Lost in Translation! #MondayBlog

Diversity

Image from Penn State.

One of the best things about the blogosphere is its ability to shrink the planet.

With a simple click, you can discuss writing with someone in London, exchange recipes with someone in India, or brainstorm with someone in Denmark.

The world which used to be of unfathomable size…now fits in your pocket.

One obstacle yet to be overcome, however, is language.

Blog hosts like Blogspot, Tumblr, and our own WordPress, have made it simple for users to create blogs in their native language.

Reading it… not so much.

I have a few bloggers who follow me here on my author blog and several who follow Nesie’s Place, whose blogs I am unable to read. I can stumble through Spanish and French, after that…I’m a deer caught in the headlights!

On a good day…if I’m on my cell, ye olde translator kicks in and automatically translates the page. Unfortunately, that does not always happen. I used my cell earlier today to visit a blog I think was Lithuanian. The translator kicks in, and I’m waiting…and waiting, when suddenly the translator posts the error message, “Unable to translate; no translation found.” It then not only closes itself – something it’s never done before – it also closes the browser!

 

Attempting to translate another blog from Urdu to English, I cut and pasted a paragraph into a window on freetranslation.com and was given a translation of the “blogger had taken his foot for a walk in the park and thrown his dog around.”

Can’t be sure…but I don’t think that’s correct.

It would be nice to be able to do more than visit these blogs and simply leave a like. That’s the lazy way. Better to be able to translate the page and comment accordingly. What if the blogger is advocating for the burning of all coffee plantations or the banning of books, and I casually pop in and leave a like?

That would not be good.

It would be great if blogs could auto-translate…and maybe they can. I’m just not aware of how to access the feature.

If you know of a one-size-fits-most app or add-in that will allow successful language translation, please share it in the comments below. I’m sure I’m not the only one with this issue.

Not this time anyway.

Edits Done! YES!

MS

Meltdown avoided. Barely.

When I decided to publish the online read Free, a Novella, I thought compile, edit, publish, right?

Obviously I’d hit my head… or watched far too many episodes of Chuggington with my two-year-old grand-nephew, Jordan.

Who knew a tiny 20K novella could be as daunting to edit as a 100K novel?

I did not.

Fortunately, the worst is over. *Looking for a piece of wood to knock on.* Now I just need to clean it up and ship it off to my editor. *And pray.*

This read will be published! Maybe not as soon as sooner, but definitely not any later than later. See what I did there?

As promised, there will also be another installment posted here-and yes, it will be before the book is published! *I heard you mumbling over there.*

Gotta love Mondays!

 

 

 

 

Quotable – Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou (born Marguerite Ann Johnson in 1928, died in 2014)  was an American author, poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist. She published seven autobiographies, three books of essays, several books of poetry, and was credited with a list of plays, movies, and television shows spanning over 50 years. Image from Amazon.

 

“Any book that helps a child to form a habit of reading, to make reading one of his deep and continuing needs, is good for him.” — Maya Angelou

Breathe – and Write Your Book #MondayBlog

Writing Paper

All you wanted to do was write a book.

You had a great start–six-thousand five hundred and seventeen words. But now you’re stuck. You haven’t written a word… in three years.

You venture online for a bit of help and inspiration and in no time at all you’re sorry you ever heard of the Internet.

Sifting through a thin layer of the gazillion returns on ‘how to write a book’, you become confused.

Tropes? Outlines? MS? Taglines?

What?

All you want to do is write a book. That story has been stuck in your head since the week before high school graduation decades ago, and it won’t go away.

You just want to get it down on paper.

But all the search returns–where do you start?

You find THE link that says, “Join a group” and things are starting to make sense. You can join a group. You’re a born joiner!

Discouragement sets in a few days later when you still haven’t found a group to join, and it’s not that you didn’t look.

The first group was for published authors only. LA-DE-DA!

The second group didn’t require members to be published, but a completed manuscript WAS required.

How are these groups even in the “how to write a book” search returns if you must already have written something to join???

The next group wasn’t so bad… they were just weird.

They kept calling themselves plotters and pantsers, and talking about conflict resolution, and a satisfactory HEA to satisfy Betas.

What’s a beta?

The last group… wow. That was some next-level-new-age-bullshit!

Moments after joining the group chat, introducing yourself, and sharing your dream of writing a book the interrogation begins.

How big is your mailing list? What’s the link to your author website? Have you installed Google Analytics? How often do you blog? What’s your target audience? Do you have a professional editor lined up? What program are you typing your book in? What’s your plan for marketing and promotion? Have you written proposal letters for publishers and agents? How do you expect to get noticed and sell books?

You break out in a cold sweat! What the hell is SEO and ROI??? And there’s that ‘Beta’ word again!

How are you supposed to HAVE these things when you JUST DECIDED TO WRITE THE FREAKIN’ BOOK???

The Group has been throwing out links which you’ve clicked on and you now have thirteen browsers open. You’ve also kept a running total of costs in your head – $4500.

And you haven’t even hit ten-thousand words in your story.

The group moves on to new topics and you sit quietly… even though you want to scream and vent like you invented the term “going postal”.

The meeting ends… thankfully… and you toss your thanks and goodbyes into the chorus. You leave the chat, unjoin the group, and close the browser.

In hindsight, you should have followed your spouse to Art and Wine Night, or surprised your parents by showing up at St. Paul’s for bingo night.

Sighing heavily, you head for the coffeemaker, suddenly veering off towards the wine… minus the art.

Returning to your desk, your mind is crammed full of things you know nothing about, but just about everyone is the free world is willing to teach you… for a price.

All you wanted to do was write a book. When did writing become so complicated? The Internet did not invent books. Millions were written before ‘https://www.’ became a thing.

