Simon Hugh Wheeler's Blog, page 3
September 10, 2014
STOPPED FOR GOING GREEN
I was questioned by the police last night.
"What are you doing with that spade and plant pot?"
Seriously.
It was rather late at night, though.
"I've just planted a bush." As you do, late at night. In fact, I didn't realise how long it had taken to dig out the hole, since the ground appeared to be the dumping site for the constructors who had built the nearby supermarket.
For those of you who don't know, in my spare time I am trying to establish a garden in the abandoned strip of land that fronts a supermarket. For such a public area, it has been left in a shocking state, but little by little, I'm planting trees and flowering bushes. Being terribly hot here, in southern Spain, during the day and with two young daughters to keep me busy, late in the evening is the only time available to me. Hence the strange hour.
Being a writer, I had to restrain my imagination, since I so desperately wanted to explain to them that I bury my secret stash of marijuana there, the trees acting as very useful markers. The empty plastic bag had contained coffee grounds, not for use as mulch and to (as I'm led to believe) help repel pests, but rather to disguise the smell of drugs so any nosey police dogs can't detect them.
The police don't have a sense of humour, though, as I discovered once, crossing the Spanish border in my car. When asked if I was carrying any drugs, I responded to such a silly question, "Yes, of course - a couple of kilos of cocaine in the boot." After a thorough, 20-minute search with sniffer dogs, they finally let me go.
Anyway, last night the police seemed to grudgingly accept my explanation, probably writing me off as a mad foreigner, and continued on their way... driving the wrong way down a one-way street. They suddenly stopped, did a U-turn and roared back up in the direction of the supermarket, probably to check my daft story. My guess is that after a week of the annual fair, with drunken bums causing them all sorts of problems, everything has gone quiet and they were bored.
I just hope they don't put two and two together when there's a person reported missing... BWA-HA-HA-HAAAA!
Planting trees is my two cents' worth toward helping the environment, apart from making a horrid-looking place a bit nicer. I don't have my own garden - just a few pot plants in the patio. It doesn't cost me anything, since they are all grown from seed or cuttings. Simply a bit of time and effort. I deal with this in my kids' picture book, The Last Tree, which talks about the importance of trees, without forgetting that it needs to be a fun story for young readers.
I have now converted it into a video, so follow the link to it on Youtube: The Last Tree on Youtube
También en español: El Último Árbol en Youtube
"What are you doing with that spade and plant pot?"
Seriously.
It was rather late at night, though.
"I've just planted a bush." As you do, late at night. In fact, I didn't realise how long it had taken to dig out the hole, since the ground appeared to be the dumping site for the constructors who had built the nearby supermarket.
For those of you who don't know, in my spare time I am trying to establish a garden in the abandoned strip of land that fronts a supermarket. For such a public area, it has been left in a shocking state, but little by little, I'm planting trees and flowering bushes. Being terribly hot here, in southern Spain, during the day and with two young daughters to keep me busy, late in the evening is the only time available to me. Hence the strange hour.
Being a writer, I had to restrain my imagination, since I so desperately wanted to explain to them that I bury my secret stash of marijuana there, the trees acting as very useful markers. The empty plastic bag had contained coffee grounds, not for use as mulch and to (as I'm led to believe) help repel pests, but rather to disguise the smell of drugs so any nosey police dogs can't detect them.
The police don't have a sense of humour, though, as I discovered once, crossing the Spanish border in my car. When asked if I was carrying any drugs, I responded to such a silly question, "Yes, of course - a couple of kilos of cocaine in the boot." After a thorough, 20-minute search with sniffer dogs, they finally let me go.
Anyway, last night the police seemed to grudgingly accept my explanation, probably writing me off as a mad foreigner, and continued on their way... driving the wrong way down a one-way street. They suddenly stopped, did a U-turn and roared back up in the direction of the supermarket, probably to check my daft story. My guess is that after a week of the annual fair, with drunken bums causing them all sorts of problems, everything has gone quiet and they were bored.
I just hope they don't put two and two together when there's a person reported missing... BWA-HA-HA-HAAAA!
Planting trees is my two cents' worth toward helping the environment, apart from making a horrid-looking place a bit nicer. I don't have my own garden - just a few pot plants in the patio. It doesn't cost me anything, since they are all grown from seed or cuttings. Simply a bit of time and effort. I deal with this in my kids' picture book, The Last Tree, which talks about the importance of trees, without forgetting that it needs to be a fun story for young readers.
