Asymptote Contest Announcement

This is exciting! Asymptote​ is one of the greats in literary translation, a journal of wonderfulness. And they've announced a contest for emerging translators here. Want more details? Here you go, straight from their Facebook page:

Would you like to be published alongside translations by Lawrence Venuti, Lydia Davis, and Susan Bernofsky? Would you like your work seen and judged by Eliot Weinberger and Howard Goldblatt? Most importantly, is there an untranslated or little-translated writer that you are desperately, maddeningly determined to bring to the attention of the English-speaking world?

Then submit to "Close Approximations," Asymptote's first ever translation contest! Thanks to your generous support of our IndieGogo campaign, we can make it worth your while: the winner of each category will receive 1,000 USD, as well as the opportunity to publish with Asymptote.

They've given a great lead time, too -- submissions aren't due until September 1. So, get thee writing!​

On a related note...Asymptote​'s announcement is also a wonderful example of how to act after a big fundraiser. Their successful Indiegogo campaign closed at the end of April. And not even one month later, they're already following through on their promises in a big, public way. Kudos, my friends.

The 5 Stages of Reading a Poorly-Written Book

Denial

There's no way this book could be that bad. One of my best friends, a great reader who also happens to be an indie bookseller, recommended it to me. Maybe I'm just really tired and thick-skulled right now. I'm sure it'll get better in the next chapter. 

Anger

Seriously?? Am I really reading this?! These characters are so flat I can't picture them in my head, little details are being introduced for no reason, the exposition is too dramatic for what follows, the sentences are simple enough a fourth-grader could understand everything, even the explicit and highly inelegant sex, and oh my God now there's Internet dating. I can't read this. You can't make me! 

Bargaining

If I can just finish the next five pages, the writing will get better. This cliche has already been used twice, so the next time will be the last. Maybe if I skim ahead to part three, I'll skip all the stuff that's putting me to sleep.

Depression

Why? Why does this book exist? It's 11pm on a Friday night and I'm curled up alone in my bed reading a book I don't like. What have I done with my life?  What has this author done with her life? Oh no...she's from the town next to my hometown. Its reputation is now ruined. And I can't do anything about that. How did this author even get published? *sobs*

Acceptance

Option #1: Yep. Screw this. The book is actually just that bad. Bye-bye. See ya. It is gingerly placed back on a shelf, never to be touched again. At least not before the next yard sale/book swap/donation.

Option #2: Yep. Just a bad book. Oh well. I'm already two-thirds of the way through. May as well finish it. 

Why Art Museums Exist

Yes, other artists in varying stages of budding can sketch there. All the more power to them.​

But art museums really exist because the visceral power of art cannot be fully transmitted through photographs and copies of the original. There's a whole other argument about why such power is important to our lives, but I'll leave that for another time.

Suffice to say, I went to the Musée d'Orsay over the weekend, simply because I was in Paris. It's my favorite museum in the world, so I go when I can. They had a new temporary exhibit on the fifth floor: the private collection of ​Marlene and Spencer Hays, American art collectors with a love for 19th- and early 20th-century French paintings. Most of them are back on their home soil for the first time since being sold at auction. It was a glorious discovery of new-to-me (and new-to-the-public) works, by both known and relatively unknown artists. Matisse and Caillebotte rub shoulders with Fernand Pelez, Jean-Louis Forain, and other people I'd never heard of before.

​One painting that especially caught my eye was Odilon Redon's "Vase de fleurs et profil." Or it might be more accurate to say that the rich and brilliant colors drew my gaze like a tractor beam, holding it there for many minutes. The backdrop was a wash of sunshine, light as particle and wave and paint all at once. I've been in love with Monet's waterlily paintings for a while, because of the thickly-painted brushstrokes, but this was on a whole other level.

