A couple of years ago, I received an invitation from a German cultural institution to present my debut short story collection, which was translated into German that year. The terms and conditions were generous: we pay you (a lot, as far as I was concerned), we host you for as long as you wish (I decided on three nights), we will arrange a host who loves your book – and if you need anything else, do tell us!
There was one diplomatically laid out request, however. The producers wanted me to speak German at the event. They heard me speak it fluently in a video interview and figured I could easily do it again. As a rookie, and the greenest author to have ever walked the Earth, I swallowed my anxiety and agreed to it. I kindly asked them to send me the host’s questions in advance, so I could prepare for this premiere of mine. I didn’t mention that I’d never spoken German in front of a live audience, nor that I intended to translate my answers from Slovene to German and learn them by heart. I had done that for the video interview as well. I wasn’t only industrious, you see, I also had an excellent memory.
