One year blogging

Time to look back.

I've been blogging for one year now. And I still don't know if this makes any sense. The numbers are disappointing: less than 10 visits daily, sometimes even only 4 or 5. Only when an author twitters or blogs about my review of their book traffic increases for one or two days. That's great and I really feel good when it happens because it shows me that they appreciate what I'm doing.

I've mentioned and recommended 54 books, written about my trip to California and my experiences as a reader and beta-reader, my first efforts as a writer.

It is work and it is fun. Self-reflection combined with the wish to help good authors and some fishing for compliments.

Basically it's just some kind of diary, keeping record of my addiction. Yes,addiction. 

Have I become too picky?

Did some really outstanding books spoil me for the average good books? Does reading too much too fast change my view on literature?

Since my last post I've read 10 published books and none of them was worth a blogpost. There was not one bad book among them, I rated them 3 or 4 stars, and I'm sure that some time ago I would have liked them better.

I don't think I made bad choices. Outstanding books are rare. My expectations are high, maybe too high now.

Am I really asking too much?

An outstandig novel needs a good story, an intelligent plot without logical gaps, even if it is placed in a non-existent futuristic world. The plot needs enough twists and surprises to keep me turning the pages in anticipation and longing for the next opportunity to continue when I'm forced to do something else.
I want to read about well-developed characters I can relate to and with whom I can suffer, fear and/or rejoice. I want to know what's going on in their mind. I want life-like dialogues and believable behavior.

But all that is not enough. In addition I want it to be written in a unique outstanding writing style. All these above mentioned 3 and 4 star books are well-written in a way that flows smoothly, doesn't distract from the story, but isn't exceptional, just kind of unremarkable. I love writing with a wow-effect.

Who am I to judge English writing?

I'm just an avid reader. I can't name any criteria why a specific writing is better than others. There's just this feeling when the language reaches my soul, when I want to linger on a phrase because of its beauty, when feelings are expressed the way I feel, when people or situations are fully described in a few sentences...

I don't think I'm asking too much 

There are authors who have got the talent to write the way I love it.
Sometimes it's pure luck when I find one of them.
Probably they are to blame for my actual selectiveness.

This month I had the pleasure to beta-read Chris Brown's new book (I absolutely need to read his first one in this series, Dirty Tiger!)

On Goodreads I met some outstanding writers. I don't think I would have chosen their books in a book store or on amazon.

The first one I discovered was Peter Rosch. His challenging writing in never-ending complex sentences made me translate his book But I love you.

Then there's Mark Matthews. His dark novels about addiction make me experience what his characters go through.

Michael Lewis captured me with a short story. His skillful writing shows in both his untypical  love stories.

The voice of Anthony Vicino's blog made me read all his work although in a genre I don't normally read.

Will Patching is another highly talented author who combines psychological insight with thrilling action.

Looking outside the bestseller lists
All these authors and many more are not (yet) on the bestseller lists. I'm lucky (and proud) I have the pleasure knowing them and I'll continue browsing Goodreads for others.

Amidst all the average books out there, there are some jewels. We just have to find them.

A short story

Inspired by an interesting blog (Written by you) and the story Famously Infamous I wrote this short little story.

It's my turn

It's my turn now. I know it. But where to hide? Where to seek help? There's nowhere I could possibly go and nobody who could possibly help me. It is too late now. I'm deeply involved. He's here right beside me in my bed.

Two years I waited for him. Two years I missed him, was faithful, always visited, brought him whatever he wanted and when he finally was released I embraced him with all my love and was glad to see him full of energy, ready to re-start life.

I didn't see how twisted and screwed he was, took him back into my house and my bed, had big dreams.

He hates to be famous for that damned video. Hates being famous for being pummelled. That video was the reason for his suffering in prison. All the abuse.

I thought he had overcome all that. It was over. Nobody recognizes him anymore. The video is long forgotten.

Until he told me.

At first I didn't take him seriously, thought he was joking. But he was not.

Today I saw it in his eyes, the desire to be finally caught, to be found, to be famous of his own accord. He wants to go back, respected and feared.

