Trans-Lating: How to step into foreign waters without falling flat on your face

(This is a cross-post of my recent Sunday Spotlight at Prismbookalliance.com. Here's the link.)


As many of you know, I translate the occasional book from English to my native German.
Which means I change the author’s English words into German words. Right?
Ummm, actually…
No. Not at all. As a matter of fact, for translators, there’s no surer way to make a complete fool out of themselves than doing exactly that. (I’ve harvested (and lovingly collected) enough blunders during my proofreader days to know.) Because, honestly, who’d enjoy a romance novel that reads like, let’s say, your new “Made in Taka-Tuka-Land”-vacuum cleaner’s user manual?

There.

Let’s take a look at what Merriam-Webster says to that.

(to) translate
verb trans·late \tran(t)s-ˈlāt, tranz-; ˈtran(t)s-ˌlāt, ˈtranz-\
1. : to change words from one language into another language
2. : to explain (something) in a way that is easier to understand
3. : to have the same meaning

Okay, we’ve taken care of point 1.
The second might or might not matter that much for the subject matter at hand.
It’s the third point that makes translating tricky.
It’s not only a different vocabulary that sets one language apart from another, not only a different set of grammar rules. Different languages use different syntax. You’d think I’m pointing out the obvious here, but unfortunately I’m not; I’ve read enough evidence to the contrary. Furthermore, each language has some distinctive idioms, sayings, mannerisms and particularities which just don’t make sense in another language.

And on top of all that, when it comes to translating literary works of any kind, there’s also the author’s voice to consider. In fact, when it comes to fiction, author voice is a very, very important point as far as I’m concerned, because it’s so subjective – a distinctive pattern of phrasing, use of idioms and linguistic mannerisms which one reader may totally go for while the next finds it disgusting.

Someone recently called translators “the most underappreciated people in the industry”. A sentiment that is, in several ways, truer than most authors might like. Because we’re supposed to be invisible. If we’re not, things can get ugly.

Because I, the reader, just can’t enjoy a book if I keep stumbling over awkward phrasings or English-sounding idioms, terms and speech patterns in a German text. I don’t want to read a translation, I want to read a story. I don’t want to hear a translator’s stammering, I want to listen to the character’s voices. However, since it’s the author’s name on the book cover, guess who I’ll blame if I think the translation a botch-up job?

There, again.

A good translation doesn’t make a book better. It doesn’t make it worse either. It just doesn’t get between the reader and the story.

A poorly done translation can turn readers off a particular author’s work.

Interestingly enough, what makes a translation “good” or “bad” seems to be almost as subjective as what makes a book “good” or “bad”. Let’s take “Zero at the Bone” by Jane Seville for example which I had the honor to translate into German. One of the main characters, D, has a very particular speech pattern, some kind of clipped, terse vernacular. It was up to me to choose a German voice for him, and I did.
My choice has been praised to high heavens, sneered at and ripped to pieces in reviews.
But you know what? The same happened to the actual author’s choice to give D such a unique voice.
My point, and the advice I give authors who ask me about finding a translator for their work, is this:

Make sure you get the best, most technically perfect translation you can possibly afford. Have it proofread by native speaker(s) for workmanlike quality, including phrasing and syntax. Find a title that both matches your story and doesn’t sound tacky in the foreign language. Choose a cover that should appeal to your foreign audience’s tastes (ask a native speaker’s advice if necessary). Put all that together, stir well and unleash.

And then lean back and enjoy your baby speaking German, French, Italian, Japanese, Korean or whatever. Trust me, it’s a rather heady experience.

It's all French to me!

Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in this theater *drumroll*

I've been translated !!!!

I was delighted like Puck when I first heard that Dreamspinner Press is going to have my second novel, Thorns, translated into French. The best thing about that news: Thorns is set in France, so I'm really eager to learn what French readers think of it. 

And now it's happening - L' Épine is now on Dreamspinner Press's Coming Soon page, set release date Sept. 8, 2015.

See, it's really a strange kind of wonderful AND a wonderful kind of strange to see my words in another language. I'm quite excited... my baby's entering new territory!

Good luck, little one.

Thorns got nominated in the GR m/m romance group!

I feel deeply honored to share that my novel Thorns was nominated in three categories: 

Thanks to the readers in the GR m/m romance group who made this possible!!

Some beautiful reviews for Thorns

Thorns received some beautiful reviews that I couldn't help but boast about *cough* share 

Reviewer Amos Lassen called Thorns "an excellent read"

He said: "I really liked really reading about the two different relationships here—one that has just begun and the other that has continued, through thick and thin, for twenty years. Add to this a mystery and you get a terrific read that keeps you turning pages."

Read the full review here



Reviewer booksmitten from Live your life, buy the book  gave Thorns 4 1/2 stars and said:



"I loved this book. With a well crafted plot, fluid writing and descriptions that made you feel like you were there it was the perfect balance of mystery, intrigue and sex, along with two love stories – one established and one just beginning."

Read the full review here 


And just now (and what nice news to come home to!) Jessewave from Reviews by Jessewave rated Thorns 4.75 stars. You can find the full review here

That's what she said:

"I highly recommend this book and I think you will enjoy it because of the depth of all characters, the unusual plot, the genuine French atmosphere which permeated La Thillaye, and the wonderful writing..."

Thank you all for taking the time to put your thoughts into words!