Then, there was the vase itself. It wasn't so much a vase in the normal sense as a sphere-shaped cradle of flowers itself, springing more delicious flowers out from its womb. It's a big jumbled pile of flowers that, instead of giving a feeling of confusion, feels like the lushest nature bursting free of its silly little mosaic-tiled container.​

And then, finally, the aforementioned "profil," the hint of a woman off to the right. But not a ghostly hint, a memory, like so many other lightly-sketched faces in paintings. She was a light whisper of a woman, a glowing entity in herself, like a muse or a tree-spirit. Dryad? Naiad? I can never remember.​

At any rate, a new rule was instated at Orsay, about two years ago, ​that forbids any photographing of anything. Period. Let's gloss over for a moment why I'm so irked by that, and instead just note that I respected this rule. I did not take a picture of Redon's painting, no matter how much I had fallen in love with it. It also wasn't one of the main works in the exhibit, so there wasn't a postcard that I could buy to remind myself of its glory.

And thus, when I got home, I rushed online to find an image of the painting that had captured my attention and praise. I found this:

​(image found here)

This is nothing. This is a shadow. A dull, two-dimensional shadow of the actual painting. This inspires nothing in me. It's pretty. It's nice​. That's all that can be said. I wouldn't give something like this a second thought. Oh look, what a cute butterfly, maybe. That's it.

Of course, this is not to say that any picture I could have taken with a camera would have done the work justice, either. But that's exactly my point. Such a visceral, immediate reaction can only come when faced with the work itself, in person. And for most people, for everyone in the world who can't afford that kind of prized art, museums are the one chance they have to experience such awe and wonder, such a coup de foudre, falling in crazy love at first sight.

My dear Musée d'Orsay, I do begrudge you your recent decision to forbid any photographs of the works within your walls. But thank you all the same for existing, for giving the works an opportunity to sear their images into our brains and memories. Images cannot do them justice, anyway.

In Praise of Youth

Yes, I'm technically part of this demographic, at least when it comes to professional spheres. But I'm not so much tooting my own horn here, as staring awestruck and my brilliant, whip-smart, talented, super-accomplished peers. Who also happen to be my colleagues.

There are the people who have doctoral degrees. The ones who know five languages and are working on their sixth and seventh. The ones who know everyone, the ones who have lived everywhere.​ All of these people are still in their twenties.

There's the girl who runs a well-known review and cultural institution, and is now starting her own publishing house.​

There's the girl who's already been published five times over, volunteers for two journals, and works for a publishing house on the side.​

There's the guy who is well-established in a literary agency in New York City, and still manages to get his own brilliant work published.​

People sometimes tell me how much I impress them. How wonderful my enthusiasm is. How doggedly I seem to work. How much they love my fresh ideas. I'll accept the compliments, of course, and I thank them profusely for expressing their opinions. But there are so many people I know who do so much more.​

But don't think that this is to get down on myself. On the contrary! I think it's fascinating and fantastic how much energy we can all infuse into the world. To overgeneralize a bit: if young people can create so many new and wonderful things to enrich the world, and if young people can use their natural vibrancy to inspire everyone else to do more interesting things with their lives, then everyone benefits, and the world is a better place for it.

Now, to remember this lesson when my own hair starts turning gray...​

The Joys of Being Still

​I feel like this post should begin with a disclaimer. Namely, that I have no official training in or experience with meditation. Neither do I really know anything about Zen Buddhism. It's not quite enough just to read A Tale for the Time Being, no matter how wonderful a book it is.

Still, I have to believe that choosing to be still for a while is a natural ability of human beings, if only we remember that we have it. A self-imposed exile from Internet connectedness in the guise of a weekend vacation back to a tiny, remote, French village in the middle of the mountains turns out to be an ideal way to fall back into the stillness that should be a habit.​

​The first night is an internal struggle. Checking email every 20 minutes has become an actual habit, a distraction from work, a distraction from life, a way to keep busy in a non-meaningful way. And the habit pulls and tugs at first, and there is a distinct uneasiness that you should​ be doing something​, something that keeps your head busier than sitting around among the crickets and slumbering bumblebees. But eventually, there's a book on your nightstand that you've been meaning to read for three weeks, if only you had the time. And now you do.

I was reminded of my childhood over the weekend. Because when I was growing up, I would devour books. Hundreds of pages each day. Staying up until all hours of the night, or waking up early to read an entire book before anyone else woke up. Getting in trouble for reading under my desk at school, and then not getting in trouble anymore because I also managed to be a very good student.​ And then college hit and there were so many books to read and analyze for class that I stopped reading for pleasure. I've started realizing that I haven't truly gotten back into that habit. Well, not a habit, really...more like a compulsive need. And it was such a pleasure to submerge myself in a whole book in two days.