I have now converted it into a video, so follow the link to it on Youtube: The Last Tree on Youtube
También en español: El Último Árbol en Youtube
September 6, 2014
LUCK YOU - SH#T HAPPENS
My brief dabblings in the theatre showed me what a superstitious bunch thespians are. Not uttering the name Macbeth inside a theatre, but instead referring to it as the Scottish Play is a prime example.
"Break a leg" is a charming way of wishing someone luck, supposedly on the basis that the fates work on reverse psychology.
The Spanish have what would seem to be a somewhat less refined expression: "Mucha mierda" - lots of sh#t. And it's not even reverse psychology...
In the good old days before cars, people would go the theatre in a horse-drawn carriage. If the show was going to be a success with full houses, that would mean a lot of horses delivering audience members and where there are horses, there are bound to be organic souvenirs of their presence.
So, LUCK YOU and I wish you a pile of sh#t. In the nicest possible way.
Another loose translation by the author of Loosely Translated.
In the romcom, Loosely Translated, Maria, a Spanish translator, meets Mike, the English author of the stupid detective novel that she very loosely translates. Mike is a drinking, swearing womaniser and full of "mierda", (and not in a lucky way!) but can Maria discover the real person beneath the surface? A novel about not judging books, or people, by their covers.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
"Break a leg" is a charming way of wishing someone luck, supposedly on the basis that the fates work on reverse psychology.
The Spanish have what would seem to be a somewhat less refined expression: "Mucha mierda" - lots of sh#t. And it's not even reverse psychology...
In the good old days before cars, people would go the theatre in a horse-drawn carriage. If the show was going to be a success with full houses, that would mean a lot of horses delivering audience members and where there are horses, there are bound to be organic souvenirs of their presence.
So, LUCK YOU and I wish you a pile of sh#t. In the nicest possible way.
Another loose translation by the author of Loosely Translated.
In the romcom, Loosely Translated, Maria, a Spanish translator, meets Mike, the English author of the stupid detective novel that she very loosely translates. Mike is a drinking, swearing womaniser and full of "mierda", (and not in a lucky way!) but can Maria discover the real person beneath the surface? A novel about not judging books, or people, by their covers.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
August 2, 2014
DOES LOVE REALLY MAKE THE WORLD GO ROUND?
I saw a wonderful couple walking along the road, arm in arm. They were the picture of truly being in love.
Their eyes didn't have that sparkly infatuation of just having met; more a gentle glow. They didn't babble excitedly away, hanging onto each other's words - they had been living together long enough to be content simply with one another's company, rather than being afraid of awkward silences.
The impression was of a relationship like a comfortable pair of slippers. You might look great in a flashy pair of shoes, but they pinch your toes and you really just want to get home and slip into what makes you feel good and relaxed - those old, worn-out, but cosy slippers.
Two guys who genuinely seemed to care about each other. If love conquers all, and true love should involve understanding and acceptance, just imagine if there were more Israeli/Palestinian couples; Protestant Northern Irish/Catholic relationships, or Republican/Democrat marriages. How about we put aside all our religious, political, racial, national and whatever other differences, jump into the same happy bed and make love not war.
Just remember the next time you see a cute meme on Facebook about a cat and a mouse curled up in the same basket. Love should make the world go round.
The romantic comedy, Loosely Translated, touches on homophobia, domestic violence, and the simple, but apparently often forgotten philosophy of "Be Nice". It also looks at the importance of not judging books - or people - by their covers. Maria very loosely translates a stupid detective book. The problems start when the Spanish version becomes a bestseller and she meets her enemy, the drinking, swearing, womanising author. But maybe he's not as bad as she thought...
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon
Their eyes didn't have that sparkly infatuation of just having met; more a gentle glow. They didn't babble excitedly away, hanging onto each other's words - they had been living together long enough to be content simply with one another's company, rather than being afraid of awkward silences.
The impression was of a relationship like a comfortable pair of slippers. You might look great in a flashy pair of shoes, but they pinch your toes and you really just want to get home and slip into what makes you feel good and relaxed - those old, worn-out, but cosy slippers.
