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.

The Third Man

Last week I was applying for a writing position (freelance) for an on-line publication.
It was easy-breezy: enter your email, copy/paste your resume (attach your resume?!? whatever, one of these), give two writing samples....

I stopped.
Right there and then.

It was not because I didn’t have anything to submit. Even though I wrote much more in French than in English I do have samples. Nothing stellar, or serious or really mind-blowing but that’s not the point, is it? I was not up for a Pulitzer Prize nomination.

I could get a good article or two out of my blog, to begin with. Or even a solid Yelp review. I was Review Of The Day five times already, that must mean that I am not too shabby of a writer, right? Or not. Who knows? Word is that these are computer generated anyway, and honestly I am not sure to be ready to have my prose judged by some random machine which only recognizes its A from its B because of their different binary code. Not just yet.

I stopped the movement of my fingers on the keyboard because right below the line ‘First Writing Sample’ were written in italics the following words: ‘Third person articles only’.

Wha-aaaat?!?!?

Seriously?!?!
I was blown away, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, thunderstruck.

Just.

Speech.

Less.

Especially since the job in question consisted in writing opinion pieces on gossip and other women-related news.

Their words. Not mine.

Now that I think about it, a publication shallow enough to link that shamelessly ‘gossip’ and ‘women’ is probably not worth writing for.

But still.

In a world where everyone seems to have a compulsion need to let the whole world know about their every move, feeling, and thought – I am eating sushi/I believe that X’s dress was ab-so-lu-te-ly fabulous at the Oscars the other night/I am a fan of ‘brushing your teeth under the shower while singing ‘My Way’ – this was shocking news indeed

Third person articles.

Huh.

In French grammar the ‘il’ or third person, is labeled as the ‘non-person’ (for those of you perverted enough to be interested in syntax and overall linguistics, Emile Benveniste is the guy to blame behind all this. Students all over the country suffer countless hours in his hands. RIP, Emile). I am convinced that most writers-to-be out there start their first line with ‘I’ not ‘he’ or ‘she’. And it’s only natural. People want to talk about themselves, not for narcissist reasons (not always) but only because they are their best-known subject. Writing is a hard enough process; one doesn’t want to waste one’s precious time trying to think about WHAT to write about. Right? Right. So one usually digs into oneself and let it all out. Or just some of it; sometimes it is more than enough. No crazy stream of consciousness. Just a nice, controlled, entertaining (touching, boring, funny – insert your adjective here) flow of reflections and emotions put into words to fulfill a need not always simple to explain. Why do we write? That is an entire different story.

As I was recovering from my initial surprise I was wondering who these people were. Who is writing third person articles?

I did, actually. 3 of them about the expression of melancholy in the work of a French 17^th century author (Tristan L’Hermite. RIP to you as well, Tristan); 2 others on French Canadian theater. Academic publications fit the bill. News reports too, obviously Otherwise? I cannot really think of any article where the author doesn’t intervene at some point to say ‘I’. Sure, I might be totally oblivious to a world of ‘he’ papers. If so, please let me know. But if I am right indeed my question is: who is this publication looking for?

Not for me, at least. I blog and review and I like my ‘I’. And so do you.

I am happy with that.

5 years

February, 4th 2005:
I am in my closet, trying to figure out what to wear. Classic dilemma. But a delightful one. It's not too cold out for this time of year but I have no idea of what is in store for me today. It's a 'surprise'.
Hard decisions.
I settled on a warm skirt, boots and my long suede coat.

It's my first date with this guy. He's cute and I think we clicked. Very literally. He doesn't want anyone to know but we met on-line, through Yahoo. He liked the picture of me in the NYC subway, reading the city map, trying to figure out where to go next. I liked the dry humor of his profile, and his slight disenchantment. We chatted for three weeks. I am too shy to talk on the phone, let alone meet him. My poor English makes me nervous. And what if I make a fool of myself? what if I don't know what to say? or if I make a mistake? I want to impress.
I am anxious. Restless. Almost jittery.

