Veni, Vidi, Vici

Every writer dreams of being translated. Into English (world language), Chinese (big market) or, if necessary, into Icelandic (always wanted to go there on holiday). Sometimes it is necessary to give that dream a helping hand.

Especially if you are a totally unknown writer who has only published a few hand-printed anthologies in small editions. From a publishing house based in Houwerzijl (spot in north-western Groningen). Bundles that were only noticed and reviewed by the local paper.

An idea catches fire

It started when an acquaintance emailed me his translation of Ultimo il carvo (And then comes a raven), a short story by my famous Italian colleague Italo Calvino. The acquaintance added that translating Italian prose was a new hobby. He did not want to make it his job for the time being. After all, translators are the modern slaves of the book trade. They work under enormous time pressure and are paid shabbily.

A spark lit up in my head and the idea caught fire. I asked my acquaintance if he had ever translated prose the other way round, from Dutch into Italian. He had never done that before but it seemed like a fun challenge. By return, I mailed him my The Photographer and the Bird, according to the local paper a "cleverly written and wildly exciting story."

Revista litteriaria

A few weeks later, I received Il fotografo e l'uccello in my mailbox. I printed my Italian story and stared at it in love. Then it was time for the next step. It took some searching but I found a suitable Italian literary magazine, a rivista letteraria. My acquaintance provided the accompanying text.

It is still waiting for a response. But in these corona times, patience is a virtue. All life slows down and no doubt the same goes for an Italian literary magazine. I do not doubt my success.

Its publication in the magazine is only the beginning. Publishers are startled to read Il fotografo e l'uccello and wonder desperately who Onno Weggemans is. That unpronounceable name must be a pseudonym. Which writer is behind the little masterpiece? After Elena Ferrante, a new mystery has emerged.

A romantic triumphal march

At an appropriate time, I will reveal myself. My Armani jeans are ready, my wife has tried on her Feraggio pumps. We will travel by train, that way we will conquer the Alps like Hannibal. Besides, a train journey suits the romance of being a writer.

Journalists line up for interviews. Bookstores bulge when I make my appearance. Publishers wave lucrative contracts.

My trip to Italy will be a triumphant one.

Veni, vidi, vici!

Brief update: I wrote the above over six months ago and still haven't received a response. My Armani jeans and my wife's Ferraggio pumps are for sale online. The dream of becoming a respected, translated writer has been blown away with the wind. Goodbye, sweet dream. Addio.