And then there was the walk along the river, to a place that I'm sure is known by others, given the narrow, slightly overgrown path that leads there, but which has always been devoid of other humans in my presence. Mosquitoes, frogs with red eyes, sheep, the echo of horses, yes. But no other humans. And it is there, next to the pounding of a waterfall, underneath a seemingly unmoving sun that reflects halos off of the clouds, that I write. It is the beginning of a new short story. The idea came unbidden, without me seeking it, which has not happened in a long time.

I've often read that writers are always writing, that their brains never stop thinking about their stories or creating new ones. And I think that's true to a certain extent. But if you stuff your brain full of too much stuff, whether it's email or online forums or planning lunches or controlling unruly children or filling out invoices, then the stories and characters don't have room to roll around and develop on their own. Without the stillness, inspiration doesn't have anywhere to appear. If you don't remember to breathe, the body clenches up tight, constricting the free flow of ideas.

Granted, though, there's the issue of balance and practicality. Rare is the person who can successfully unplug for months at a time, whose life is arranged around a lack of communication. Which is fine. It's just good to remember how to be still sometimes. Joann Sfar writes ​best in hotel bathrooms, according to the most recent issue of LiRE​, because it's devoid of distractions.

Small French waterfall, hotel bathroom...same diff, right?​

Welcome, friends!

A hearty hello to those of you joining us from my old Wordpress site. This blog will remain pretty much the same as it has been. Enjoy.​

​A housekeeping issue:

If you'd like to continue subscribing to this blog via email, there's a box just to your right. Please enter your email address there and hit "Subscribe."

If, on the other hand, you'd like the RSS feed, you may type in this blog's address, http://charettetranslations.com/sunshine-abroad/, into your reader of choice. (I use Feedly, now that the-reader-that-shall-not-be-named is being unceremoniously slaughtered come July.)

Now, let the voyage continue, into the sun!​

In Search of French Literary Magazines

UPDATED FOR 2021

As important as it is for literary translators to read widely in their source languages, French literary magazines are hard to find in the States. Pretty thin on the ground. ("Just generally pretty trim," as Eddie Izzard would say.) I found several magazines and literary reviews the last time I was living in France in 2013, but a lot has changed since then. And on the other hand, the Internet is even more wonderful, and there are many things that are now much easier to find, read, or subscribe to online.

After reading many things, over many years, please allow me to present to you my highly skewed, biased, and unscientific reviews:

Still running

Welcome to the weird times that are the plague years. Here’s a fun result: these first two magazines have merged! “LiRE magazine littéraire” now lives online here. And it’s pretty good. (Original reviews here:)

LiRE (March issue): This magazine has it all. Released by the same company as L'Express (a weekly news magazine), it's bursting with news, features, thematic segments, reviews, five excerpts from upcoming novels, a couple interviews, and editorial content. It covers French books, foreign books, historical non-fiction, scientific books, essays, graphic novels, YA and children's lit, paperbacks, the works. And everything in this issue is well-written, engaging, varied, intelligent, and well-thought-out, no matter how short. It should be extremely useful both in following industry trends and reading new fiction.
Le Magazine Littéraire (March issue): Maybe I shouldn't have read this directly after LiRE. All I could do was compare the two, as they both purport to serve the same purpose...and this one fell at the other end of the spectrum. The content wasn't as varied. There was only one excerpt, and it was middling. The news seemed stale, or not expansive enough, or devoid of emotion. The thematic content (this month: vampires....wheee.....) overshadowed everything else, and didn't leave enough room for what I really cared about. Even the layout was grating. I was disappointed when I tossed it into the trash can (no recycling here), but not too sad.

Longcours (Spring issue): A very pretty, thick journal. But, as I realized when I started reading it, dedicated almost exclusively to long-form journalism. Very well-done long-form journalism, from what I've read. But only one short story. And although it was fascinating, that one thing is not enough to warrant a subscription. Still, I'll be flipping through it whenever I walk into a French bookstore.