Blue eyes

 I first met Louis about fifteen years ago on a train station platform in Westerland, Sylt. (for those who don't know, that's an island in the very north of Germany) I worked there at that time, and on that rainy August evening I was about to begin one of my rare long weekends that was actually worth it to make the thirteen-hour trip home. As usual, I'd packed far too many things, and as usual, I wore the wrong shoes since I'd come to the station right from work. Anyway, there I was, teetering on too high heels on the steps (it was an old-fashioned train, and the steps were grilles) and stuck in the train entrance with my two bags, and all around me people were grumbling since I of course blocked the entrance. Embarrassing.

However, suddenly a hand reached out for one of my bag's handles and pulled, giving me the one little smidgen of momentum I'd needed, and I almost fell ino the train. Of course I protested in alarm, but my unknown helper grinned at me so cheerfully that I immediately forgave him for the intrusion, realizing he'd really only meant to be helpful. Moreover, he didn't look threatening at all. He was small--shorter than me by at least a head, and I'm a bit of a runt myself-- and well, he had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. He immediately let go of my stuff and said, "Sorry, but I'm in a hurry", and brushed past me, throwing me a parting smile over his shoulder as he squeezed out of the train and jumped on the platform.

I gazed after him as I stood there, pressed against the back wall to keep out of people's way, a bit dumbstruck both by what had happened and by that smile, but I immediately lost sight of him. Only when the train started to move a few moments later, I found him again on the now almost empty platform. He was hugging another guy, and the sight went straight to me heart and almost had me in tears on the spot.

For, you see, my boyfriend was 800 km away from me at that time, I hadn't seen him in over a month, and I longed for him so much it hurt. Those two guys hugging made me realize I'd hold my own guy in my arms tomorrow morning, cause they couldn't be anything but reunited lovers the way they clung to each other, or so it seemed to me. Mind, I got but a glimpse at them, but in that moment, I felt a bout of sympathy with them and with all separated couples anywhere. (What? I'm sappy? Why do you think I write romance?)

Well. I had thirteen hours to kill on that trip, I was overtired and hyper with anticipation at once, and I couldn't get that smile out of my mind. And I had a pad and pen.
Over time, the whys and hows of Louis's reunion with his lover changed, of course.

But Louis became my muse, and his blue eyes haven't let go of me since.

 


He's still nagging at me to write down his story.

A taste of "Thorns"

As promised, and without further ado, here's the blurb:

How can love between two men possibly be responsible for a horse’s death during the Kentucky Derby? Reporter Will Yeats wants to know the truth.

Seventeen years ago, a love affair between a jockey and a horse trainer and a tragic accident on the racetrack scandalized the horseracing world. But Nic Pithiviers and Louis Meerow seem to have no desire to set the record straight: they refuse the interview and send attorney Francis LeBon to question Will’s motives.  

Francis has a special place in his heart for Nic and Louis, who taught him to take pride in himself as a gay man, and he’ll stop at nothing to protect them from a gossipmongering reporter. However, Francis doesn’t expect the reporter’s honesty and genuine determination to exonerate two men falsely accused… or the growing attraction to Will he feels.

While visiting with Nic and Louis at their horse training center in France, Will uncovers a web of intrigue, secrets, and old lies, and he unwittingly sets a series of  perilous events into motion that not only threaten to destroy his budding relationship with Francis, but Nic and Louis’s decades-long commitment as well.

Coming out from Dreamspinner on July 26, 2013

Buy it here:  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4034

Thorns Cover Art

Big news: My forthcoming novel, Thorns, has a cover!

Once again, the incredible Reese Dante outdid herself. Without further ado, here it is:

Want to know more? Look here for pictures: inspiration for Thorns

Still curious? Check back here soon for more news, the blurb and excerpts.

Review: The Apothecary's Garden

The Apothecary's Garden by Julie Bozza

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



This was another Julie Bozza book I gradually, slowly, but inescapably fell in love with while reading. The beginning was a bit bumpy with its fairy-taleish "once upon a time, there was a man..." convoluted wordiness, but I got quickly drawn into the story AND into the beautiful, at times slightly old-fashioned-sounding and yet so very fitting prose. This author has a way to paint pictures with words, I couldn't help being awed.

In a word, I loved this book. It can’t hold a candle to my all-time favourite Julie Bozza book, Butterfly Hunter, but it comes close. Everything about it was just so up my alley– the garden, the slow pace, the sheer British-ness of both Hilary and Tom. And yes, even the much-belabored age difference...ok, 40+ years is huge, but considering who these two are, it became almost negligible.

Hilary is a man from a different generation; used to never being able to be open about his sexuality, he got accustomed to the thought of living and dying a loner. Being with someone at all was so novel to him he went about it with almost child-like joy, while at the same time, his maturity kept him from seizing the opportunity –read: Tom, and sex with Tom– by the collar first chance he got. Sweet, selfless, mature, thoughtful, that is Hilary, made shy and wary by life experience, but no coward. I don't think he would've reacted all that different if Tom had been closer to his age, though his age-gap induced self-doubts and misgivings–and how he deals with them– added greatly to this book’s charm for me.

Now Tom? A breath of fresh air, youth, beauty and strength and a supplement of muscle to Hilary’s comparable frailty; you’d think it’s Hilary who gets the most out of them being together. But for one, Tom is a nurturer at heart, he loves to care for things and people, he’s just as selfless and sweet as Hilary but of a youthful exuberance that he loves to channel into doing something useful, not waste in mindless pastimes. I don’t think he feels shut away with Hilary, especially given his ability to live in the now and seize the moment, however long it may last. For another, in his own way Tom is as much a man of Hilary’s generation as Hilary is himself. Tom is honorable, scholarly, a somewhat old-style gentleman, and in many ways, a shy person too, despite his laptop and ipad and his much more unrestricted approach at his own sexuality.