Two guys who genuinely seemed to care about each other. If love conquers all, and true love should involve understanding and acceptance, just imagine if there were more Israeli/Palestinian couples; Protestant Northern Irish/Catholic relationships, or Republican/Democrat marriages. How about we put aside all our religious, political, racial, national and whatever other differences, jump into the same happy bed and make love not war.
Just remember the next time you see a cute meme on Facebook about a cat and a mouse curled up in the same basket. Love should make the world go round.
The romantic comedy, Loosely Translated, touches on homophobia, domestic violence, and the simple, but apparently often forgotten philosophy of "Be Nice". It also looks at the importance of not judging books - or people - by their covers. Maria very loosely translates a stupid detective book. The problems start when the Spanish version becomes a bestseller and she meets her enemy, the drinking, swearing, womanising author. But maybe he's not as bad as she thought...
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon
July 17, 2014
YOUR LIFE IS COMPLETE WHEN...
In Spain they have a saying: "Your life is complete when you have had a child, written a book and planted a tree".
Someone commented recently, that what is more difficult is to raise a child, water the tree every day and get someone to read your book. As far as raising a child, it's a job you will never complete in your lifetime.
For a book which invites the reader to examine what is important in life, check out my book, Happy Juice:
Happy Juice on Amazon
For a fun kids' book about the importance of planting trees, based on the Spanish legend that once there were so many trees that a squirrel could cross the country without touching the ground, simply going from tree to tree, try The Last Tree. It might encourage your kids to plant a tree and be able to tick off one of those goals in life!
I have now converted it into a video, so follow the link to it on Youtube: The Last Tree on Youtube
Someone commented recently, that what is more difficult is to raise a child, water the tree every day and get someone to read your book. As far as raising a child, it's a job you will never complete in your lifetime.
For a book which invites the reader to examine what is important in life, check out my book, Happy Juice:
Happy Juice on Amazon
For a fun kids' book about the importance of planting trees, based on the Spanish legend that once there were so many trees that a squirrel could cross the country without touching the ground, simply going from tree to tree, try The Last Tree. It might encourage your kids to plant a tree and be able to tick off one of those goals in life!
I have now converted it into a video, so follow the link to it on Youtube: The Last Tree on Youtube
July 12, 2014
CAUTION: ROMCOM AHEAD
One of the big criticisms about romantic comedies are the ridiculous premises. Why is it that the love interest always turns out to be the girl's worst enemy?
Going by the rules of romcoms, we should take a look around us, find the most annoying, horrid man - in fact your worst enemy - run up to them and throw yourself into their arms, because obviously you both need a mutual tonsil-licking.
Do opposites really attract? What happened to finding something in common? The reality is, no matter how much you have in common, there is always going to be something that you disagree on. Possibly it is not a question of how much you have in common, but rather if you can accept those differences. Maybe true love is all about acceptance for the way someone is. If only the real world could be more like a romcom and we learnt to love our enemies.
In my romcom, Loosely Translated, Maria has to stop judging a book by its cover and look beyond her preconceived idea of what her "enemy" is like. Only when she gets to know the real person inside will she discover that Mike maybe isn't so bad after all. But not before very loosely translating his horrible murder mystery novel.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon
Going by the rules of romcoms, we should take a look around us, find the most annoying, horrid man - in fact your worst enemy - run up to them and throw yourself into their arms, because obviously you both need a mutual tonsil-licking.
Do opposites really attract? What happened to finding something in common? The reality is, no matter how much you have in common, there is always going to be something that you disagree on. Possibly it is not a question of how much you have in common, but rather if you can accept those differences. Maybe true love is all about acceptance for the way someone is. If only the real world could be more like a romcom and we learnt to love our enemies.
In my romcom, Loosely Translated, Maria has to stop judging a book by its cover and look beyond her preconceived idea of what her "enemy" is like. Only when she gets to know the real person inside will she discover that Mike maybe isn't so bad after all. But not before very loosely translating his horrible murder mystery novel.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon
July 4, 2014
Bridge Encounters: "Mummy!"
A short story set on the "Puente Nuevo" - The New Bridge - in Ronda, Spain.
"Mummy!"
Sounds like someone is lost, I think to myself.
"Mummy!"
