White Heron. Peace Valley

I saw it, then, white and slender,

a bird made of light.

It walked in the water on its long, slim legs,

perfectly balanced,

as if dancing to a music it could only hear.

For weeks, for months, for years and decades,

through winter dark and summer bright,

through rain and drought, death and rebirth

its soul, one with its master,

the tiger slept.

Like trees shed their leaves and, vulnerable in the winter cold,

expose their branches, naked, to the world,

so writers, word by word

in their stories, reveal their souls.

“Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.”

― Robert Frost

A drop of blood,

a seed of hope

trapped in the snow,

awaits the thaw.

Silent trees in the winter cold,

roots in the snow,

search the sky with naked arms, and dream

of distant summers

to come.

A year ago I reviewed Jon M. Sweeney’s The Pope Who Quit, the story of how Peter Morrone, a humble and uncultivated Italian hermit, became Pope in 1294 at the ripe age of 84, taking the name of Pope Celestine V. Unable to cope with the demands of the papacy, he abdicated some months later.

In his book, Jon M. Sweeney tells us how Pope Benedict IX came to pray over the tomb of his Medieval predecessor and suggests he might have been asking him for advice as he considered his own resignation.

When the resignation of Pope Benedict IX was announced last week, I remembered Jon’s prophetic words with awe.

If the news surprised you or made you wonder why this was such a shock for the Catholic community, you may want to read this fascinating story of a time so different from ours when another Pope also resigned.

You can find my whole review at Myshelf.com

It was freezing cold in Lake Galena today.

And empty.

Only me,

   and the geese,                                                                             and the ducks.

And the broken tree.

Bleeding.

Like my heart.

by Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban

Fifty Shades of Grey has been a commercial success in Spain and I’m sure nobody, but me, cares that its title has been mistranslated.

Yet this bothers me.

Being a writer I know how much work goes into finding that perfect title. Being a translator I know how difficult it is to translate not only the words but also the meaning of those words. And I know that in this case, in the Spanish version, the meaning has been lost.

Even though I haven’t read Fifty Shades of Grey, I’m aware that Grey is this incredibly handsome, filthy rich tycoon with a penchant for quirky love making. He is the brooding hero, the irresistible ‘bad’ boy. But for all his defects he is not beyond redemption because his act hides a hurt and troubled soul. Thus the fifty shades the title mentions. Fifty shades of grey as in “it’s not black and white.”

In this context “Shades” means “Nuances” or “range”. In Spanish that would be “matices”.

In English “shade” also mean “area of darkness”. As in “in the shade of a tree.” This kind of “shade” in Spanish is “sombra” and “sombra” is the word the translator wrongly chose. As “Sombra” also means “shadow” in Spanish, the Spanish title translates back to English as: Fifty Shadows of Grey. Not exactly the same, is it?

IMHO, Fifty Shades of Grey should be called in Spanish, Cincuenta matices de Grey.

But even then the translation would not convey the complete meaning of the English title because “Grey” is a name and also a color. We could translate the color to “gris” but then Mr. Grey would have to be Mr. Gris. So the equivalent in English of the Spanish translation would be: Fifty Shadows of Gris.

Would an American know what this means? I don’t think so. Nor do Spanish-speaking people understand the meaning behind the Spanish title, Cincuenta sombras de Grey. That didn’t stop them from buying the book.

But as a translator and writer it bothers me.

by Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban

I love stories. That’s why I read, that’s why I write.

I like my stories the old fashion way. I like them to have a beginning, a middle and an end. A happy ending, thank you very much.

And the stories I like best are those that have a touch of fantasy.

No surprise then that Two Moon Princess, the first book I wrote, takes place in an imagined fantasy world. This allowed me to play by my own rules and create a world that fit my fancy. And I enjoyed living there so much, I wrote a sequel and then, yet another book in a medieval alternate Spain.

As every writer knows to write the book is just the first step towards publication. The next step is to convince an agent to represent your work.

In real life, it took me a year to get my agent. But while I waited, I started writing a fictionalized account of my struggles. In this parallel world I created Carla, my protagonist, did not have to wait so long. In fact, she finds her agent in the first chapter.

But her agent is, she soon finds out, an immortal. The introduction of this paranormal element meant that, once again, rules could be broken and history rewritten. It meant that I could give my favorite poets, Lorca and Becquer who died young, a chance to live again.

And live they do in my latest novel, Immortal Love, taking Carla into their world and into an old blood feud that could cost her what she loves most.

Meet Bécquer.

He’s handsome, well-read, and can get you that book contract you always dreamed about. Never mind that he’s also an immortal and lives on human blood. Why would that matter? Your relationship is strictly business.

Or so you thought.

Until Bécquer’s life is threatened, and you discover that walking away is not an option, because he was hurt while protecting your son, because you are the only one who can save him now, because you care for him.

Welcome to Bécquer’s world.

Please, come inside. He’s waiting for you.

This is my contribution to the Crimson Romance Blog Hop.

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