Two months have passed. In the beginning he always came home filled with joy, satisfied that he did it again. Seeking approval he told me in detail, how he bought the knife and stuck it into the next old guy passing the street or went to buy a gun and shot the vendor. Or the poor girl he strangled in the park. He was so proud of all these random kills.

I did nothing to stop him. Nor did I leave. I thought it would stop, but it didn't.

The police never came. Now there is no joy anymore, merely exhaustion. He's tired, disillusioned.

Nobody besides me knows what he's done.

His thirst for fame is unbroken. I saw it in his eyes. And I'll be the victim to send him back to prison as a celebrity. That's his aim. I'm the target.

Now, after aggressive and passionate sex, appropriate for the last time, he's lying by my side. Drunk as usual, breathing hard and snoring.

Torn between love, fear and hatred I look at him.

He still has the chance to wake up.

But he won't.

Me an author?

Goodreads asked me to edit my author profile. That was a real surprise. I'm „only“ a translator, I didn't think they would consider me as an author, but they did. I must admit it feels great!

Obviously they appreciate not only the work a translator invests in a book but also the authorship of the translated version. In fact the translator's responsibility is actually much bigger than the average reader realizes. A bad translation can ruin a good story. The goal is to make the reader forget they are reading a translation. Did I achieve this goal? I'm not the one to judge.

Who knows, perhaps this blogging experience might lead to more writing and someday make me a real author? I don't know.

No, I don't think I'm an author. My writing is very limited.

Lately I often wake up in the middle of the night. The last dream is still dwelling in my mind and I know immediately that this dream is a fantastic beginning for a story. And while in this stage of half-awareness I'm trying to put together the puzzle of the story in my dream I'm slowly drifting back to sleep, wake up again, trying to remember because I know there was something worth being written, but I just can't remember. And the more I try the farer away seem the images to flee. That's new. I had certainly dreams before, sometimes I remembered them, sometimes not. But I didn't care and they never resembled stories.

Will I ever be able to grip one of these dreams and put it into words? I doubt it, but who knows, perhaps reading all the time all these different stories can empower my imagination enough one day to bring those beginnings I see in the middle of the night to an ending.

The difficulty writing a review when the book isn't good

This weekend I spent too much time with a book I didn't like. If I hadn't got it for free from NetGalley I wouldn't have finished it. But I feel obliged to write something. And I don't want to be too negative. I never want to hurt the author who put all his energy and a lot of work in his text.

It's very strange to read something boring or annoying and while reading asking yourself why you do it and looking for anything positive to say while constantly feeling that you don't like what you read. Sounds stupid? It probably is.

So, why didn't I just switch of my kindle and forgot the book and the review altogether to do something more pleasant - go for a walk (it was raining), watch a movie (there's nothing nice on TV on Sunday afternoons) or finally finish due paperwork (I'd do a lot to have a reason to avoid this)?

I wanted to give it a chance, I wanted to find out, why others had written reviews full of praise. And I don't want to judge without finishing. I wanted to find some surprising twist or a little suspense building up in the end – but it just stopped without anything, without any solution, no happy ending, no sad ending. Nothing.

I sat there with an empty feeling. I had wasted all this time for nothing. And the publishers expected a review. They got one. But I don't think they'll like it. They always declare they want honest reviews. They got it.

Do I really want to start a blog?

Am I really going to start a blog about the books I read? What are the reasons that make me think about it? Do I really want people to read what I think not only about books? I don't know.

Perhaps one of the reasons is that NetGalley has declined three of my requests. I understand that publishers want to sell their books and are looking for reviewers with influence. I'm not. My eight friends and four followers on goodreads or my 30 friends on facebook aren't much of a public. My rank as reviewer on amazon isn't worth mentioning so why should they give me their books for free? No, I have no impact on the reading world.

Do I believe this could change with this blog? Of course it won't. Why should anybody want to read this, why should anybody even find this?

Maybe I think my reviews to be worth reading. But I doubt it. Maybe they are pregnant but normally too short.