I look around to find the source of this piteous cry. I catch glimpses of a small figure making a ripple in the river of tourists that move along the side of the bridge, all trying to jostle for a good view of the three-hundred foot drop to the bottom of the narrow gorge.
"Mummy, where are you?"
I kneel down to be at eye level with the young lad who bumps into me.
"Hey, kid, are you okay?"
He looks up at me with big, greyish-blue eyes and with the realisation that having a three-day growth of beard rules me out as being his mother, his emotional dam bursts, sending an enormous wail pouring out.
Not having much of a maternal streak, I give him an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll find your mother."
I wait patiently for him to calm down. The boy still has that puppy fat that shows he has a way to go before he makes the transition from cute to brat. Even without hearing him speak, the heavy sprinkling of freckles could probably be joined together to spell "ENGLISH". I steer him over to an indented section of the wall where there is a spot to sit down and eventually the sorrowful tide goes out and is reduced to an occasional stuttering sob.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Thomas," he says in a small voice.
"Not Tommy, or Tom?" I ask, surprised that he doesn't use a diminutive form.
He looks at me as if I'm completely daft. "No," he replies, very emphatic, as only a child can be.
"Ah, okay. So where did you last see your mum?"
Thomas thinks for a moment and waves vaguely in a direction. The complete opposite direction to that which he has come from.
"Riiight." This is going to be harder than I thought.
"Can you tell me what your mother is like, then?"
His face brightens up. "When she smiles, her eyes go old, like yours." He reaches up with both hands and scrunches the crows' feet that adorn the corners of my eyes.
"Gee, thanks."
"She makes a funny face," Thomas continues with barely a pause, "when she puts on her lipstink." He demonstrates with an exaggerated pout.
"If she makes a face like that," I say, half to myself, "yes, it would be funny."
He ignores me and carries on. "Mummy makes the bestest biscuits, with lots and lots of chocky bits!" He rubs his podgy tummy, which is probably the result of one too many chocolate chip biscuits. "Yumminy, yumminy in my tumminy!" He finishes the statement by licking his lips with a big, long tongue.
He frowns suddenly. "She does make me eat vegetables, though." He pokes his tongue out in disgust. "Mummy says they're good for me. If they're good for me, why do they taste yucky?"
I shrug my shoulders.
"She gives me super-duper cuddles!" He wraps his chubby, little arms around himself as he imagines it. "It feels real nice 'cos Mummy is soft and squidgy like a big pillow."
"I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear that."
The young lad steps up onto the low wall and gripping hold of the bars in his dimpled hands, looks down at the huge drop. He seems unconcerned at the height, possibly because his mind is elsewhere.
"Sometimes, when she's sad, I have to give her a big hug, to make her feel better. Mummy says I'm the bestest thing she's got in all the world."
He stops talking, apparently satisfied with his description.
I can't help but grin. "Your mummy sounds great. But what does she look like?"
For another story about kids, the charming and funny things they say, and the true, non-commercial spirit of Christmas, check out my comedy, Santa's Night Off. When Santa is sick on Christmas Eve, Mrs Claus discovers what his work involves and maybe that under his grumpy exterior is someone who really cares about the kids, not just delivering presents.
***FREE*** 6th - 10th December (Wed-Sun) on Amazon.
Santa's Night Off on Amazon
"Mummy!"
Sounds like someone is lost, I think to myself.
"Mummy!"
I look around to find the source of this piteous cry. I catch glimpses of a small figure making a ripple in the river of tourists that move along the side of the bridge, all trying to jostle for a good view of the three-hundred foot drop to the bottom of the narrow gorge.
"Mummy, where are you?"
I kneel down to be at eye level with the young lad who bumps into me.
"Hey, kid, are you okay?"
He looks up at me with big, greyish-blue eyes and with the realisation that having a three-day growth of beard rules me out as being his mother, his emotional dam bursts, sending an enormous wail pouring out.
Not having much of a maternal streak, I give him an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll find your mother."
I wait patiently for him to calm down. The boy still has that puppy fat that shows he has a way to go before he makes the transition from cute to brat. Even without hearing him speak, the heavy sprinkling of freckles could probably be joined together to spell "ENGLISH". I steer him over to an indented section of the wall where there is a spot to sit down and eventually the sorrowful tide goes out and is reduced to an occasional stuttering sob.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Thomas," he says in a small voice.