They just fit, their personalities match, why should the age difference be an insurmontable obstacle between them?

The writing, the way the story was told convinced me it wasn’t.

I had only two small niggles whith the book; one was a "huh?" moment within the story when Tom reacted totally without rhyme and reason, and completely out of the blue, with no viable explanation, and the other was Hilary’s relative sexual prowess. (but then again, people are different and Charlie Chaplin fathered a child at over eighty, so why shouldn’t Hilary be more steadfast in bed than other sexagenarians?)

What it comes down to it is, it’s a lovely, beautiful love story; I enjoyed it, and I hope many others will too, whether they can get over the age difference or not.



View all my reviews

Winter's upon us

It's snowing. Holy moly is it snowing, half a meter over the last 6 hours and there's still more coming down. Feels like Alaska, except with less bears around here. Then again who knows, the Bavarian Forest isn't that far away... but I digress.

Actually I'm thinking about Alaska 'cause my this year's NaNo project was set there. Two men, twelve dogs and the cruelty of the Great White Yonder. Sounds good, doesn't it? Well I didn't get far, had to cry uncle about 30 k in.

NaNoWriMo got to me this year. I kept telling myself, it's less than 2000 words per day, it's not THAT much, surely you can make it?

Big surprise: I didn't.

I've heard about storys practically writing themselves, just pouring out of the writer. I've even had it happen to me once--I wrote Desert Falcon over the course of one long weekend and afterward sat back, rubbed my eyes and thought, "Did I just do this? Really?" It was magic, but like all magical things, something like this can't be forced.
As wrapped up as I was in my Alaska story, I couldn't force it out of myself.

Writing is a slow process for me. I mull over sentences. I search the thesaurus for the ONE word, the ONE phrase that's just right, that says exactly what I want it to say, and that can take half an hour. I go back, I edit, I jump forward again, write a scene from the beginning, one from closer to the end, then I have to connect them--or I realize they don't fit in anymore or have to be written in an entirely different way.

There's that, and then there's real life too.
Million Dollar Question: how do you know it's NaNo? When my husband call me "Ms. Faber" and the empty pizza boxes are about to reach critical mass in the kitchen, when my dogs won't let me into the sitting room anymore, when I'm so out of it from sheer lack of sleep that I find myself driving to work even though it's Sunday: that's how.

Anyhow, I'll never figure out how people write two, three, a dozen books a year while managing a full time job/ family/kids/pets/all of the above. I'm in awe, and perhaps a little envious.

But then again: so what?

That's not who I am.

Some people like my books, some don't. Most have never heard about them. Once again: So?

I didn't make it through NaNo. But I got back into the flow of writing. And even if the Alaska story joined the WIP Nursery for the time being, I know I'll revisit it. Like I do the rest of the poor abandoned babys there time and again; and perhaps, someday soon, one of them is going to see the light of day.

The mountain laboured and brought forth a mouse, some might say. Again: So what?

Some people think mice cute. 

Inspiration- Thorns

Pont du Normandie

Omaha Beach, view from the cemetery

City Falcon won an Honorable Mention at the 2011 Rainbow Awards!

I almost fell off my chair when I received the following email:


I'm glad to announce you are among the finalists of 2011 Rainbow Awards:

Best Gay Debut Novel/Book
Best Gay Contemporary Romance


I'm thrilled, I'm speechless...
Really, I had to ask a friend to pinch me before I could believe it. Here and here are the category results.

All that's left to do for me is to say thank you to Elisa and her team of judges for taking on this huge endeavor.

In celebration of the occasion, Dreamspinner Press offers a 20% discount on ALL award-winning titles from now until Friday, Dec 16th. Check it out!



But there's still more.


The cover of City Falcon made third place in the "Best 2011 LGBT Cover" category.

This honor is not mine, though, it belongs entirely to the incredible Reese Dante. Congratulations and thank you so much for creating such beautiful coverart!

City Falcon Freebie

For the readers who wanted a bit more of Hunter's voice: Here's the first scene from City Falcon, told by Hunter himself.

This airport was really damn big, almost a city on its own. Worse, a city with a dizzying multitude of people and vehicles milling about between concrete-and-glass buildings that all looked disturbingly alike. Or perhaps it was just me, walking in circles and passing the same building again for the nth time. As I stood to take a look around, searching for a landmark, someone immediately bumped into me from behind. My falcon shifted and shook her feathering. Cursing softly under my breath, I straightened Iman’s jesses through my gauntlet as I felt her growing uneasiness through the scrabbling of her talons on my wrist.

This was all Greg’s fault. As usual, he had forgotten about the appointment with the DES scheduled for this afternoon. Since his last four peregrines had also arrived today, Greg didn’t have time to wait for me until I had retrieved Iman from Customs where the Animal Import Center had kindly delivered her after her quarantine. 

„Meet me at the Air Cargo Terminal,“ Greg had said when he’d dropped me off at Customs. „You’ll find your way there, won’t you?“  - and I had foolishly agreed. And now here I was, utterly lost, with people on all sides jostling the falcon on my wrist. I needed space and quiet, badly, and Iman even more so. Whether Greg might or might not still be waiting for us, I had to find that damn building - if he wasn’t there now, he’d certainly pick me up at some time or another. Taking a breath, I dodged a woman who was heading straight at me without looking as she was ranting at the wailing brat she dragged along, and made for the nearest set of sliding doors. They had to have something like a helpdesk in there. 