XXI (Winter issue): Ditto the above, with a heavy sigh. Really well-done long-form journalism (has apparently won scads of awards), including graphic novel journalism, but not what I'm looking for right now. Kudos to them on their Manifesto for a new media, though (if you understand French, it's a good read).

A new tip from commenter Jason: Transfuge, which as he says, has “lots of interviews with artists whose work I then seek out.” It is really well done! I think I’m in love with their covers.

New arrivals

As my focus has become more Francophone than just French, so too have my reading practices. The good folks at Boutique Laterit have been invaluable in actually being able to get some of these gems to my door in the States. (And not just magazines, either! Books, DVDs, graphic novels, music… They’re really wonderful. Go buy things from them.)

Indigo Magazine (4 issues so far): A magazine of Madagascar, Réunion, and the rest of the Indian Ocean. Books, art, theater, poetry, culture in general…it’s packed with interviews, criticism, and creative works. It’s beautiful and has some powerhouse editors behind it. Well worth the cost.

Lettres de Lémurie (also 4 issues so far): Begun in 2018 by Malagasy-Réunnionais-French publishing house Dodo vole, it is perfect. (Perfect for me, at least. Maybe just perfect in general?) All literature, all Indian Ocean, French and Malagasy and Créole and translations, publishing new and already-successful authors alongside each other, with the most gorgeous covers… It’s the best. If you want to support the publication of the latest issue, check out their crowdfunding page.

The party’s over

Le Tigre ended in early 2015. But all their archives are STILL free online!
Le Tigre (March issue): This is an interesting magazine. I almost didn't grab a copy because their editorial mission includes the warning that they don't publish fiction. But no matter; this is a fantastic selection of artistic prowess. Wordplay, photojournalism, illustrations, and twisted essays thrive alongside each other. One spread takes a roadmap, marks out a few towns that have "real word" names, and makes sentences out of them, haunting and sad. I've also just discovered that all their archives are free online. Looks like I won't be reachable for the next week while I read ALL OF THEM.

Oof, friends, this was a hard one. Muze ended in 2009, tried a new format the following year, and ended for good in 2017. And now its publisher is…ultra-religious? I miss Muze.
Muze (Spring issue, April-June): Oh, how lovely this thick tome. Technically a female-oriented cultural revue, this journal really has its finger on the pulse of life. It seems. Everything includes a healthy dose of analysis, which I started skimming when it turned too philosophical, but it doesn't detract from the wonderful behind-the-scenes look we get at every single topic the journal undertakes. Every theme includes current happenings, cultural tie-ins, movies, psychology, art, poems, and fiction. And the physical thing is a beauty to behold. The cover is even embossed. A tactile and visual dream. Definitely going on the list of not-expensive-enough-to-prevent-me-from-ordering-an-international-subscription.

What else, friends? I’ve been stuck at home for two years now, so there has to be more that I don’t know. What have you found?

If you found this post helpful, you can buy me a tea (although it might say “coffee”).

Recap: SAND Journal's Found in Translation Workshop

There once was a guy from Berlin
Who went to a workshop on a whim
He had so much fun
That when it was done
The SAND Journal meant much more to him

Last weekend, I was lucky enough to attend the  Found in Translation workshop run by the SAND Journal, Berlin's English-language literary journal. Because of the support they received from Youth in Action, it was exclusively for translators under the age of 30. This meant that I was joined by a host of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young translat0rs, raring to go. A little nervous about their blossoming or future careers, a little concerned that their work is very niche -- too niche, perhaps -- but brimming with wit and intelligence. We explored Berlin and ate marvelous food, of course, but the forums and workshops that the SAND team organized were the real highlight of the weekend.

In one workshop, we explored what characteristics of written texts could "give them away" as translations, and it was interesting to realize that even as translators ourselves, we have a notion of "bad" or "off" or "unnatural" vocabulary or punctuation as what marks a translation. And it is high praise for a translated text to read like it was originally written in the target language, that it flows well enough to be considered as belonging to that language's literature.