"Not Tommy, or Tom?" I ask, surprised that he doesn't use a diminutive form.
He looks at me as if I'm completely daft. "No," he replies, very emphatic, as only a child can be.
"Ah, okay. So where did you last see your mum?"
Thomas thinks for a moment and waves vaguely in a direction. The complete opposite direction to that which he has come from.
"Riiight." This is going to be harder than I thought.
"Can you tell me what your mother is like, then?"
His face brightens up. "When she smiles, her eyes go old, like yours." He reaches up with both hands and scrunches the crows' feet that adorn the corners of my eyes.
"Gee, thanks."
"She makes a funny face," Thomas continues with barely a pause, "when she puts on her lipstink." He demonstrates with an exaggerated pout.
"If she makes a face like that," I say, half to myself, "yes, it would be funny."
He ignores me and carries on. "Mummy makes the bestest biscuits, with lots and lots of chocky bits!" He rubs his podgy tummy, which is probably the result of one too many chocolate chip biscuits. "Yumminy, yumminy in my tumminy!" He finishes the statement by licking his lips with a big, long tongue.
He frowns suddenly. "She does make me eat vegetables, though." He pokes his tongue out in disgust. "Mummy says they're good for me. If they're good for me, why do they taste yucky?"
I shrug my shoulders.
"She gives me super-duper cuddles!" He wraps his chubby, little arms around himself as he imagines it. "It feels real nice 'cos Mummy is soft and squidgy like a big pillow."
"I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear that."
The young lad steps up onto the low wall and gripping hold of the bars in his dimpled hands, looks down at the huge drop. He seems unconcerned at the height, possibly because his mind is elsewhere.
"Sometimes, when she's sad, I have to give her a big hug, to make her feel better. Mummy says I'm the bestest thing she's got in all the world."
He stops talking, apparently satisfied with his description.
I can't help but grin. "Your mummy sounds great. But what does she look like?"
For another story about kids, the charming and funny things they say, and the true, non-commercial spirit of Christmas, check out my comedy, Santa's Night Off. When Santa is sick on Christmas Eve, Mrs Claus discovers what his work involves and maybe that under his grumpy exterior is someone who really cares about the kids, not just delivering presents.
***FREE*** 6th - 10th December (Wed-Sun) on Amazon.
Santa's Night Off on Amazon
June 27, 2014
New Wedding Vows for the 21st Century
Wedding bells seem a long way off when it's a case of hate at first sight for Spanish translator Maria, in the romantic comedy, Loosely Translated. Can Maria avoid the charms of her enemy and more importantly, can she keep him from discovering her shocking secret?
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon
June 19, 2014
Why Eskimos Rub Noses
Hello!
Look below at how people in other countries say hello. In my travels I’ve found that people appreciate the small courtesy of greeting them in their own language. It’s a tiny, but I don’t think entirely insignificant way of making the world a nicer place.
You will also understand why the Alaskan Eskimos find it easier to rub noses.
Language_______Greeting_______Country
Achareta_______‘O_____________Southern Asia
Afrikaans_______Goeie dag_______South Africa
Apache________Yatasay________USA, Arizona
Arabic_________Salaam________Middle East
Australian______G’day__________Australia
Awabakal_______Ella___________Australia (indigenous)
Cantonese______Néih hóu________China
Esperanto______Saluton_________International
French________Bon jour_________France
Fulani_________No ngoola daa____Western Africa
German________Guten tag________Germany
Hän_______Nahhwanànkak nahokhwadál
__________Geenjit shòn tr’iinlii____Alaska
Hawaiian________Aloha__________Hawaii
Hebrew_________Shalom_________Israel
Hindi___________Namasté________India
Indonesian_______Selamat siang____Indonesia
Inuit___________Ai_____________Canada, South Baffin
Italian__________Buon giorno_____Italy
Japanese________Mushi mushi_____Japan
Kurdish_________Rozhbash________Iraq & Iran
Latin___________Ave____________Ancient Roman
Russian_________Privet__________Russia
Spanish_________Hola___________Spain
For a story about culture (and romantic) clash, check out my romcom set in Spain, where Maria very loosely translates a stupid detective book which becomes a bestseller. When she meets her enemy, the English author, it's hate at first sight, but can she find the real person underneath?