I've read some really good books from nearly unknown writers who I try to support by writing reviews. But what kind of support is this if nobody's going to read them? I like to think that the authors do and I want to encourage them by giving praise to their good works.

I'm still waiting for this encouragement. Seemingly nobody wants to write a review for my first translation.

After reading a bunch of English books and especially after Peter Rosch's books without difficulty I got the impression my English wasn't as bad as I thought and built up the courage to ask Peter to allow me to translate his book But I love you.

Peter was the first author to contact me after one of my reviews on goodreads. I hadn't expected any reaction, I hadn't even rated his book with 5 stars, but he offered me a free copy of his second novel and asked me to write a review. It felt so good! Of course I read But I love you within two days and wrote this review:

 This is the first time I got a free copy from an author who is asking me to write a review. That's why I try to be not too short without telling too much.

About two weeks ago I read My dead friend Sarah – and fell in love with Peter Rosch's writing style. I'm glad that his style hasn't changed. Obviously he loves to create long twisted sentences full of sarcasm, details, a little humor and an enormous vocabulary (for me as Non Native Speaker quite a challenge). With two or three sentences he makes you feel the awkwardness of a situation or the odor of a place. It's really amazing. In My Dead Friend Sarah I didn't really like neither Max nor Sarah. In this book it also takes some time to get to know the not really lovable characters but you learn to understand them and to feel with them. 
Did you ever wonder what's going on in an insane mind or why, when and how an alcoholic is drinking? This book will put some light on it.
This is not a crime novel even though there are quite a few crimes nor is it a love story. Perhaps you could call it a psychodrama about unanswered love mirroring the insanity of our society.

In the end I felt a bit like Alicia: “Her emotions – half a dozen or more – were bouncing their way around inside of her, pounding from within, and looking for her to help them escape“ - just missing one crucial emotion: hope.

If you're looking for an optimistic or funny book with a typical happy ending make a different choice. 
If you appreciate awesome writing style and want to emerge in someone's mind this is a must-read!

During the following summer the idea of translating this book didn't leave me. And when I finally asked him he seemed to be thrilled. And I plunged into work. It sure was a challenge to translate these incredible run-on sentences. But it was fun! And I was so proud to see the result on amazon.

There have been other positive reactions from authors that are encouraging me to write reviews.

Patrick McCarty wrote :"You seem to me an exceptionally acute reader. I would have you read a book of mine anytime. You are an extraordinarily sensitive and alert reader. I would like to have a dozen like you."

I had written this review about Moonlight murder:

Truth be told, if I had come across this book in a bookstore I wouldn't have bought it. I never buy poetry, most times I don't even like it (only my own) – but there was and is this feeling that I long to read something different, not this „normal“ stuff you can find everywhere. So when there was this request for a review I took the chance. And I would have missed something if I hadn't.
The book starts with some poems. I must admit, that I do not understand them. I felt over-challenged, intellectually unable to grasp the meaning. And I blamed the fact that English isn't my native language and therefore I probably just couldn't intuitively feel the beauty of the text. 
But as it seems this isn't the reason.
As soon as I got to the prose the beauty of the language hit me with undeniable force. These beautifully crafted sentences absorbed me and I wonder how it is possible to create such an intense atmosphere by writing just a few phrases.
This book is like a museum full of wonderful paintings painted not in oil but in words. And while wandering through the rooms you're meandering the memories of a boy.
This book is not about the story although there is one, it is about the beauty of language, the joy of expression, the pleasure of reading.
Who is D.B. Wallace? Whoever he might have been or whether he has ever lived – he is a fusion of Dickens and Poe writing in modern language. I'd love to read more.

 So these experiences among others encourage me to start a blog.

But there's something else: I'd like to be a writer myself, always enjoyed writing, knowing I could never write a novel. I lack imagination, would never be able to compose an interesting story. The only thing I really can write about is myself and I doubt this would be interesting enough.

Maybe that's why I started to write about my reading experience. Ultimately that's writing about me.