We are to meet under the Bean in Millenium Park. No - the Cloud Gate. It's a first date; we need romance and not triviality. One my way back from work the night before I found out that the city has covered our landmark with a gigantic white tarp. I am not sure what to think about it....good sign? bad omen?
I have a sleepless night.

11:00 finally comes around. I walk the short distance to Millenium Park. Trying hard to keep my cool, steady my hands. Hoping to find my voice in an impossibly tight throat. I know he likes me. Things will be fine, I keep repeating myself.

February 4th, 2010:
The date went pretty well. Understatement: the date went really well. He was shy and charming, tall, so American-looking. I loved his dimples. His Chicago accent. His untamed hair.
He tried to impress me with French jazz records; the store was closed. Embarrassed moment. Cute. So he took me to the suburbs - a first for me after 17 months in Chicago - and we had a lovely time at the zoo....we hold hands watching dolphins. I learned one of my favorite English words, pacifier (there was one, all lonely and probably miserable, on the ground outside of the monkey exhibit. I pointed at it and asked for the word; I found it was adorable. I still do) . I made a mess eating sushi. We listened to Travis in the car. We didn't kiss.
I returned to my downtown studio, with butterflies in my stomach and stars in my eyes. I was humming Lou Reed's "Perfect Day".

A lot happened during these last 5 years. Of course. 5 years is a pretty long time, something like... 1825 days? And nights. We laughed, fought, cried, traveled, talked - a lot. We moved a few times. Bought a place. Thought about losing it. Worked and complained about it. Read. Watched. Loved. Adopted a kitten. Then a dog. And another cat. I learned that he cannot touch suede; it makes him cringe. He made me like beer, the Doves and silly TV shows. I initiated him to wine, all things French, expensive meals and ever-changing hairstyles. We shared, experimented, lived our lives, and wondered endless times on how to live them to the fullest. We got frustrated many times, and shared incredible moments of happiness that made all worth it.
Today - here we are. Hopeful for the future, and ready to make this year count in more than one way. We have weaknesses, but mostly we are strong - and ready for the challenge.

Last night we celebrated with an intimate dinner. No fancy restaurant, no frills but a fusion place that sums us to perfection. Simple yet refined, we just enjoyed the moment and each other's company. Knowing that there will be many other anniversaries to come.
Life gave us to one another and we cannot ask for much more. But we will. Because it's the way we are wired, for better or for worse.
And we like it.

Time of Crisis

So far - this new year awaited with such trepidation hasn't really been stellar for me.
Quite the contrary.
My days have been filled with much negativity, tears, doubts and overall sadness. January usually does that to me, so I am not that surprised but I cannot really write in a state of mild depression.

So I read.
And watch.
So that I don't think too much.

This time of crisis - or mental hibernation like I used to call it - hasn't been totally sterile though. From all this brooding over emerged two things I can get quite excited about as soon as the heavy veil is lifted - soon.
Two things I never really thought I would partake in. Unless I were a man in his late 40s and on the verge of a midlife crisis. I guess crises are inherently all the same. They require, urge, demand with an unsettling vigor something different. Radical.
So I decided on an impulse to go skydiving. I just seized the opportunity, without thinking about it twice and received my little information packet in the mail last week. I have never been really curious about it but it feels just right.
And I am quite elated about it.

The other thing has been with me for quite a while, in a corner of my head I usually don't visit very often, especially since I did the big leap of faith of crossing the Atlantic eight years ago, on yet another whim. I must have thought that it was adventure enough for a while, and that I could sit back and rest a bit before considering anything remotely as daring. But now the time has come, and I rested enough.
I want to learn how to drive a bike. A motorbike, that is. I want to have this unique feeling of freedom, control and speed, and abandon myself in it. Not for thrill-seeking sake. I am not that much of a risk taker, at least not in a literal way. I just need to feel alive again, to get rid of the numbness I have been feeling for the last few years and this is the perfect way to do it.

So even though 2010 has started 'off' I still want to make it my year. A year of change and achievement. A year of happiness.
January is almost done.