Bad choice. The hall was jam-packed with people, with human voices, the rattle of baggage carts and loudspeaker announcements reverberating everywhere. I was so busy keeping Iman still and out of people’s way that I only noticed some guy calling out for me when his voice sounded right behind me. Shielding my bird with my free arm, I turned to find myself face to face with a blue uniformed hunk of a man who had “What the fuck?” written all over his face   

    “What do you think you’re doing here with that beast?” the official barked, and my hackles, which hadn’t been undisturbed to begin with, immediately stood on end. For one, I don’t like being barked at. Who does? And then, I had plenty enough on my plate as it was without some cockalorum getting in my way.

“Who’s asking?” I snapped back. Iman’s claws dug into my wrist, and I quickly tucked her closer to my body, gripping the dangling ends of the jesses with my free hand, just in case.

Visibly reining himself in, the guy tapped the brass badge on his uniform blouse with his forefinger. “Port Authority of New York and New Jersey Police. I’m afraid you can’t bring that animal with you on board a plane. Please take it out immediately.”

I took a look, and then another one for good measure as I found my irritation easing up, replaced with a twinge of interest. His nameplate read “Bowman”, but that wasn’t what held my gaze now, rather the chest it was attached to. It was a nice one, broad and hinting at powerful muscles even in the concealing uniform. The rest of the man wasn’t bad, either – small waist, long legs, big feet. He had big hands, too – I like big hands on a man. My eyes swept back up to the impatient pinch of his lips, and further up to his glaring brown eyes, and that was when I remembered I was supposed to react to his words.

“We’re not passengers. This particular animal is working here. Haven’t you been told, Mr. Bowman?”

He had his features well under control, but his eyebrows gave him away. I watched the right one twitch upward before he regained composure.

“Working as what?” he asked, disbelief and curiosity warring in his tone of voice. As I explained  Iman and the Falconry Against Birdstrike trial program to him, it occured to me that it could save me a lot of time and trouble having a local at hand who could direct me to my destination.

Should’ve known better. Even though I asked nicely, my request for guidance inevitably woke the policeman’s suspicion, or perhaps his determination to make head or tail of me—which he seemed unable to as it was. At any rate, he led me politely but firmly to a quiet nook, demanded my ID and started inquiring about me over his radio.   

While we waited for Mr.—no, Officer, as he had insisted I address him—Bowman’s Central Police Desk to get back at him,  I found myself enjoying this encounter a lot more than I’d have thought possible. Although he was apparently aiming at disinterested, Officer Bowman kept throwing surreptitious glances my way. Or rather at Iman, I supposed. Now that I had calmed down some, I realized I’d been quite delusional carrying Iman around a busy public space like John F. Kennedy Airport. This wasn’t the Middle East, after all; hunting birds were far from a common sight here. I realized also that I’d lucked out coming across an official who took me and my falcon with Officer Bowman’s equanimity. This man impressed me despite myself. It took a lot of cool to react as he had done.

Didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes, either. He wasn’t the only one casting sideglances; our gazes met briefly when I pushed my hair out of my face. Now that he wasn’t glaring, his eyes were warm and, though he still appeared guarded, shone with what stroke me as spirit and a silent kind of humor. I smoothed down Iman’s breast feathers.

“She’s growing impatient,” I said, partly to break the silence and partly because it was true. I could feel her feathers ruffle back up under my fingers. While I hummed to her and caressed her some more, I let my hair fall forward again, creating a welcome disguise as I watched the policeman out of the corner of  my eye. With this air of attentive patience around him, he reminded me a little of Hamid, my Bedouin friend I’d left behind in Dubai. Thinking of Hamid made me smile, and I bowed my head deeper as I whispered an Arabic blessing to Iman in his memory. Hamid and I had been far more than friends, and Iman was his parting gift to me. As if I could ever forget about the man who’d saved my life and helped me stay sane when I thought I’d lose my mind from grief and loneliness.

“What did you mean to achieve walking your—what? Saker falcon? —through Departure hall anyway, Mr. Devereaux? That bird’s not exactly a plushy, after all,” Officer Bowman said, startling me out of my nostalgia. His voice sounded slightly strained, belying his calm demeanor.

“She won’t harm anyone,” I assured him.

He made a small noise, half huff, half snort, that sounded clearly exasperated. “Not my point,” he said.

Not that patient, after all, are you? I thought, but I still complied with him. “Well, she just spent thirty days in a quarantine cage. I wanted to give her a breather. I thought I’d make it to the air cargo terminal on my own, but I was wrong, obviously.”

There was this noise again, but now it sounded amused rather than annoyed. “With Emil Eagle?“ he asked. His tone of voice gave me pause as it made me reconsider the similarities between Officer Bowman and my occasional lover Hamid. Could he possibly be...?

With a little smile, I said, deliberately haughty, “Her name is Iman. That’s Arabic for faith.”

The chuckle in his voice was impossible to mistake this time. “Uh-huh. You don’t say.”

I couldn’t help it, my gaze dropped to his crotch for a moment as this deep rumble sent a hot twinge through my gut. It had been so damn long... There was nothing for me to see down there, of course, with his loosely cut uniform pants and that belt and all those things dangling from it. But when I looked back up, our gazes met and held, a slow smile spreading across his face.