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
Look below at how people in other countries say hello. In my travels I’ve found that people appreciate the small courtesy of greeting them in their own language. It’s a tiny, but I don’t think entirely insignificant way of making the world a nicer place.
You will also understand why the Alaskan Eskimos find it easier to rub noses.
Language_______Greeting_______Country
Achareta_______‘O_____________Southern Asia
Afrikaans_______Goeie dag_______South Africa
Apache________Yatasay________USA, Arizona
Arabic_________Salaam________Middle East
Australian______G’day__________Australia
Awabakal_______Ella___________Australia (indigenous)
Cantonese______Néih hóu________China
Esperanto______Saluton_________International
French________Bon jour_________France
Fulani_________No ngoola daa____Western Africa
German________Guten tag________Germany
Hän_______Nahhwanànkak nahokhwadál
__________Geenjit shòn tr’iinlii____Alaska
Hawaiian________Aloha__________Hawaii
Hebrew_________Shalom_________Israel
Hindi___________Namasté________India
Indonesian_______Selamat siang____Indonesia
Inuit___________Ai_____________Canada, South Baffin
Italian__________Buon giorno_____Italy
Japanese________Mushi mushi_____Japan
Kurdish_________Rozhbash________Iraq & Iran
Latin___________Ave____________Ancient Roman
Russian_________Privet__________Russia
Spanish_________Hola___________Spain
For a story about culture (and romantic) clash, check out my romcom set in Spain, where Maria very loosely translates a stupid detective book which becomes a bestseller. When she meets her enemy, the English author, it's hate at first sight, but can she find the real person underneath?
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
May 16, 2014
When Singing is NOT Music to Your Ears
I live in Spain, the home of Flamenco. Unfortunately, this evening I had to put up with the neighbour trying to sing in this style. At first I thought she was either A, drunk; B, had fallen over and hurt herself; C, had a very bad case of constipation; or D, all of the above.
There is a technique called a "quejido" which translates as a plaintive wail. But there is a big difference between expressing the pain of heartbreak or loss and the pain of haemorrhoids. It can be very difficult to hit the right note and generally only a true gitano (gypsy) can pull it off.
Flamenco tends to be a bit of an acquired taste, particularly cante jondo, the authentic, pure form, which is like a double espresso compared to the decaffeinated stuff you often hear on the radio. You really need to be an aficionado to appreciate it. (Note that although aficionado is a Spanish word, for them it means an amateur, or fan, but not necessarily expert.) So a lot of foreigners, (my father being a prime example) seem to be surprised when they don't see the Spanish singing and dancing flamenco 24/7. They don't all like bullfighting, either.
Which brings me to the question: when writing a book set in a foreign country, where is the line between depicting a culture and getting mired in national stereotypes? If a movie is set in Brazil, it always seems to be Carnival time; an establishing shot for England more often than not depicts things that are easy for the audience to identify as English - a couple of double-decker buses driving past Big Ben; and Australia usually has a few kangaroos hopping past the Sydney Harbour Bridge, (I grew up in Oz and did actually have a tourist ask me where all the roos were. Well, they don't normally hang around the city centre, funnily enough.)
In my romcom, Loosely Translated, I wanted to get away from turning it into a tourist guide of Spain and focus more on the people. Even so, the main character, Maria, is relatively quiet and reserved compared to the typical Andalucian. (Yes, Maria is a typical name - my wife, her sister, her mother and grandmother are all called Maria. In fact, about 30% of the female population has Maria as a first name, including some men - Jose Maria is not uncommon!) I wanted to give a feel for the ordinary, real people. Most are more likely to watch the football than the bullfighting and probably don't sing flamenco, either. Not even badly.
Maria, a Spanish translator, meets Mike, the English author of the stupid detective novel that she very loosely translates. Mike is a drinking, swearing womaniser, but can Maria discover the real person beneath the surface? A novel about not judging books, or people, by their covers.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
There is a technique called a "quejido" which translates as a plaintive wail. But there is a big difference between expressing the pain of heartbreak or loss and the pain of haemorrhoids. It can be very difficult to hit the right note and generally only a true gitano (gypsy) can pull it off.
