Lately, I've been doing a fair bit of translation, and I'm sad to say that it does tend to sap my will to live somewhat. It is a bit like writing that awful essay about 'industrial themes in French 19th century literature', when you rewarded yourself for writing a whole sentence by staring out of the window for a full 15 minutes and wondering if your bladder could withstand yet another cup of tea. Translation in my field is equal parts detective work, dull formulations and rage inducing formatting. No wonder I'm so breezy and light hearted when I have lessons, I mean it's such a relief to have a NORMAL (well relatively) conversation with ANOTHER HUMAN BEING, rather than the usual monologues that go something like:
Is 'fabrication' production or manufacture? Do I care at this stage?
I know I'm very lucky to have the linguistic abilities that I do, but it seems that I've fallen into the default position of someone who sort of speaks five languages, i.e. a translator. I always said I would never translate (or teach for that matter - ha!), but here I am, knee deep in the stuff, and while I do enjoy the freedom that being a freelancer entails, I must admit that I feel frustrated as I sit in front of my computer for the 10th consecutive hour and my 18th cup of tea.
God knows how I would survive if I did this full time!
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