It is strange to look at a pile of books that you wrote that you can’t read. People often ask me about the quality of the foreign editions or complain about a translation and I have to admit them that even though the books have my name on them, I had absolutely nothing to do with any of them. Like, nothing. I wrote them, sure, but I can’t vouch for what’s in them! Who knows?!? Translation is weird. (Especially for a hick American who only speaks English.)
And yet, I’m so grateful to my translators and foreign publishers. Every time a new translation comes in the mail it’s a little thrill. For example, look at the gigantic Russian editions in hardcover! So fun. (I’ve lost count of the number of languages. Several are not shown in these pictures — including the foreign editions of Keep Going.) Getting your words in the world is a crazy thing. I wish I could be in all the places my books have been…