Snow Day

Every time the weather forecast issues a winter advisory - I am clapping my hands, jumping and bouncing around like a little girl.
At least - when snow is involved.
Today 9 inches are expected over the city, up to a foot by the lake front (and guess where I live?!?!?) - nothing can make me happier in the dead of winter.
Except of course that today - I had to cancel lunch with darling Kelly......that's what happens when you have a wreck of a car that is still damaged from a previous accident. No right front light, a very bruised bumper, scratches and the engine light on. Even though we are indeed in 2010 and that the stretch of bad luck should be officially over - I didn't really want to put that to the test.
Not today.

Strangely enough, none of my snow memories are linked with childhood. It snows every winter in my part of France but usually not enough to be really memorable. And - please note - never for Christmas. That would be too much to ask for.
Of course.
But I do have a picture of me at 7 or so, all bundled up in a red anorak, an itchy balaclava (man did I hate these things) and thick white tights. I am grinning to the camera in front of a freshly made snowman. One of the few things I did during my life with my dad. We were on vacation at my great-aunt house in Alsace, and my little cousin (11 or 12 at the time) was listening endlessly to "Careless Whisper" and day-dreaming of George Michael.

I had then a painful encounter with cold and snow in Eastern Europe; Prague was blanketed with a thick layer of white powder, muffling every sound in the city. It was magical, and still unspoiled by tourism. I fell in love for the first time. I was going on 16.
The painful part came a few days later in the plains of Bohemia, when the Siberia wind was blowing over the Auschwitz/Birkenau camps. The temperatures plummeted down to a frigid minus 35 degrees Celsius; we had to shorten our visit and go back inside the bus.

The next memory is set yet again a few years later, this time back in my hometown.
Winter of 1996-1997. An exceptional one. Snow stayed on the ground 29 out of the 31 days of January. It was such a big deal that it was even talked about in the news on national television. You can just imagine the precious report that came out of it, journalists asking people on the street how they felt about 'the situation'; it was meant to be serious. It was just hilarious.
I remember throwing my first dinner 'party' that month; small circle - restricted to my family: mom, step-dad, brother and mamie. I went grocery shopping with warm boots on, elated to have people over for the very first time, in my very first place. I was happy. I had planned a wonderful meal, with duck breast as a star and a hell of a dessert.
That ended up being the first and only visit of mamie to my place.
So, yes. Close to my heart.

After that - snow for me is all about the US. First in Connecticut, where my second winter was punctuated by a dozen blizzards. I loved being snowed in in my little blue house in the woods, surrounded by absolute silence. It was utterly beautiful. I remember watching intently The Weather Channel from the diner across the road, praying for more bad weather coming my way. Being aware of my eccentric and slightly irresponsible yearn but unable to join the choir of laments when sorry weathermen were promising more inches. Trying instead to repress a smile.
I knew the danger involved though. I had been caught in a nasty storm on my way back from Providence after Thanksgiving weekend, and had driven in a snow vortex for five hours. A surreal experience. Even the ultimate chore of snow shoveling an entire driveway was not bad enough to make me wish for dry weather.
Call me nuts if you want. There is no rationality involved.

Snow days in Chicago aren't of course as enchanting. The immaculate beauty cannot compete for very long with the hustle and bustle of the city. But it is more striking in a way. The neighborhood is different; softer. Quiet. Forgiving. I love going out at night under the falling flakes, arm in arm with my sweetie, listening to the unmistakable cracking sound of our shoes on the covered sidewalk. Shivering a bit, red-nosed and eyes-watering I just enjoy a pure cluster of happiness. One of these plaisirs minuscules around which Philippe Delerme wrote a little masterpiece.
A tiny pleasure.
Can't wait for tonight...

A Lovely Escapade

It's not much.
164 small pages.
A bright, colorful cover of rice paper bags.
And a wonderful title that plays beautifully with the French language. A title I can only dream of translating. Something that goes way beyond words and carries a whole world of meaning - a title-universe.
A true and rare gem.

I am a huge mystery fan. I read loads of them, and has this silly and frivolous pleasure to be able to put my hands way before my beloved friend Anne (back home) on the last Elizabeth George's installment. I do own (almost) all of them. Love.
I am not and has never been ashamed of my fascination with detective stories. I started as a kid with Enid Blyton and her 'Famous Five', 'upgraded' to the Alice Roy series and never stopped since. I am really and truly addicted, and have devoured hundreds of titles over the years. It was my vice as a literature student but one I proudly embraced; I even considered for a moment writing my dissertation on it.
But one cannot seriously live off one's vice, right?

