Die neueste Idee: "Hannah" übersetzen für den englischsprachigen Markt

 

Hallo, du, hier spricht Hannah ...!

Aus einer Laune heraus habe ich gestern den Prolog von Hannah Band 1 ChatGPT geschickt mit der Bitte, den Text - mit literarischem Anspruch - zu übersetzen. Wenn ich das mit meinem Schul-Englisch abgleiche, finde ich das gar nicht so schlecht gelungen. Oder - was denkst du dazu? Ich könnte "Hannah" also Kapitel für Kapitel übersetzen lassen und für den englischsprachigen Markt zugänglich machen, nicht  zuletzt für den wachsenden Markt in Indien. KDP fordert mich nämlich neuerdings auf, Rechnungen für Indien zuzulassen. Na, mal sehen. Aber im Moment gefällt mir die Erweiterungsidee richtig gut. Hier der Beginn des übersetzten Prologs:

 

Prologue

In the quiet little town in the heart of Schleswig-Holstein, a book exchange booth had arrived. Painted bright postal yellow, it stood in a peaceful corner of the pedestrian zone, and from day one, people flocked to it to browse and linger.
Hannah, who had always preferred silent books to noisy people, had stayed away from the opening event. She wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Being left at the age of fifty-nine was anything but funny.
Yet in the dry desert of her sorrow, she felt two tiny sparks stirring—just waiting to be rekindled. One was her deep urge to be creative, now more than ever, and to show what she was truly capable of. The other was that wonderful streak of defiance that had accompanied her since childhood.
Both had saved her many times before, just like the countless helpful books she could never get enough of. And so the new yellow booth became a symbol of hope—something she warmed herself by, from a safe distance.

* * *

Three weeks after Malte’s letter, Hannah felt the time had come to visit the booth. She went around midday, when things were quiet. Her work as a freelance journalist gave her plenty of time and space.
She discovered old familiars stacked on the shelves—Simmel and Konsalik. She found more recent authors too, like Coelho and Cecilia Ahern. There were self-help books and dated travel guides, some science fiction and a few children’s titles. Nothing truly exciting, yet that familiar hunter’s thrill had been awakened in her again.
She hoped for a real book treasure—one with a personal message. And so, she kept returning.

It was a Friday around noon when Hannah stood before the yellow booth, spellbound, clutching a newly discovered anthology to her chest. Burgundy cover, gothic script, yellowed pages—collected letters for young women from the year 1923, the year her mother had been born.
That means something, she thought, and decided to take the find home.

She hurried across the old parade ground, took the street past the hospital, and reached the charming little housing estate she’d recently moved into.
The whole way, her mother’s image followed her: the dyed brunette hair, a hairpiece covering the first signs of baldness, the round, doughy face, and that cheerful, cackling laugh that never quite matched how often she had felt miserable.
A wave of love-hate washed over Hannah, followed by instant guilt. It wasn’t right to hate the dead—not even when love was tangled in it.
Her mother’s grave in the Essen honorary cemetery had likely been leveled by now—Hannah hadn’t visited in years.
Though she had often wished for another kind of mother, there were moments when she missed her deeply. Moments when she was almost ready to forget that it was thanks to her, of all people, that she was once again heading toward divorce—her third.
How different everything might have been, she thought, if Mother hadn’t told Miss Falter, the primary school teacher, that Hannah was just a girl and that...
She stopped herself. The thought made her angry. So damned angry...!

* * *

Unopened boxes and a low hum of overwhelm greeted Hannah as she opened the door to her three-room apartment.
She slipped off her shoes, tossed her down coat over the old chest Malte’s mother had given her, and poured boiling water over a bag of Yogi tea in the small kitchen.
Thoughtfully, she carried her mug and the book into the living room.
Amid the chaos, at least this room looked somewhat lived-in. Sunlight poured in through tall windows on two sides.
Some friends had helped her arrange part of her book collection into the corner-shaped Billy shelves, complete with top pieces, which filled the wall behind her desk—floor to ceiling, packed tight.
Ever since she was a child, Hannah had dreamed of having her own private library. Malte—soon to be ex-husband number three—had known that.
In his farewell letter, generous as always, he had promised to support her financially so she could afford a place spacious enough “for you and all your books.”
Oh, Malte...!
She pictured him now—his stubborn red-blond hair, those large amber eyes, the scruffy stubble, the boyish laugh. How she missed him—and her old life.

...

Herzlich grüßt dich 

                                                                                                    Deine Ruth-Rebecca