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Where did the day go?
Oct. 6th, 2014 11:44 pmMy mind is still reeling from yet another demanding letter that arrived in the mail today, and although I am encouraged by the fact that I was able to overcome my reaction to it relatively quickly, I would feel quite a bit more "in control" if I were able to not react as strongly as I do, which I suspect comes from having an easily excitable imagination.
Sorry to be so cryptic and sparse about the details, but there you have it.
* * *
Work came in, work went out. Not a whole lot, to be sure, but work nonetheless. I don't know if this is merely a lull after the end-of-fiscal year frenzy all but emptied the well of work, or if this a general reflection of the direction in which the translation market is going, given the dynamics of the relationship between Russia and the West.
That said, I have begun to actively work on a Plan B and Plan C that do not depend on my being multilingual, at least not directly.
* * *
I managed to survive yet another week of Idol with an entry that ran pretty much on "meta." It's the kind of diversion that can be profitably used every once in a while (which is to say, about once per Idol season), but I am tempted to actually continue in this fashion, not for Idol but as something standalone, with a series of "telephone" conversations between myself and the character of Sam Spade (whose name I keep typing as "Space," simply because the latter is a word I've typed about a gazillion times in recent memory).
The absolutely crazy thing about these "conversations" is how—despite the fact that I have a pretty good notion of what words to put into Sam's mouth for most of a "call"—there will nevertheless come a time, somewhere in the narrative, when Spade (aka, my subconscious) will pop up with a comment that I, as the writer, not only did not anticipate, but also cannot ignore.
Permit me to provide a case in point from this past week's entry. Here's the "original text":
Been a long day. Informative. Stressful.
Tomorrow will be better.
Cheers...
Sorry to be so cryptic and sparse about the details, but there you have it.
Work came in, work went out. Not a whole lot, to be sure, but work nonetheless. I don't know if this is merely a lull after the end-of-fiscal year frenzy all but emptied the well of work, or if this a general reflection of the direction in which the translation market is going, given the dynamics of the relationship between Russia and the West.
That said, I have begun to actively work on a Plan B and Plan C that do not depend on my being multilingual, at least not directly.
I managed to survive yet another week of Idol with an entry that ran pretty much on "meta." It's the kind of diversion that can be profitably used every once in a while (which is to say, about once per Idol season), but I am tempted to actually continue in this fashion, not for Idol but as something standalone, with a series of "telephone" conversations between myself and the character of Sam Spade (whose name I keep typing as "Space," simply because the latter is a word I've typed about a gazillion times in recent memory).
The absolutely crazy thing about these "conversations" is how—despite the fact that I have a pretty good notion of what words to put into Sam's mouth for most of a "call"—there will nevertheless come a time, somewhere in the narrative, when Spade (aka, my subconscious) will pop up with a comment that I, as the writer, not only did not anticipate, but also cannot ignore.
Permit me to provide a case in point from this past week's entry. Here's the "original text":
"...I'll bet everyone who read your screed knew exactly who wrote it, and even more important, nothing changed, right?"As I read this out loud (which is something I feel I have to do with dialogue), just as I finished reading "What does that have to do with anything?" and before I could say the next phrase, I "felt" Spade interrupting—or maybe the "writer" in me saw that my reaction to the sardonic tone of Sam's question was too glib an attempt to move past something—so I incorporated what he said and massaged a bit to produce:
"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked. "Can you help me, or not?"
"...I'll bet everyone who read your screed knew exactly who wrote it, and even more important, nothing changed, right?"It seems to me that crack was just so right, and not only did it fit in with the Spade persona, but it hit me completely out of the blue.
"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked.
"I'll take that as a yes, and another yes," said Sam.
I took a deep breath. "Look, can you help me, or not?" I asked.
Been a long day. Informative. Stressful.
Tomorrow will be better.
Cheers...