I like my books like old faithful friends. Always entertaining, never disappointing.
A solid rock to rely on, one of the best ways to live through the long winter days. And a nice collection of memories.

But they are not earth-shattering. They don't make my heart flutter, don't fill my stomach with butterflies, don't transport me over the clouds.
Don't bring me to tears - of laughter or emotion.
They are companions.
Not lovers.

L'Echappée belle is one of these jewels that make you live. And shine. And want.
It's not only a 'lovely escapade' - a possible translation, but one that only would only cover half of the meaning; therefore actually impossible.
Yes, it is a charming and bucolic little piece filled with swirling butterflies, summer light, humming bees and warm hay smells. A fond look on the French countryside, its simple beauty, its rusticity, its essential earthiness. The 'profound' country of my childhood, virtually unknown on this side of the ocean. The small village wedding. The terrace of an old-fashioned café on the main square, with its tables under the chestnut trees. The picnic on a plaid blanket by the river. Red wine and saucissons, fresh bread still warm from the bakery oven, plump fruits and daisy necklaces. The old castle in ruins hidden behind the road curve. Wild flowers. Church bells.
A simple, provincial form of happiness that talks to the heart. Words so powerful in their suggestive power that I could almost feel the breeze on my face, hear the chirping birds and feel at home.
Almost.

I escaped for a (too) short couple of hours with the characters, left my life behind and just let myself be. Feel. And it is tough nowadays.
Reading Anna Gavalda made me incredibly home-sick, but also loaded me up with joy and nostalgia. Few books can claim that pride. But when I find one of those, I cherish them all my life.

I haven't talked about the second aspect of the title; s'échapper is of course to escape, but l'échapper belle is even more than that; you escape just in time. You barely made it. But you did. And that's what counts, after all.
To make it.

The Holiday - part 2: The End

I really have mixed feelings about the holidays, and pretty much always have. Well - not when I was 4 or 5 and prepping Santa his plate. I even added a carrot for the reindeer.
One.
Looking back on it it's funny how logic totally escapes you as a kid. Because only a couple of few weeks before that St Nicholas' donkey was entitled to a carrot of its own. No sharing involved. Unfairness if it ever was.
Then my parents divorced and I had to share my holiday time between them two. That meant twice the gifts (as my comrades at school kept telling me) but from the inside it was hard to see it that way. As a teenager I was only thinking of the time off it meant; as a young adult I had to spend hours trying to figure out a tight schedule where time would be equally divided between mom, dad and my boyfriend's family.
Oh boy.
Then I came to the US. And Christmas was never the same again.

But what has never changed is the mild depression that comes with January. The Holiday soufflé falls down, and we are left with a sense of...well...deflation. I know I am. I am always dreading NYE because of drunk drivers, overpriced parties and awkward kissing time at midnight but also because it signals the end of a time that, for sure, has lost most of its magic over time but is still one of the highlights of the year, whether one likes it or not. In France we have the redeeming celebration of the Epiphany (traditionally on the 6th - conveniently displaced to the first Sunday of the month to accommodate modern society) but after that and the succulent galette des rois, nothing. Nada. C'est fini. The Christmas tree comes down, the garlands go back in the basement, and checkbooks in drawers until the end of the month. Then starts the long strand of gray and cold, cold days. Spring seems further than ever. You just want to become Phil (the groundhog, not the doctor) and go to sleep until the first bud spotting. Shadow seeing or not.
January is just emptiness.
And this tremendous void doesn't make new resolutions any easier. Right?

But sometimes the beginning of the year can really and truly signals a true beginning.
Clean slate.
Let's write a new story.
It happened twice over these last three years, and I am determined to do it again. Because three times the charm.
This year is dedicated to my body. Beautify it, strengthen it, heal it....just take care of it. Because it's worth it. I am worth it!! ; )
Stay tuned...