The next morning, we played with language. Limericks, Oulipo exercises, snowball poems, Spoonerisms, and anagrams were all fair game. Just to prove that yes, translating puns and humor are hard, but doable. We're all creative people.

On Saturday night, we joined Naris at Dialogue Books to introduce the new issue of SAND, and we read a little,
Then had a wandering discussion about the future of translation, ending with one guy who led a riddle

(Spoonerisms are hard.)

In the end, we had a lovely brunch on the last day. Because really, what is a weekend of working without brunch? It was a lovely and delicious brunch.

Most important, though, is the network we created. Literary translators from many different languages, all on the cusp of their careers, all looking for jobs to do and magazines to submit to and new things to write and friends to commiserate with. Our support groups have just exploded exponentially. Such connections are even more important for people like us, who work very solitary jobs. It's reassuring to know that real people are out there on the other side of your Internet connection, who are all going through similar challenges and wonders.

I'm very honored to have been a part of the inaugural year of workshops, and I'm confident they will continue to be an annual event.

I
no
now
more
about
lovely
written
artistry,
wonderful
enchanting
translation,
gloriously
beguiling,
soothing
sparked
energy...
makes
glad
the
me.

(Yeah, okay. Snowball poems are hard, too.)

Author photos

They bug me. They're just too staged. You, with your perfect life, in your country cottage where it's always either a warm spring or a cool autumn (but never chilly), trees without leaves falling, flowers without bees stinging, a beautiful dog of show quality with no hair or drool or musk or poop. Yes, your bio says you divide your time between Chicago and the country cottage in Colorado, but we don't see the stress of the city, nor the lonesomeness of the country.

Most importantly, though, we don't see you writing.

And because of this, many adoring children and idolizing adults think that writing is easy for you. Without any evidence to the contrary, writing must slide neatly into place within your perfect life, where sweaters drape just so and tweed is cool again. You must just sit on your porch where it never rains, where wind never blows your research and scribbled notes away, and type away until dinnertime. No blocks, no grief, no heartaches. No sight of how dreadfully hard writing is. Every. Single. Day.

How hard it is to find your characters' voices. How hard it is to create perfect descriptions of a place you've never seen. How much you ache to see words appear on the blank page. How desperate you feel when you can't figure out what happens next -- or worse, how to get to somewhere you know exists.

But look. I'm just as guilty of this as the rest of you. I've got my nature-filled shot up on my website, because it's the only thing I feel comfortable with. Because there's an image to control. Because writing is also private. No one is allowed in our zone, in our soul, let alone someone armed with and hiding behind a camera. Just...

Just know, readers and admirers and all the curious, that it's hard. Don't judge a book by its cover. Don't be deceived.

Proofreading after the fact

It doesn't work. It just makes you look like a donkey's rear end. And about as intelligent as its front end. Example 1:

That, ladies and gentlemen, is a picture of the Chrysler Building, labeled "Chrisler Building."

It was found in an exhibit called "New York, New York!" at a big expo just outside of Lyon, France. A French person's take on New York City, if you will. So of course, it opened with a scale model of the Statue of Liberty's torch -- gotta highlight the ties between the two great nations! Then it continued on to the jazz era, stock market crash, taxicabs, etc. Including a large swath of skyscrapers.

But what's even more adorable about this hilarious typo is that they actually tried to fix it after the fact. If you look closely, you'll see a faint overlay of a slightly translucent "y" over the much clearer "i" in the picture.

And as if that wasn't enough, there was an even bigger problem. In the same lineup of iconic New York City skyscrapers, we saw, proudly displayed, a picture of the Tribune Tower.

In Chicago.

I'm sure they meant the Tribune Building. But by then, I had lost all hope. Gave up. Too depressed to take a picture. Even though it was a hilarious picture, with the first part of the "Chicago Tribune" logo on the building next door still visible.

So what, though? Most French people won't know the difference. And it's not going to have any sort of detrimental effect on their daily lives.

But it's still wrong. And there will be people who notice. Probably a couple of important people. Maybe even clients. Or potential clients. If I had any relevant power, I'd be firing (or not ever hiring) the people who created that exhibit.

In conclusion, please be careful. Like I was, reading over this post four times before sending it off into the ether.