Translating Century-Old History

  In some ways, preparing this translation is the same as preparing my poetry collection. I spend hours in front of the computer, pondering the best way to say something, realizing how little of the language I know (English first, and now English and Swedish). There’s joy in it, in creating and shaping, and there’s also frustration, and boredom from repetition.

            In other ways, it seems like their book-type-shape is the only similarity. I created every bit of my poetry myself, whereas in this Swedish book, someone else put in the effort to gather facts, figures, names, dates, and other bits of historical accuracy. Creative writing vs history. First language vs a mish-mash of terrible Swedish. A book that requires an open mind vs a book that requires an index (what have I gotten myself into?).

            I keep adding to it, too. First I was just going to translate it, publish it so the fam can actually read our history. Then I thought I’d include an appendix with all the family history from its publication date to present day: every birth, death, marriage, every occupation, and even though it began as a small thought, the more I research it, the more I realize it’s about twice as much work as the original author put into it. And if there’s an appendix chronicling more current history, certainly there should be an appendix with photos and the like: portraits, business cards, post cards, letters, etc. Extra blank pages in the back, so everyone can write in whatever happens in the future. And possibly not-so-obviously, an index.

            Unsurprisingly, I expect to think of several more ideas before this thing goes to print. Not because I’m searching, but because apparently when it’s your destiny to do something, the fates won’t let you do it half-assedly.

            This project’s growth has forced me to push back the publication date again and again, but I hope I sound confident when I say Damn it, this thing’s gonna be available by July, so help me. So I might as well give it a late-June bookday, like my previous work. Publishing one book a year seems like a respectable pace. 

Writing 400 Reviews

I'm writing on the eve of creating my 400th review on Goodreads. Since it isn't my job to review books, I can't say that they're consistent. Some are just one word (and when that's the case, that word is usually "Nope"), some just a paragraph, and others require a more thoughtful and in-depth exploration. And, as I've rated over 1200 books, it seems that only every third book affects me enough to warrant sharing my thoughts. 

One reaction that took me too long to learn is stopping. Not so long ago, I would force myself to finish every book I started. I have to be honest: it didn't make me a better person. It would only make me miserable. Since then, I've applied this "stopping" to other storytelling media that fails me. Including (and here's where I lose people) The Walking Dead, Game of Thrones, and Doctor Who; a dozen comic titles; and several podcasts. That's not to say I won't ever return to these stories. They simply failed to meet my standards over a period of time, and I moved on to other things that did meet my standards. 

So now when I'm in the middle of a book I hate, I stop. My "to-read" list includes almost 1,000 books, and I'm thirty: I just don't have time to waste on things I don't like. If I have the next Jacqueline Carey up on deck, why would I force myself through another 200 pages of something I've been rolling my eyes about since page one? Instead, I'll reward my good taste with abandonment of that which annoys me, and pick up something I know I'll like, if not love. 

I have no review goals in mind. Unlike my "1000 books in 10 years" reading goal, it doesn't matter to me how many I review. I saw my review counter at just under 400 and thought, "Damn. That's a lot of books to talk about." Maybe I'll make it a centennial thing and revisit this topic at 500. If I'm not too busy reading, of course. 

Poem-A-Day

Throughout the process of getting The White Stairs ready to publish (and publishing it, etc), I've continued my 2015 resolution of writing at least one poem every day. I've fallen a bit behind, but I always catch up, so that on any given day, I don't owe more than a few poems to myself. It began as an exercise to keep myself writing, to get into a habit, and to expand my poetry base. Today is day 166 of the year, and since I've yet to write today's poem, I have completed at least 165 poems this year. 

They're not all gems. Some are limericks, haiku, other short forms that don't have names. I have a few I'm very proud of, and I have many that will never be read by anybody but me (until I die, at which point Hyperform has been charged with publishing everything, even the crap, because I'm dead, so what do I care?). Generally I see potential in one out of every seven or eight. 

This dedication is usually good. Hell, I have almost 200 poems from this year alone. But I don't write just poems, and don't want to write just poems. Poetry is, for what it's worth, what I do best. Besides sleeping. I'm excellent at sleeping. 

So there are times when I want to set aside the poetry and write more of my sci-fi thing that doesn't know what kind of thing it is, or my fanfic (shut up; my writing, my choice), or filling in the holes of that unfinished novel. But I don't. Still--poetry. This year, at least. And hey, I got a book out of it already. Must be doing something right. 

The White Stairs is published, dudes

When I was younger and liked writing stories or poems just for fun, sometimes I'd write one a month. Other times, they'd descend in swarms and I'd find myself the proud parent of forty, fifty poems from an hour of boredom. Then I went to school for it. 

I can only guess that I was accepted into my writing program because I had at least some promise. I don't think my alma mater would have invited me in if I had zero talent. I mean, obviously they wanted money, but I'm sure reputation has weight too, and they probably wouldn't want anyone to read my terrible work and say "Can you believe they gave her a degree? Guess they'll give 'em to anyone that pays. Strip them of their accreditation!" 

So let's agree that someone thought I had talent. Gosh I feel all warm and fuzzy now, comforted, and...well, I just ate a chocolate chip cookie so I suppose that could be this feeling. Anyway, talent: I had that. But in that collegiate setting, listening to successful writers, the first and most important thing I learned was discipline. Talent makes a hobby. Discipline makes a career.