Flamenco tends to be a bit of an acquired taste, particularly cante jondo, the authentic, pure form, which is like a double espresso compared to the decaffeinated stuff you often hear on the radio. You really need to be an aficionado to appreciate it. (Note that although aficionado is a Spanish word, for them it means an amateur, or fan, but not necessarily expert.) So a lot of foreigners, (my father being a prime example) seem to be surprised when they don't see the Spanish singing and dancing flamenco 24/7. They don't all like bullfighting, either.
Which brings me to the question: when writing a book set in a foreign country, where is the line between depicting a culture and getting mired in national stereotypes? If a movie is set in Brazil, it always seems to be Carnival time; an establishing shot for England more often than not depicts things that are easy for the audience to identify as English - a couple of double-decker buses driving past Big Ben; and Australia usually has a few kangaroos hopping past the Sydney Harbour Bridge, (I grew up in Oz and did actually have a tourist ask me where all the roos were. Well, they don't normally hang around the city centre, funnily enough.)
In my romcom, Loosely Translated, I wanted to get away from turning it into a tourist guide of Spain and focus more on the people. Even so, the main character, Maria, is relatively quiet and reserved compared to the typical Andalucian. (Yes, Maria is a typical name - my wife, her sister, her mother and grandmother are all called Maria. In fact, about 30% of the female population has Maria as a first name, including some men - Jose Maria is not uncommon!) I wanted to give a feel for the ordinary, real people. Most are more likely to watch the football than the bullfighting and probably don't sing flamenco, either. Not even badly.
Maria, a Spanish translator, meets Mike, the English author of the stupid detective novel that she very loosely translates. Mike is a drinking, swearing womaniser, but can Maria discover the real person beneath the surface? A novel about not judging books, or people, by their covers.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon.com
April 17, 2014
Romance vs (Men's) Reality
Men just don't get romance. They don't think with their heart. Or their heads. Usually, when it comes to love, they think with another part of their anatomy.
Here is an excerpt from my romcom, Loosely Translated. Maria, a nice Spanish girl is showing Mike, a bad English lad, a statue in memory of two lovers from Mediaeval times, when the city of Cordoba was one of the most important centres of the Islamic world.
Mike is certainly no Prince Charming, but can Maria see past the very rough exterior to the real person he seems to hide inside?
‘That’s a bit of a strange statue: two hands.’
They had parked the car and were walking towards the group of waiting carriages. The sculpture that stood in a small park was of a man’s hand, poised to take the hand of a woman.
‘I think it’s awfully romantic,’ commented Maria.
Mike groaned.
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Maria, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘It is in memory of the poet Ibn Zaydun and the Princess Wallada, who fell deeply in love, despite the fact it was not favourably looked upon by the court that the Princess have anything to do with a “lowly” poet.’
‘That’s understandable. If I had a daughter who was a princess, I wouldn’t want her running off with some penniless, arty-farty hippy spouting fancy words.’
‘She was a poet, too, you know.’
‘Yeah, but she could afford to be.’
‘Maybe she appreciated him for being cultured and awakening her soul with the beauty of his words, something that no prince, regardless of how rich he was, was capable of doing.’
‘Maybe,’ said Mike, remaining unconvinced.
Maria pointed to the inscription below the sculpture. ‘These are two poems that they composed for each other. The first one is by the Princess and remember, this is just a quick translation:
‘ “I fear for you, my beloved so much, that even my own sight, even the ground you tread, even the hours that pass threaten to snatch you away from me. Even if I were able to conceal you within the pupils of my eyes and hide you there until the Day of Judgment, my fear would still not be allayed.” ’
‘Sounds a bit pessimistic to me,’ commented Mike.
Maria rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever. Anyway, the next one was by the poet.
‘ “Your passion has made me famous among high and low, your face devours my feelings and thoughts. When you are absent, I cannot be consoled, but when you appear, all my cares and troubles fly away.
When she offers me jasmine in the palm of her hand, I collect bright stars from the hand of the moon.” ’
Maria looked at Mike for his response.
‘It’s okay. I could do better.’
Maria spluttered in disbelief. ‘You have got to be kidding!’ She turned and started walking towards the carriages. ‘Come on. Let’s go for this tour.’
Mike caught up with her and mimed the action of reeling in a fish. ‘Relax! Of course I’m kidding. You are so easy to wind up.’ Mike had to increase his pace to keep up with her. ‘So, did they live happily ever after?’
‘Er... no.’