Collecting your thoughts… with a nod to the wine… you make a short list of the things you saw and heard repeatedly. Website, mailing list, social networks. Those will do to start… eventually.

You push the list aside, close the remaining thirteen browsers… and work on your book.

And breathe.

The Last Medal

Medal of Valor

Image from NCO Journal

(Week 10 of the 52-Week Writing Challenge)

She didn’t need a shrink to tell her she had PTSD.

Virgie Hudson well knew of the price she’d paid for thirty-two years of military service – twenty-two of those years… on the front lines.

The day after passage and ratification of SB 1200 allowing women into combat, Virgie left behind ten years of desk and training duties. Like her father and brothers, she would now get to serve on the front lines.

As one of only four women who would lead combat forces, Virginia’s service was legendary. She had numerous medals and awards. She also had numerous scars… on her body and her mind. Virgie remembered all too well how and when she’d received each scar – physical and mental.

For every inch of ground taken, every hill won, every town liberated, there was a memory attached.

The good memories made Virginia smile.

The day her unit entered the town of Ras al-Ayn, the grateful Kurdish women’s militia cheered. After fighting ISIS forces for days, the exhausted women thanked the Americans’ for their help… and for some relief. With American support, ISIS guerrillas made a hasty retreat.

The memories of losing team members played on repeat in her mind often. Pfc. Jeff Ollenbeck – lost to a land mine. Pfc. David Jencks and LCpl. Donald Morgan – killed in an ambush attack. 2ndLt. Shelley Cooper – taken down by a sniper. There were more. So many more.

Why did she survive?

Virgie squeezed her eyes shut and yanked at her thick, black curls attempting to block out the faces of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.

She grabbed the tumbler of bourbon from the table in front of her, gulping it down in one breath. Even in those brief periods when fallen Marines didn’t cloud her thoughts, there was always the children.

The children Virgie couldn’t save.

It took several days to get into the small isolated town east of Mosul. When a ten-thousand member Iraqi counter-terrorism force arrived, militants soon scattered over the borders into the mountains of Turkey and Iran.

Villagers wept as Col. Virginia Holman Hudson’s team set up aid stations. It was obvious many of the town’s residents survived severe beatings and torture. Virgie knew one young woman wrapped in a thread-bare blanket and shielded by an older woman was a rape victim.

A silent signal to her senior officers was acknowledged only by their scattering to inspect the village. One of her team interpreters called out to Virgie.

“Col. Hudson, the children!”

“What about them, Lance Corporal?”

Accompanied by two female villagers, LCpl. Dirks approached her. “A man took the children yesterday morning.”

In rapid speech and dialect Virgie didn’t understand, she did recognize the word for ‘hill’. The woman gestured and pointed at something behind Virgie.

Virgie looked over her shoulder and saw a small, flat, mud-brick building sitting on a low hill about four hundred meters away. With one movement of her hand, the strike team fell into formation, heading for the building. Virgie led them until her second-in-command, 1st Lieutenant Reynolds pulled her back.

“Excuse me, Colonel, but you know I can’t let you do that.”

She nodded once. “Dammit, Rey… find those children!”

Led by Reynolds, the strike team moved forward up the small incline to the building. Virgie fell into step behind them.

They had traveled half the distance to the building when a man threw open the building’s only door. His maniacal laughter was rife with anger and madness.

“Hold fire!” Virgie held up her hand while glaring at the insurgent.

Stepping forward, Virgie questioned the man in flawless Arabic. “اين الاطفال?” Where are the children?

Not getting any response other than wild-eyed mania, Virgie switched to Kurdish. بچوں کی کہاں ہیں?

Recognition dawned in the mad man’s eyes. He lifted his arms and yelled, “کان کے بچے ہیں!” The children are mine!

Virgie recognized the small detonator in his hand, attached to a wire feeding into his sleeve. Before she could give the order to fall back, the crazed terrorist yelled out again, “Allah is great!”, and detonated the bomb.

What happened in the next few seconds was an eternity to Virginia Hudson.

The expression on the bomber’s face never changed as the impact of the explosion behind him ripped his body in half, each section set ablaze. Virgie lost sight of him when someone threw her to the ground, covering her body with their own. Except for the monstrous roar of the burning building, silence bathed the area.

Then sounds flooded the area.

Like a chorus, the wails of the villagers pierced the silence. Virgie pushed against the body holding her down, but stopped struggling and listened. She heard a different noise… coming from the burning building.

With one final shove, Virgie pushed the body off her enough to roll from under and to her feet. Reynolds lay a few feet away rubbing his chest from the impact of her blow. Virgie headed for the building but another team member grabbed her.

“Let go or you’re losing a stripe! I don’t care who it is!”

Anger rose inside of Virginia as she spun around and looked up into the face of Cpl. Lawrence.

“Col.… there’s nothing we can do for them.”

Her body sagged, already knowing the truth. The tears streaming down the big Marine’s face caused Virgie to look at the rest of her strike team. They all wept–male and female alike.

Donnelly watched out for Dirks, now on his knees, giving up the contents of his stomach.

Sanchez clutched the cross around his neck.

Though his face was wet with tears, Gilmore’s eyes flared with rage.

“Dirks? How many?”

Without raising his head, Dirks responded, the words causing him physical pain. “T-Thirty four, ma’am.”

Anger and grief warred inside Virgie. Anguish strangled her heart as bile rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, Virgie called upon the false sense of calm needed to do her job. Opening her eyes, Virgie spoke, knowing Reynolds was back at her side.

“Secure the perimeter, Lieutenant.”

Virgie gave the order almost as an afterthought, not moving from where she stood. Only after the cries for help stopped did she turn to look at the building crumbling in the fiery blaze.

Col. Virginia Holman Hudson knew her military career was over.

She’d had enough.

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