases, not in others. The 'apple of your eye' is not an apple in mine. It is a small, purple, juicy plum.
And it still goes way beyond that.

As I am struggling through the lingo of international law I am not only striving to find the lexical equivalent of the words. I have to rewrite them. To reorder them, rethink them, reinvent them, really - give them life. That is the reason why all of us translators are addicted to the job, as strenuous as it can be. A good translation, an excellent one - is a work of art of its own. Our name might not be on the cover but it is still there, inside, in small letters. On the first page or in the author's thanks. But there.

This detour to say this: my writing in English never feels like a translation. It startled me when I first realized that these words were directly my words, not the result of a linguistic transformation. I write in English because I think in English. I live in English. I would never say the same things in French. Not only the words would be different, but the story itself. I cannot explain why but day after day, as I am writing away I am becoming more convinced of the truth of this old Romantic idea: one's language shapes one's writing whether one likes it or not.
The enjoyment, though, stays the same.
Thanks for that.