To
those of you who know me, it will come as no surprise that I am back in the
confessional. My sins of late seem to be mainly ones of neglect. I have
neglected to blog. I have neglected to write to my sister. We won’t
mention the neglect of my vacuum cleaner or the fact that I haven’t cooked a meal
from scratch in well over two months.
It’s
not that I ever plan on neglecting things. It just seems that somewhere
in my evolution, a distant ancestor bequeathed to me a specialized masochistic gene. It is the nature of this malevolent little pest that when my desk
is piled with work and my calendar notes are written in space-saving 6-point
font, my hand still reaches out for the ringing telephone and my mouth opens
all on its own: “Why sure, I’d be happy to translate your rush document on fungus
outbreaks decimating the local widget-beetle.”
And
there I sit, shaking my head at myself. My brain moans a silent “Why?” The client’s email (project attached) drops
into my inbox with a cheerful “Because”, and I quietly give in to the
inevitable overload once more.
Part
of the problem, of course, is that I’m just downright grateful every time the
phone does ring or a project populates my inbox. I am a freelancer. We can be a needy bunch, panicking the moment
it seems we might not be called upon. Each
job from a client (especially repeat or word-of-mouth clients) is a stroke to
my precarious professional ego which swings between “darn-tootin’ I’m good” and
surfing the ‘net for remedial grammar classes.
Another contributor to the problem is that I
can always think of something to do with the money. You know, the money I wait months for, after
staying up 16 hours straight and eating grapes and taquitos at my desk in order
to finish that last-minute job on time.
There are trips to see family, dinners with kids, home repairs, bills
and sundry other valid ways to watch money wink at my bank account on its way
through.
Maybe
it’s not masochism at all. Maybe it’s the
fact that I enjoy my job and sometimes I think it should be more like work and
less like a great big jigsaw puzzle made of words and syntax and conjugations
that I get to play with.
Whatever
the reason, I thought the other night that help was on the way. In the wee hours of oh-dark-thirty, I was
using Dragon to dictate a draft translation.
As I proofread the document later, the words popped out at me: “...the
extra dude shall...”
I
have an extra dude? Where? And does he do windows?
On
closer inspection, it seemed Dragon had taken liberties with “...the extrajudicial...” It made me smile. Technology is not always
compatible with the vagaries of human speech.
It’s
not the first time electronic aides have pulled a prank on me. The worst was
just a few months ago. It was about 3 a.m. and I had put in nearly 20 straight hours
on an enormous technical translation.
The approaching dawn would bring a phone call from the chair of the
hastily-called meeting for which they needed the document that was still on my
screen. Somewhere in the back of my
brain, I remembered an article I’d read recently in a trade magazine. It talked
about using machine translation to create drafts when doing technical work. I had my doubts: machine translation usually
only works to confuse the issue.
But
it was 3 a.m. and I was exhausted. I
plugged in a couple of paragraphs of technical text and clicked the “translate”
button. Then I cut the resulting English
text and pasted it into my document to proofread.
There,
in large, bold letters was the section header in English, courtesy of a piece
of software. The translation was not correct.
In
fact, it was obscene.
I
mean, truly obscene – some married people I know would be too embarrassed to even
discuss what my computer screen was suggesting at that very moment. It was so unexpected and so terribly,
hilariously off base that I sat there at my desk, in the wee hours of the
night, and laughed like a hyena.
I
have never used machine translated drafts again. It’s back to the old standards for me, with
the occasional boost from memory software and my faithful Dragon. Someday, maybe I
shall learn to quell my inner neuroses and better organize my time. Maybe I shall put down my computer
mouse and take a walk down to the pond just because it’s there. Or sit on a porch and gaze at nothing in particular.
And
maybe, someday, Dragon really will send the extra dude who shall.
And
if he does floors as well as windows, then maybe I shall, too.