No time like the present. I smiled back, allowed my lips to part, put a little lewdness in it. He braved the spectacle until I turned the heat up a few notches with biting and licking my lower lip.

Bingo – he stared. And then I had the pleasure of seeing him jump when his radio came alive with a crackle. Blushing, he almost fumbled it.

I stood patiently by as I listened to Officer Bowman being assigned chauffeur duty to get me and Iman to where Greg and Mr. Johnson from the DES were already waiting for us.

He’d been blushing. I’d made him blush. 

Being back home had just gained a whole lot of appeal.   

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Played with Photoshop a little, and look what that got me.

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Release Day!

As of today, my novel City Falcon is available from Dreamspinnerpress!

In celebration of the occasion, I'll be holding a "release party" at the Dreamspinner Blog.  I'd be happy to meet you there today  between 8:00 AM EST to 10 PM EST for excerpts, background info and a quiz (don't be shy and take it - there's a prize in it for you!)

The Dreamspinner Blog is here

Buy link for City Falcon is here

Happy Reading everybody!

City Falcon - Release Day Is Closing in!

Coming events cast their shadows... I'll be holding a "Release party" for City Falcon on the Dreamspinner Blog during August 26th. If you like, look in on occasion for background info, excerpts and giveaways!  


Here's a teaser:

March, 1994

Mark Bowman blinked twice when he spotted the bird of prey in the middle of the crowded International Terminal Departure hall. It hovered over the sea of human heads, leaving small waves of commotion in its wake.

“Hey there,” Mark called out after the bird. People readily gave way as he wound his blue-uniformed six feet three through them, finally catching up with the ominous animal.

It didn’t fly. Well, how could it? It perched on the gloved hand of a tall, slender figure that glided smoothly through the crowds, heedless of turned heads and startled murmurs. All Mark could see was a mass of brown curls cascading down a slender back and long jeans-clad legs ending in oxblood-red Doc Martens.

“Hey there,” he called out again. “You with the bird, wait!”

The bird carrier stopped and turned to face him. Cool, light eyes scrutinized Mark from beneath raised eyebrows. “Yes?”

Full baritone voice. Two or three days worth of beard on narrow cheeks. The most beautiful face Mark had ever seen on a man.

Mark stopped dead in his tracks in front of him. The flood of passengers parted around them like the Red Sea before Moses, creating an island of solitude.

“What do you think you’re doing here with that beast?” Mark asked, his voice sharper than he’d intended.

“Who’s asking?” the man snapped back. The bird sat on his fist like a stuffed animal, not a single feather moving. A leather hood covered its head. It reminded Mark of a deep sea diver’s helmet, with bulging eyes and a tuft of hair like a long-bristled paintbrush sticking out on top.

Struggling to regain his composure, Mark pointed at his badge. “Port Authority of New York and New Jersey Police. I’m afraid you can’t bring that animal with you on board a plane. Please take it out immediately.”

Instead of doing what he was told, or at least arguing, the man slowly sized Mark up.

Mark felt irritation rise inside him at the blatant insolence. Right before he would have lent a bit more weight to his request, the man spoke again. “We’re not passengers. This particular animal is working here. Haven’t you been told, Mr…,” he read the badge, “Bowman?”

What the… working here? Mark felt his right eyebrow threaten to lift and remembered just in time to keep a professionally blank expression. The man stood tall, only a few inches shorter than Mark himself, holding Mark’s gaze with calm confidence. He had the strangest eyes, so light gray they appeared almost colorless in his deeply tanned face, and he spoke with an accent Mark wasn’t quite able to place, something European, maybe? At any rate, it made him appear all the more exotic.

This is so odd it could be true, Mark thought. His curiosity taking over, he decided to play along for the moment. “Working as what?”

“We’re part of the Falconry Against Birdstrike project. This is a field trial on the use of falcons to keep the runways free of nuisance birds,” the stranger said, an edge of impatience to his voice as if he’d given the same explanation several times before.

“Falconry against bird strike,” Mark echoed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

The birdman took a deep breath. “I assure you, it’s for real.” Regardless of his awe-inspiring companion, he managed to look unthreatening, even a little forlorn as he spoke on. “Actually, since you’re police, I’d appreciate your help, Mr. Bowman. We were supposed to meet with a Mr. Johnson at the air cargo terminal, but I seem to have lost my way. Can you tell me how to get there?”

For a moment, Mark wondered why it irked him so that this man kept calling him mister instead of officer. Then his professional mind kicked in, and he realized he was still standing in the middle of a very busy airport building next to a very large bird of prey, held on its master’s hand only by a thin leather strip.

Strangely, the passersby didn’t seem to be bothered much. Although some people gawked at them, most didn’t deign them more than a fleeting glance. This was New York, after all. The natives met weirder things on a daily basis, or so it seemed.

“I’ll have to inquire about you first,” Mark said with restrained politeness. “Do you have identification?”

The other man wordlessly produced a New York driver’s license from the back pocket of his jeans. Mark took it from him, noting in passing that it was brand new. He headed for a quiet nook, gesturing at the man to follow him.

“Would you come with me over there? Less traffic.” Reaching for his radio, Mark couldn’t resist tacking on, “Oh, and it’s officer, by the way.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Officer Bowman. Not mister.”

Turning, Mark met a flicker of amusement before the other man’s face turned serious again. “All right, Officer Bowman. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Ten-sixty-two for CPD,” Mark said, into his two-way radio. “Come in. Over.”