‘Hah! So much for romance. What happened then?’
There was a delay before she reluctantly answered. ‘He was caught doing naughty things with a slave girl.’
‘Naughty things? What, like playing with matches?’ asked Mike, with mock innocence.
‘You know exactly what I mean.’
‘Oh, you mean he was shagging her?’
‘Why do you insist on using that word? It reduces it to a base, animal action.’
‘Come on. If he was doing it with a slave girl, he wasn’t running his best poetic lines by her; he was giving her some of that good old base animal action.’ Mike backed up his statement with a burlesque demonstration.
‘Do you mind?’ hissed Maria in horror. She directed a grinning Mike to one of the carriages and they got in.
Loosely Translated shows the importance of not judging books, (or people) by their covers and gives a bit of insight into Spain's history and culture.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon
Here is an excerpt from my romcom, Loosely Translated. Maria, a nice Spanish girl is showing Mike, a bad English lad, a statue in memory of two lovers from Mediaeval times, when the city of Cordoba was one of the most important centres of the Islamic world.
Mike is certainly no Prince Charming, but can Maria see past the very rough exterior to the real person he seems to hide inside?
‘That’s a bit of a strange statue: two hands.’
They had parked the car and were walking towards the group of waiting carriages. The sculpture that stood in a small park was of a man’s hand, poised to take the hand of a woman.
‘I think it’s awfully romantic,’ commented Maria.
Mike groaned.
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Maria, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘It is in memory of the poet Ibn Zaydun and the Princess Wallada, who fell deeply in love, despite the fact it was not favourably looked upon by the court that the Princess have anything to do with a “lowly” poet.’
‘That’s understandable. If I had a daughter who was a princess, I wouldn’t want her running off with some penniless, arty-farty hippy spouting fancy words.’
‘She was a poet, too, you know.’
‘Yeah, but she could afford to be.’
‘Maybe she appreciated him for being cultured and awakening her soul with the beauty of his words, something that no prince, regardless of how rich he was, was capable of doing.’
‘Maybe,’ said Mike, remaining unconvinced.
Maria pointed to the inscription below the sculpture. ‘These are two poems that they composed for each other. The first one is by the Princess and remember, this is just a quick translation:
‘ “I fear for you, my beloved so much, that even my own sight, even the ground you tread, even the hours that pass threaten to snatch you away from me. Even if I were able to conceal you within the pupils of my eyes and hide you there until the Day of Judgment, my fear would still not be allayed.” ’
‘Sounds a bit pessimistic to me,’ commented Mike.
Maria rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever. Anyway, the next one was by the poet.
‘ “Your passion has made me famous among high and low, your face devours my feelings and thoughts. When you are absent, I cannot be consoled, but when you appear, all my cares and troubles fly away.
When she offers me jasmine in the palm of her hand, I collect bright stars from the hand of the moon.” ’
Maria looked at Mike for his response.
‘It’s okay. I could do better.’
Maria spluttered in disbelief. ‘You have got to be kidding!’ She turned and started walking towards the carriages. ‘Come on. Let’s go for this tour.’
Mike caught up with her and mimed the action of reeling in a fish. ‘Relax! Of course I’m kidding. You are so easy to wind up.’ Mike had to increase his pace to keep up with her. ‘So, did they live happily ever after?’
‘Er... no.’
‘Hah! So much for romance. What happened then?’
There was a delay before she reluctantly answered. ‘He was caught doing naughty things with a slave girl.’
‘Naughty things? What, like playing with matches?’ asked Mike, with mock innocence.
‘You know exactly what I mean.’
‘Oh, you mean he was shagging her?’
‘Why do you insist on using that word? It reduces it to a base, animal action.’
‘Come on. If he was doing it with a slave girl, he wasn’t running his best poetic lines by her; he was giving her some of that good old base animal action.’ Mike backed up his statement with a burlesque demonstration.
‘Do you mind?’ hissed Maria in horror. She directed a grinning Mike to one of the carriages and they got in.
Loosely Translated shows the importance of not judging books, (or people) by their covers and gives a bit of insight into Spain's history and culture.
If that sounds like your cup of tea, buy me a couple of beers - that's about how much the book costs, and you'll get that warm, fuzzy feeling of helping out an indie author. Cheers!
Loosely Translated at Amazon
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