I'm not talking about ridiculous, instant success. Every person measures success differently. At school I was told, again and again, that the "professional" of "professional writer" means you get paid for it. That would mean that, if I spent three hours a day doing complicated and technical computer stuff and earned a living from it, but at least seven hours of the day was devoted to writing, editing, and reading, I wouldn't be considered a professional writer. That would mean that, if I wrote that often and produced really amazing stuff but I wanted people to read it for free, I wouldn't be considered a professional writer. Talent, discipline, distribution, and an audience, but because I'm not paid, not "professional". That would mean that the author of a really awful--but published!--book was a professional writer, but me with my passion was not. 

I just don't buy it. 

I have no problem calling myself a professional writer. Part of this is because I have a difficult time caring about what random people think of me. I'm fine receiving constructive criticism from educated sources with similar or better talent and passion, and I listen to those people because I want to learn from them. But to say I'm not a "real" writer because I measure my success outside a box someone else constructed is a joke. 

I write every day. I edit every day. I read every day, to explore new forms and topics and lifestyles and just learn new things. I care about what I write. Every day, even if I'm tired or sick or exhausted or busy or just want to lie around watching BBC dramas and eating popcorn. That's the discipline that I learned at school, that's what changed my habits, and that's what changed how I see myself as a writer. It was a hobby when it was a whim, and it became a job when I started treating it like one. Sure, it's more difficult, but it's also worth it. 

Besides, I measure my success first by whether my poems actually kill anyone, and so far, I can tell you, all of them have successfully not caused death. It's hard not to get big-headed when you're batting a thousand. 

What Makes Writing More Than a Hobby

When I was younger and liked writing stories or poems just for fun, sometimes I'd write one a month. Other times, they'd descend in swarms and I'd find myself the proud parent of forty, fifty poems from an hour of boredom. Then I went to school for it. 

I can only guess that I was accepted into my writing program because I had at least some promise. I don't think my alma mater would have invited me in if I had zero talent. I mean, obviously they wanted money, but I'm sure reputation has weight too, and they probably wouldn't want anyone to read my terrible work and say "Can you believe they gave her a degree? Guess they'll give 'em to anyone that pays. Strip them of their accreditation!" 

So let's agree that someone thought I had talent. Gosh I feel all warm and fuzzy now, comforted, and...well, I just ate a chocolate chip cookie so I suppose that could be this feeling. Anyway, talent: I had that. But in that collegiate setting, listening to successful writers, the first and most important thing I learned was discipline. Talent makes a hobby. Discipline makes a career.

I'm not talking about ridiculous, instant success. Every person measures success differently. At school I was told, again and again, that the "professional" of "professional writer" means you get paid for it. That would mean that, if I spent three hours a day doing complicated and technical computer stuff and earned a living from it, but at least seven hours of the day was devoted to writing, editing, and reading, I wouldn't be considered a professional writer. That would mean that, if I wrote that often and produced really amazing stuff but I wanted people to read it for free, I wouldn't be considered a professional writer. Talent, discipline, distribution, and an audience, but because I'm not paid, not "professional". That would mean that the author of a really awful--but published!--book was a professional writer, but me with my passion was not. 

I just don't buy it. 

I have no problem calling myself a professional writer. Part of this is because I have a difficult time caring about what random people think of me. I'm fine receiving constructive criticism from educated sources with similar or better talent and passion, and I listen to those people because I want to learn from them. But to say I'm not a "real" writer because I measure my success outside a box someone else constructed is a joke. 

I write every day. I edit every day. I read every day, to explore new forms and topics and lifestyles and just learn new things. I care about what I write. Every day, even if I'm tired or sick or exhausted or busy or just want to lie around watching BBC dramas and eating popcorn. That's the discipline that I learned at school, that's what changed my habits, and that's what changed how I see myself as a writer. It was a hobby when it was a whim, and it became a job when I started treating it like one. Sure, it's more difficult, but it's also worth it. 

Besides, I measure my success first by whether my poems actually kill anyone, and so far, I can tell you, all of them have successfully not caused death. It's hard not to get big-headed when you're batting a thousand. 

Things you may find here

I thought having a food blog would be fantastic. I’m at the point in my culinary experience that I can eyeball measurements, confidently substitute ingredients, and skim recipes before inventing my own methods. Hyperform (spouse) continues to be impressed by my one-handed, stir-fry/omelet flip (though as we discovered last weekend, this success doesn’t extend to vegan pancakes. Not enough binding ingredients to prevent it from falling apart and on the burner, pan handle, floor, my foot, the Monsters, etc. mid-air). But that blog sounds like a lot of work and really, I just adjust other people’s recipes, and it’s an affinity but not a passion. Pass.

Then there are the Monsters, those fluffy felines that provide a steady stream of story fodder. I don’t doubt there’s an audience for a cat blog, but I can’t justify being the one writing it. Also nope.

Just my writing endeavors? So that, in addition to the work I put into the craft, I now have to deconstruct the how and the why and the what on a regular basis? Way to kill a dream, blog.

So. This will be like my phone calls to my mom or friends. Random stuff, varied interests, sometimes talking about my writing but just as often ranting about blue jays or cheese. Maybe I’ll even have some structure to it, like my Monday entry will be about writing. I like structure. But sometimes I have a hard time sticking to a schedule. That sounds like a topic for a future blog post!