“CPD,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled from the radio. “Come in, please.”

“I need identity verification. It’s one…,” Mark read the card, “Mr. Hunter Devereaux. D-E-V-E-R-E-A-U-X. He’s got a raptor that he says is working here at the airport. Can you confirm that? Over.”

“He’s got a what?” the Central Police Desk operator squawked, for once forgetting about formal radio talk.

“Bird of prey. Big bird with talons and hooked beak. Over.”

“Saker falcon,” prompted the bird’s master.

“Saker falcon,” Mark repeated. “Over.”

“Hold on. Over,” the dispatcher said. Seemed she had already regained her equanimity.

Side by side, they stood waiting. Mark drummed his fingers in a silent tattoo on his belt and watched the man out of the corner of his eye, trying to be unobtrusive. Devereaux had his head bowed over his bird, caressing its feathers with slow, regular strokes of his free hand. He hummed under his breath, the soft sound occasionally stopping for a few whispered words in a foreign language. His long hair, barely restrained by a black bandana, fell over his face like a veil. He threw it back with a short jerk of his head, eyes flickering sideways to meet Mark’s for a second. Caught staring, Mark focused on the falcon instead.

The bird opened and closed its talons on the thick leather glove, jingling little bells which were attached to its feet by small leather straps.

“She’s growing impatient,” Devereaux remarked casually. Mark took his words as leave to look openly. The bird didn’t strike him as particularly impatient. It continued to imitate a Zen statue.

All by themselves, Mark’s eyes wandered back to Devereaux’s face, those clean-cut lines of high cheekbones and a fine, straight nose. His beard, a shade darker than his hair, was just long enough to accentuate thin lips which curled slightly at the corners in an unconsciously sensual not-quite smile as the man resumed humming to his bird.

Out of dire need for distraction, Mark asked, “What did you mean to achieve, walking your—what? Saker falcon?—through Departure Hall, anyway? That bird’s not exactly a plushy, after all.”

Devereaux tugged at the leather strips which dangled from his glove.

“She won’t harm anyone,” he said.

“That’s not my point,” Mark replied, exasperated.

The other man shrugged. “Well, she just spent thirty days in a quarantine cage, so I wanted to give her a breather. I thought I’d make it to the air cargo terminal on my own, but I was wrong, obviously.” Now he looked rueful. “Actually, I was looking for the helpdesk.”

Mark had to bite his tongue in order to stifle a laugh. “With Emil Eagle?” he couldn’t help asking.

Devereaux’s lips twitched. “Her name’s Iman. That’s Arabic for faith.”

Mark couldn’t hold back the chuckle this time. “Uh-huh. You don’t say.”

Devereaux raised an eyebrow and gave Mark another slow, thoughtful once-over. Their gazes met and held once more, way longer than necessary. Intellectually, Mark knew it was stupid to let his self-control slip like this, but he found himself unable to break eye contact, unable to keep his lips from curling up into a broad, genuine smile. Suddenly Devereaux’s eyes widened. Holding Mark’s gaze, he slowly, very deliberately, sucked his lower lip in and let it slide out again, flashing white front teeth and, for a split second, the tip of a pink tongue in a wide answering smile. Jesus, was the man flirting with him? Mark felt his cheeks heat up and quickly turned away.

CPD chose just that moment to call him back. Mark almost jumped at the crackle of his radio. Hastily, he grabbed the device.

“Ten-sixty-two.”

“Confirm on the ID,” the operator said. “Johnson from the DES is already waiting for him out at the southern runways intersection. Must’ve got lost. DES asks you to get Mr. Devereaux and his bird there. Over.”

DES, the Department of Environmental Services. That made sense.

“Roger. Eight-forty-one for southern intersection. Over and out .”

City Falcon

My new book, City Falcon, is scheduled !

Dreamspinner put it on their Coming Soon page;  Publication date is August, 26th, 2011.

Look at this amazing cover by Reese Dante:

 And here's the blurb:

New York, 1994

What on earth is a live falcon doing in the middle of JFK airport? The answer to this question brings PAPD officer Mark Bowman face to face with falconer Hunter Devereaux, right in the middle of a fascinating field experiment using falcons to keep runways free of nuisance birds. The falcons are intriguing, but it’s arrogant, out-and-proud Hunter himself who really rubs Mark the right kind of wrong. Too bad Mark can’t act on the attraction: he’s deeply in the closet, and since he wants to keep his job, that’s where he's determined to stay.

However, every time their paths cross, Hunter gets a little deeper under Mark’s skin, until Mark can’t deny his feelings any longer. Giving in to his desire makes Mark happier than he can remember being, but Hunter isn't willing to hide their relationship forever. If they’re going to make a life together work, something has to give. Someday soon Mark will have to choose, or life will make the choice for him before he’s ready for it.

Come back here for an excerpt someday soon!

Hunter's Story Continues

The sequel to my short story, Desert Falcon, was accepted for publication!

For those who wanted to know what happens to Hunter after his return to the United States, here's a little appetizer:

PAPD officer Mark Bowman can't believe his eyes when he catches sight of a live Saker falcon in the middle of JFK airport's terminal hall. The bird comes with a falconer, Hunter Devereaux, whose exotic beauty and charming attitude immediately hit home with Mark. But Mark is deeply in the closet and determined to remain there, since he wants to keep his job.

