A cat moved in. About a year after I translated my first poem. Her adoption papers say she was found in the London woods. And that she was friendly on approach. We both have beef with London, Ontario.1 The cat and I. The night she moved in, she sat on my lap rumbling like she had pneumonia. I palpated her rib cage with concern. Until I realized she was purring. And that I was having my introductory lesson to cats. She asks when I want to get revenge. She is ready to attack the past. Ready to punch London.
The cat is nine pounds attack and one pound poo. Her poo arrives regularly every day. She doesn’t bury it. The smell permeates through the entire room and then some. It smells like cat poo. Until I go scoop it.
Writing is like poo. No one asked for it. Whatever comes out is it. I’m well-versed in writer’s block. On its own schedule. Whole years without a single poem out the sphincter. Poetry manuscripts I’ve abandoned twice over, and still haven’t returned to. Stuck essays. Stories that only oozed a few sentences. Of course, I’m happy when the writing comes regularly. The excrement from life no one asked for. A side effect of translation is regular writing. The next words have already been written down by another author in another language. The next sentence of the manuscript is dependable that way. More dependable than my own writing. One of my favourite writer’s block activities, after reading and spacing out in that order, is translating.
Spending some time with another author’s writing can be very humbling. On the one hand I think, I’ll never come close to this level of art-making, why bother fumbling through another decade of my writing? Then I think, this author’s manuscript is marvellous. One revelation after another. So this is how a novel can be invented. Another avenue of writing for me to consider. Another level of craft. Another world. So how can I not fumble through another decade of my writing. It is imperative I fumble through.
Another side effect of translation is wrist swelling. When there’s a deadline. When I get too excited about the text. When I’m too ambitious about my daily word count. I feel the tension in the back of my fingers first. And if I continue typing away wantonly, my wrist starts to balloon. Usually worse in my dominant hand, but usually both wrists are affected. A chronic repetitive stress injury from sport in my twenties. I’ve tried physiotherapy, muscle strengthening, massage therapy, topical medicines, all of it. While each was helpful, the most effective treatment I’ve found is rest. A side effect of translation is rest. A side effect of translation is lots of time spent not translating.
The cat in my house is a master of rest. She can be found flopping aggressively on the floor next to me. Her favourite nap positions involve dangling her front paws off the sofa, or the stair. When she feels safe, she sleeps belly up with four limbs in the air like a Wi-Fi modem. She flops continuously. She naps continuously. Her days are full.
Another side effect of translation is rejection. I’ve applied unsuccessfully to the American Literary Translator’s Association mentorship programme twice. To the British Centre for Literary Translation, three times. With each round of applications, I’ve built a bit more of a translation portfolio: I went from zero translation publications to one translated poem to eleven poems published to sixteen, but I’m rejected the same. I’ve sent out this novel excerpt to at least twenty publishers and this poetry manuscript to at least twenty-two publishers. I’ve re-written my translation pitch many times to make it more precise. The litany of no-no-no’s: no response, no thanks, not the right fit at this time, no after a video call, no after asking to resubmit, just no. I’m not so well-adjusted to say that rejection doesn’t phase me. I am discouraged; I grow despondent; I don’t know if I will continue; I oscillate on the sinusoidal wave between spasmic confidence and crippling doubt; I’m gaining experience as a literary translator, and it’s not enough to sell a full-length project; I must be doing something wrong, and there can’t just be one correct path to literary translation. One path with no side effects.
Another side effect of translation is more nos. In November, there are two more nos. The first no: The editor said they were going to move forward with the manuscript, in fact with both manuscripts, and would follow up with the written contract the following week, but then nothing. Nothing when I followed-up. The second no: The editor asks if I was born here in Canada. If English is my second language and would I be willing to co-sign and split the translation fee with a native English speaker. They say: “The English readers would never accept a bad translation done by someone whose mother tongue is not English. We lose credibility.” They thank me for my understanding.
I understand. (I’ve heard this exact institutional racism before, even the words are the same, last time in Canadian medical school) (nothing more Canadian than this)2 (I understand I have a crisis with the English language) (I would love to remove English violently from my brain, like a stroke) (I am ashamed I can only imagine biological catastrophe as a way out of my crisis with the English language) (this essay should end here) (I understand my English writing to them is like poo) (smelly, second-class lumps) (repulsive in proximity) (I understand no English words) (I write no English words) (yet, they open their mouths)
Getting this far in literary translation is a side effect. When I translated my first poem, I didn’t know there would be so many side effects. I didn’t know how long I would continue to experience those effects. I still don’t know: How long my path in literary translation will be, or short. The only thing to do is to apply for several more translation opportunities and wait to hear back. Send out more translation proposals. I hope there are more side effects of literary translation waiting for me. It means that I’m still doing the work of translating. The cat hides around the corner, waiting for me to walk past so she can pounce. I walk into her ambush.
Read more about this here… https://www.geist.com/fact/love-song-for-mosquito
Read more about this here… https://www.honeyliterary.com/issue1/emily-lu