So the German edition of the book came out just a couple of weeks ago.
The book has serious heft. Good paper. Good binding. It is, in a word, gorgeous.
Holding this book in my hand made me realize that over in Germany, they consider my story fairly high-class. It make me realize that over there, I might even be considered literature.
There have been hints of this all through the publishing process. First, the publisher itself is very prestigious. (So they tell me.) Klett-Cotta carries very few fantasy authors, including luminaries like Tolkien and Peter S. Beagle. Klett-Cotta also assigned a very skilled translator to the job, which is always a good sign that they’re taking things seriously.
But that’s not what convinced me I might be thought of as literary over there.
Another big indicator was when someone from Germany came out to interview me. My first thought was, “Who did this poor guy piss off at work? How low on the totem pole in do you have to be before they send you to interview some newbie fantasy author in Middle-of-Nowhere Wisconsin?”
But it turns out the interviewer was Denis Scheck. I didn’t know it while the interview was taking place, but he’s actually a celebrity over in Germany. You know how Siskel and Ebert were celebrities because they reviewed movies? Well over in Germany, apparently, they care about books. Because of this, they also care about the people who read books.
Yeah, I know. Weird.
Anyway, while I didn’t know this guy was a celebrity, I figured out pretty quickly that he wasn’t there because he was getting punished. He was there because he was really, really good at his job. I’ve done a lot of interviews over the last year, and I’ll admit that by the time he showed up, I’d gotten a little blase about it.
But when he started talking, I realized he was playing the game at a whole different level. He was really clever, talking about things no interviewer had ever brought up before, asking questions I’d never been asked. Asking questions that I’d never even *considered *before. I remember at least one occasion where my answer was: “Wow. That’s a great question…. I have absolutely no idea how to answer it.”
If you’re interested (and can read German) his review is up over here. Or if you’re monolingual like me, you can click on the link *below* the interview to see a video clip of Denis talking about the book on his television show. Personally, I thought it was pretty cool even though I only know enough German to catch about a third of what he’s saying.
But back to my previous point. Even after I found out who Denis Scheck was, I didn’t realize that over there my book might be considered literary.
The fact that they converted my author photo black-and-white was a good indicator….
Why? Because black-and-white is classy. It’s arty. It’s posh. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fond of my blue photo. But you have to admit that it makes me look like a Muppet, or a character out of a Harry Potter movie. But in B&W I look, if not distinguished, then withing spitting distance of respectable.
Or within spitting distance of being the sort of person who would never use the term, “within spitting distance.”
Still, none of these things are what convinced me. This is what did it:
That’s right. One of those built-in ribbon bookmarks. So genteel. So suave. Nothing screams sophistication like a ribbon bookmark. It’s the textual equivalent of wearing a silk smoking jacket and speaking with an Oxford accent. It is, in fact, dead sexy.
Today, my friends, I join the ranks of the literati.
Go me.
pat
Adventures Abroad: Rome
We landed in Rome after 17 hours of traveling and slowly made our way to the baggage claim.
While I’ve been excited about this trip, it’s excitement mingled with a healthy dollop of terror. I find the thought of being in a foreign country vaguely frightening. Not because of culture shock, or pickpockets, or strange food. It’s because of the language issue.
There are only about three things that I’m really good at, and communicating is one of them. Well, actually that’s not true, it’s not communicating in general, it’s use of the English language. In English I’m clever and articulate. I’m funny. I’m persuasive.
If I have a superpower, it’s probably my use of words. But now, suddenly I’m visiting a place where there is no yellow sun. I’m going to be powerless, and the thought is troubling to me.
I’m not entirely monolingual. I studied German for four years in high school, but that was a long time ago. I remember phrases like, “At least the sink still works” and “I have too many monkeys playing in my attic.”
It would be hard for me to work these into a conversation even if I were going to Germany, which I am not.
Sarah has prepared herself. She listened to language tapes and bought a phrase book. She’s proactive
She says, “Are you ready? Here’s how you say, ‘I don’t speak Italian.‘”
“That’s a pointless phrase,” I say. “Within two seconds of interacting with anyone, it’s going to be blindingly obvious that I don’t speak Italian. Why should I tell someone, in their own language, that I don’t speak their language?”
Sarah gives me a look. She has many looks. You would too, if you had to deal with me on a regular basis.
“All I’m saying,” I continue. “Is that if I’m going to learn a phrase, it should be something that communicates information that someone can’t easily infer on their own. I don’t need to learn how to say, ‘I have a beard.’ They can see that. I should learn how to say, ‘I have been stabbed in the guts, and I fear my pericardium is punctured. Would you please summon an ambulance?’ Or ‘Where is the nearest methadone clinic?’ Those might be useful.”
“How about ‘where’s the bathroom?‘” she asks.
“I can mime that,” I say. “How do you say ‘hookers’ in Italian?”
That’s pretty much where my instruction in Italian stopped.
So here I am, in Rome, walking to baggage claim, and utterly at sea.
Now normally this would be the part of the story where there’s a dramatic reversal of expectation. I’m expecting things to be scary, but it’s not nearly as bad as I’d feared.
Except it’s just as bad as I’d feared. In fact, it’s worse. After grabbing our bags, I go to the information booth to ask where I can change some currency. The woman there can’t understand me, so she calls over someone else and I ask him. He points me in a direction and I wander off, feeling like a complete idiot. Not an auspicious beginning to the trip.
Another problem was that I’d been focusing on how hard it would be for me to get my point across to others. What I hadn’t realized is that with no working knowledge of the language, I was effectively deaf. I can’t understand a word being said by anyone around me.
This wasn’t really a surprise, of course. But I was startled at how self-conscious it made me. As I walk to the baggage carousel, I pass a group of women who burst into laughter, and I become convinced that they are making fun of my shoes. I pretend that I don’t notice, that I don’t care. But of course I do.
I’ve been in another country for 20 minutes and I feel nervous and awkward. I’m confused and self-conscious. I knew there was a time difference between the US and Europe, but I didn’t know it was big enough to make me feel like I’m in high school again….