As the cop's and the falconer's paths cross again and again, Mark's resolve dwindles. When he finally gives in to his attraction to Hunter, he finds himself happier than he has ever been before. But a resentful society and their own deeply ingrained fears and insecurities threaten to tear the lovers apart. Can there be a shared future for them against all odds?  

Prospected publication date is August/ September, 2011

Sarah Black Interview

The lovely Sarah Black, author of Idaho Battlegrounds, interviewed me today on my first published story, Desert Falcon.

Sarah Black interviews Feliz Faber on the release of her new story, Desert Falcon, from Dreamspinner Press

Sarah: Your new story, Desert Falcon, has such an exotic setting. Can you tell us about it? Do you have experience yourself in this region of the world?

Feliz: In a way, the setting came with the main character. When I first met Hunter, I went looking for a place where he could have become as devoted to falconry as he is, and the first thing that came to my mind was Arabia. Falconry is an integral part of the Arabian culture; the Saker falcon was the Prophet Mohammed's favorite bird according to the Holy Qur'an. While researching for Desert Falcon, I chanced upon a female German veterinarian who leads a falcon clinic in Abu Dhabi, I think, and I knew immediately this was the place for Hunter. I thought about making him a veterinarian, but as it happens often with my characters, he put his foot down and refused, and thus became an ornithologist.

Sarah: He’s a strong character- very powerful and quite believable that he would put his foot down with you!

Feliz: As for my personal experience with this region of the world - no, I've never been there, although I'd really, really love to some day. Ever heard about Karl May? He was a German novelist in the late 18 hundreds, incredibly prolific (he wrote almost 80 full novels and countless short stories). He wrote "travel reports", pretending he'd actually been to all the places he described; his books were pure fiction but so accurate some of his fans in the 1950 could actually use them as travel guides. Many of those books are set in the Middle East. I grew up with them, read them over and over, immersed myself in his worlds. A decade later, I met a friend, a Persian (he never said Iranian!) whose parents had fled with the Shah. Through him I gained deeper insight into this culture, which I've come to deeply respect and love since.

Sarah: And Karl May did all that without the internet! He must have been a great reader. I have been a big fan of Persian poetry, which is intensely romantic.  I read on your blog that you’ve lived all over the world. What were some of your favorite places? What do you particularly like about travelling and moving?

Sundown in Brittany

Feliz: Persian poetry is fantastic! I always regret that I never learned Arabic writing, let alone Farsi. Well, I've lived and worked mostly in European countries - Switzerland, France, Denmark, and about ten or twelve different places in Germany. I've traveled all over Europe, though, to Turkey and Australia. What's always the best thing about a new place is getting to know it, getting familiar with different people. A new place is full of immense opportunities, for everything - making new friends, learning something new, exploring new locations, habits, foods. My favorite places? Brittany, I think, especially Saint Malo and the Mount St. Michel. Such beauty! Brisbane - I didn't want to leave.  Mannheim  - a down to earth, cosmopolitic city that grounded me in a way no other place did.

Sarah: The main characters, Hunter and Hamid, are both falconers. What do falconers do? How did you get interested in falcons?

Feliz: I met my first falcon at a birdwatch show when I was little, and I was hooked immediately. I never got round to have a falcon of my own, but there's a professional falconer in my neighborhood who I can go hawking with, which I usually do once or twice a month in winter season.

Basically, Falconry is a way of hunting with tamed birds of prey. In the middle age, falconry was very common everywhere in the world; at times, even peasants got to hunt for fowl or rabbits with trained hawks. Modern falconers are mostly environmentalists, but falconry has a lot of uses even today, far beyond falconry shows or education. For example, falcons are used for biological pest control, keeping buildings free of doves, parks free of rabbits - and airport runways free of nuisance birds.

Lanner Falcon

What do falconers do? Don't get me started! Caring for the birds, keeping them clean, healthy and entertained is almost a full-time job. The reward, of course, is having a companion who's with you all of her free will. They aren't pets at all, they always remain wild. Feeling a falcon's deadly claws on your wrist, and watching her fly - it's a feeling beyond description when she comes back to you although she doesn't need to.

Sarah: Is Desert Falcon your first story? What are your plans for your writing?  Are you working on something now?

Feliz: Desert Falcon was the first story I had the nerve to publish, but it's not my first story - I've got about a dozen tales sitting on my hard drive that better never, ever see the light.

Actually, Hunter is one of the two main characters in my first "real" novel, City Falcon, which is unpublished as of now (yet, I hope - I've submitted it for publication only recently). Desert Falcon is Hunter's backstory, which turned into a Bittersweet Dreams short story almost on its own volition. As I said, Hunter is a rather strong - willed character; he quasi dictated his story to me during a single weekend, and I had to make very little alterations once I had written it down. 

I'm currently working on the sequel to City Falcon (Hunter isn't quite done with me, for which I'm deeply grateful), which I've almost finished outlining.

Sarah: I’ve had a few characters like that- they just have some things to say, and I’m their scribe!

Feliz: I have another unrelated project, a story about a gay horseracing jockey, which I hope to finish sometime this summer.

Sarah: That sounds interesting. I was a big fan of Dick Francis when I was younger. I loved that whole world of horse racing. This book is short. Do you have a particular fondness for short v. novel length fiction?  What are your thoughts on this?

Feliz: I don't have any preferences in regard to story length. Generally when I start writing something I have a vague notion what it's going to be, but I must admit, I never know for sure until the outline is done. I don't consciously plan to write a novel, a novella or a short story - the story lasts until it's told.

