Translatione Deficio (Translation Fails)

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So today I thought I’d do something different than my typical blog. Since I’m so close to publishing my book via Amazon (see. ) I decided to have a bit of fun with it.

I see a lot of people doing things with Google Translate so I decided to give it a try. In my book, Kingdom of the Arcane, I had original wrote a short prologue which I later cut after deciding it wasn’t relevant enough. This I ran through the Google Translate site turning it to Latin and from Latin back to English. I was not disappointed. The result reminds me of something that Shakespeare himself would have wrote.

Possibly while drunk. And hanging upside down. And being repetitively hit on the head with a brick.

Needless to say, I think it helped.

The Original

“This is the world, child, you’ll soon get use to it.” whispered the rider, spurring his horse through the bleak woods, his cloak fluttering behind him and the sound of his steed’s hooves beating across the hardened white ground filled the crisp air.

With one arm he guided the horse, with the other he held a small bundle to his bosom. Despite the sound of wind rushing past his ears and the noisy pants of the horse, the faint cackle of the infant’s cry was heard through the folds of cloth shielding him from the winter breath.

A small thing. Just moments old and already introduced to the cruelty of a bitter world.

It wasn’t his fault. None of this was his fault. The rider looked down, then forced himself to fix his eyes on the path ahead. Not too much farther. He could feel the babe quivering against his own body. Cold and frightened and neglected.

But such was the world.

He reigned the shaggy black horse to a halt, jumping off in one smooth motion when he reached the clearing. A spot in the woods where the trees refused to grow and the grass was barricaded by a stone slab. The rider, carrying the unsettled babe, came towards the oddly placed table as several shadowy figures emerged from the surrounding trees.

“Obitris.” a female voice spoke from under a dark hood. She stepped forwards, extending her arms. The rider, Obitris, handed her the child. “How old?”

“He has yet to see his first hour on earth.”

“So young,” she murmured, brushing some moister from the infant’s face. She looked up at Obitris again with sad eyes. “Are you certain this is the only way?”

“Yes.” he spoke, softly.

“Then we must do it now, before the hour is over.” she took the child over to the table, placing him down.

Obitris closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together to suppress the urge to say something more. Maybe reason out loud to himself or the others.

“Come, everyone,” the woman beckoned everyone closer. The child’s cries grew louder as the warmth of her body left him, exposing him to the cold touch of stone. His small arms reached out of the cracks in the blankets as if grasping for something to hold, but received only wisps of frigid air.

Obitris swallowed a dry lump in his throat, watching as the woman placed her hands so they hung a few inches from the child’s face. He waited as she spoke quietly. A small chant, but with her soft tone, it almost sounded like a song. A morbid lullaby that did anything but sooth the baby.

A faint glow appeared on table surrounding the child. Magic. Deep and powerful magic. Obitris took the woman’s hand as she reached for his and then took the hand of the person next to her. They did this til they formed a circle around the table cradling the child. The glow grew brighter, star-like. A distant cold light consuming the shuttering infant before like any old star it burned out and smoldered into faint wisps carried off by the wind.

“It is almost done,” the woman said. “Do you have it?”

Obitris reached for a small cord about his neck, swinging it off around his head, he extended a small pendant to her which she raised it over the infant.

“The child’s name?”

Obitris frowned. “He has none. His mother never gave him one.”

“He must have a name for the spell to bind.”

There was a pause as Obitris looked down at the shivering baby. There were many names and many titles, yet for that instance he remembered none of them.

“What would you call him?” he finally asked.

“That will not be my choice to make.”

Obitris looked down at the sword belted to his side, his fingers twitching on the pommel. All the sudden, whether it was the cold or his own reasoning, he felt numb.

It was just a name.

It didn’t have to mean anything.

“Zaedyn,” he said, looking to the woman under the cloak. “His name will be Zaedyn.”