Sarah: Tell me about you as a reader. Ebook vs paper? Any childhood favorites? What’s on your TBR pile right now?

Feliz: Oh, reading. Since I'm a voracious reader, I have bookshelves everywhere, my home office, my bedroom, the hallway, even the bathroom, all overflowing with books. Afraid to be buried alive under a bookalanche, my man applied the emergency brakes on my book addiction last year by giving me a Sony reader for my birthday. Which he bitterly regrets by now, though, since I haven't let it out of my reach ever since.

This is my chatty way of saying I've turned to almost exclusively reading ebooks recently, although I still buy and read the odd print book on occasion. On my TBR is Eden Winter's Settling the Score, Rick R. Reed's How I Met My Man, Kris Jacen's Wishing on a Blue Star, Ariel Tachna's Alliance in Blood and about a dozen others. It grows constantly *sigh*

As for childhood favorites: see above. My all - time favorites are Bengtsson's The Long Ships and Kipling's Kim.  

Sarah: I love Kipling, too, and because of him, I have an unrequited love of India. Like your guy Karl May, I love reading stories where the setting takes me to a place I haven’t been before.  It’s so easy for us these days to travel to new places via books- and for us writers, to research a new place well enough we can smell it and taste it. When I’m writing about a new place, I always try to make their cooking at home- so the house smells right while I’m writing. Though I never mastered New Orleans pralines and shrimp. New Orleans may have too many layers! You have a couple of dogs at home. Will you tell us about them?

Feliz: They're the joy of my heart. Sherry, the girl, is seven now, and Filou, the boy, is two. 

They're real clowns, cute, stubborn and hoggish. They get my backside off the computer chair and make me laugh, and there's no other creature that can love quite like they do. No matter how hard my day was, when I come home in the evening and they greet me with that unconditional, exuberant happiness - it's catching, comforting and incredibly beautiful. It's a pity I can't take them when I ride my motorbike!

Desert Falcon, available now from Dreamspinner!

 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=2222

Waiting for Release

Well, release isn't actually right since it's not me personally who's  going to be released. My story is; my very first piece of writing will be published by Dreamspinner Press by March 16th, 2011.
Yet, waiting for this to happen still feels like a weight on me. Unfortunately, however urgently I wait won't make the day arrive sooner... *grins*

From what I've heard, the REALLY hard part comes after the release. Waiting for the reviews. Sucking up the bad ones. Jumping from joy at the good ones. Sitting in the corner, biting my nails, hoping that someone, ANYONE will review my story AT ALL, since this means that someone actually read it...
Going to learn how all this feels. I'm looking forward to it in a way...but wanting to hide in a corner at the same time.
Valium, anyone?
However, here it is:

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=2222

For whom are you writing?

I used to think I wrote for myself, just to please me. But even when I still did and had no hope anyone would ever be interested in the outpour of my imagination, I knew I was deceiving myself. Stories have been told from the beginning of time, but always TO someone. What good would it be if all those words just disappeared into nothingness? Once upon a time I used to tell stories to myself. They're gone now, those tales, and sometimes I miss them deeply, remembering parts of them but not all. Like a piece of music you've heard, you recall a couple of notes, some chords, and you know you liked that song, but for the life of you you can't sing it anymore.
I don't want my words lost once I'm gone. They may be meaningless for the greater whole, and they may not move a lot, but they're mine.
So now, after I've found someone liked my story enough to buy it, someone thought my story worth of distributing farther? I'm pleased, and a little awed. The other night I woke up thinking: "I've written a book. An entire book. Wow!"

Not that this is a big deal to those out there who wrote ten, or fifty. But even Stephen King, even Josh Lanyon, even Karl May or Edgar Wallace or any other of those awesomely prolific writers out there must have been at that point where I'm now.


I don't want to write for myself anymore. I write for those who like it.  Now I'm going to have to face the next step, Rejection.
Over time, I've met people on the 'net whose opinion I value greatly, people who I consider "friends" of sorts. It's them I write for, and if they find something wrong with my writing, they tell me so politely and reasonably and I'll take their critic for what it is, constructive, and try to do better by them. But what about strangers?

It's that thing with separating the writing from the person. With any kind of work, really. If you do something you like, produce something you're proud of, and then find your work rejected by strangers, it's hard not to take this personally. As a reviewer, and a writer, I think I know the difference, and still I catch myself tripping over that issue. For example, I reviewed a book a while ago which I didn't like, for whatever reason. I tried to explain in my review why this particular book didn't work for me, and that the review reflected but my opinion. Later, though I found out the author in question talked down on me as a person. Not my review, not my opinion, me. Hello? You don't know me, and I don't know you. I might or might not like you as a person, and still criticise your work if you asked me to and I found something to criticise. I found myself scowling a that author for that, and yes, I found myself consequently prejudiced about his writing. Id' be likewise wary if someone praised me as a person only because I loved his writing and said so in a review. I'm not my writing, and neither are you. So if someone can't discern between me and my writing or, even worse, between himself and his writing, I can't help wondering what this person's problem is. People can say about my writing whatever they want, maybe they're right, maybe not, as long as they leave my person out of it. That's what I think.
I try, at least. Remains to be seen how cool I can be when the first reviews on Desert Falcon come in...
Perhaps I'll indeed be sitting alongside Amy and Marie in the Crazy Tree, needy to feel loved by strangers who I don't care at all for otherwise through them loving my writing, or likewise feeling devastated and unloved if people give me a piece of their disapproving mind. I pray I'll be able to discern....