When Translated from English to Latin back to English

“This is the world youth, you’ll soon get used to it.”
She directed in her arm and a bunch of little else. Even if the sound of the noisy, rushing past, and of the wind by means of a fold of cloth with infants’ coats, the horse’s ears the voice of the account myself to the weary to his quarters, to cover it.
A small things. For just as a little while ago, and were introduced to the enormity of the great of the world.
There has been no fault of his. No own fault. By the way, riding need to maintain the eyes. It is not much further away. He could feel the vibration of his own body as the baby’s. O ye cold and the fear of neglect of my great and the disadvantaged.
However, much of the world.
Reigned a troop of cavalry, bristling with black, a slight movement of one who cometh leaping upon the defense of the. By means of the forest of the the place of the grass to where the forest the trees grow, nor a stone. The cavalry returned, carrying the baby as He lay in regard to the shapes of the opaque body, came to the table, it emerged from the trees, a variety of bodies to be put in various ways.
“Death.” For a female voice from under the hood than the dark. Then he left, extending her arms. The rider, death, handed her child. “How old?”
“He is still the first hour of their lands.”
“So young,” he complained shuttle while holding the baby on a creature humidioris faces. She looked at the death again tears. “Or is there a certain way? “
“Yes.” He spoke, softly.
“And now, if you must do so before the time is over.” And he took the boy to the table and put it in.
The death of their eyes they did close, grinding his teeth at the same time by their unrighteousness suppress the appetite is say something more. The latest big to think for himself or others.
“Come all: a woman waving everyone closer. The heat of the body of the child waxed louder and louder, leaving him, and he cries out, drying, cooling him, the touch of a stone. They may be taken in a few words, but to take up arms and so much was to do something out of the cracks, as it were framed his cold snout.
Death swallowed a lump in her throat dry consideration when the woman placed her hands and legs and fingers were watching only a few companies have a child. He expected to be quiet, she said. A small singing, but her soft tone of voice, it is close to I heard the noise of their wings like a sensual song. A £ The morbid affections, with the help of a thing only by one who wishes to follow it to the baby.
A faint glow surrounding the boy appeared on the table. Magic. Powerful deep therapy. His death, he took them from the hand of the woman, and it came into the hands of his servants: and he took them from it man to his neighbor. This until they formed a circle around a table, cradling the child. The light grew brighter, star-like. As mentioned earlier, the older the child, the light of the cold water in the different smoldered a star, the consumers and faint in the trusses, shuttering has burned away with the wind.
“It is near,” the woman said. “It’s not done?”
The death of his has come to take a small cord about his neck, over the head and off his sling, and extended for a small pendant, which is God’s, and set it up as an infant.
“What is a child?”
Death frowned. “He does not have. And I gave her mother.”
“The name is flogged to tie up.”
The boy was shivering space looked like death. Many more names but since he does not remember.
“What do you call it?” I finally asked.
“What I will not do it.”
To the side sword belted death of eyes, fingers twitching in a knot. The sudden cold or do you feel more personal reason.
It is just a name.
This does not mean anything.
“Zaedyn,” he said, his face is a woman in a cloak. “The name Zaedyn”.

Note to self: Learn Latin.

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When Living With a Writer

By a Writer

Ah, writers. What strange creatures we are.

Let’s be honest, almost every occupation has it’s quirks and with those quirks comes pros and cons. Writers are no exception.

If you are not a writer, then you may look at someone who is and be a little daunted. Or maybe you are currently living with one and can’t seem to understand why they still haven’t taken out the trash even though you asked five times.

Worry no more. As a writer, I am going to let you in on how some of our minds work. I’ll give you some tips on how to cope with some of our antics, but at the same time, know that a relationship is a two way street. It can’t just be you putting in all the work. For this, I’ll also include a few things we writers can do to help as well.

1: Sometimes we forget things… a lot.

It’s not that we don’t care. Most times, we really do care. But our minds tend to be working a hundred mile an hour constantly. This happens because we are constantly reaching for new or creative ideas to advance our stories or build our worlds. We become solely invested in our own imagination that at times, things will slip.

What you can do: be patient. And honestly, a friendly reminder every now and then wouldn’t hurt.

What we can do: Slow down. Also, learn to carry a pen and pad around (or some other writing device) and WRITE THINGS DOWN! You may think you’ll remember on your own, but trust me, you’ll see one picture on the internet and suddenly find yourself involved in building an entirely new planet and then before you know it, your loved one is stuck washing the dishes by themselves. Again.

2: We get agitated by criticism (yeah, we do).

It is said that if you’re a writer, you need to have a very thick skins. This is true. Does that mean we always have thick skins? No.

I mentioned this in one of my previous posts The Jigsaw Heart ( . A writer’s work is sacred. Sometimes laced with our own personal feelings, struggles, and pain. Criticism can feel like a personal attack.

What you can do: Be kind, but honest. Think about things you’ve created. Think how you would want people to respond. Always be truthful, but you don’t need to be savage. Also make sure you’re giving constructive criticism, not just trying to pick apart their work for the sake of picking it apart.

What we can do: Stop being so sensitive. Not everyone is trying to bring you down or change who you are. Most people don’t understand how invested you are in your work, so give them a break. Besides, they’re trying to help. Pay attention to what they’re saying, it may just be the advice you need.

3: We can be terrible with our time

Writers who take their career seriously may spend every bit of their spare time locked up in their little spaces and typing away. This can frustrate some of their friends and family because as much as they want you to be successful, they always would like to see what your face looks like when it doesn’t have a screen in front of it.

What you can do: Schedules are useful. If you want to spend time with your writer spouse, boyfriend/girlfriend, friend, etc, then you might need to actually schedule time for this. Remind your writer that they need to take a break. It’s good for them and it’s good for you.

What we can do: We can also use a schedule. We need to step away. Take a break. Get out of our own heads. Set time aside to spend with those we love. Go for a hike. Ride a bike. Get coffee with your friends. You’ll feel refreshed coming back into your project and may even find it will help you work better.

Just keep in mind, writers are human to (even though we don’t always act like it). It’s much like having any career really. We invest a lot into what we do. Just be understanding of that and at the same time, don’t be afraid to give us a little shove in the right direction. And writers, don’t get mad when they do it.

Writing is life, but life isn’t writing. Remember that and go spend some time with the people who care about you. You’ll thank me later.

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A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people

Thomas Mann