Lokakarya Menerjemahkan Novel bersama Maria Lubis

Ingin menerjemahkan novel, tetapi tidak tahu caranya?

Lokakarya ini jawabannya!

Reaterary bekerja sama dengan Kelas 101 dan Co & Co Coworking Space menggelar Lokakarya Menerjemahkan Novel bersama Maria Lubis.

Maria adalah penerjemah dan editor yang telah berkecimpung di dunia penerbitan sejak 2004 dan hingga kini telah menerjemahkan lebih dari 80 judul buku.

Dalam lokakarya ini, kamu akan belajar serba-serbi menerjemahkan dan trik-trik agar kamu bisa menjadi penerjemah lepas sebuah penerbit.

Kalau kamu tertarik, catat informasi penting ini:

Tanggal: Sabtu & Minggu, 7 & 8 Januari 2017

Waktu: 13.00-16.00 WIB

Tempat: Co & Co Coworking Space. Jalan Dipati Ukur No. 5 Bandung

Biaya Pendaftaran: Rp 100.000,- per sesi, Rp 150.000,- untuk dua sesi, diskon 10% untuk member co & co

Silakan mendaftar dengan mengirim email ke: reaterary@gmail.com dengan subjek: Lokakarya Menerjemahkan berisi identitas diri (Nama dan No Telepon) serta hasil terjemahanmu*. Informasi nomor rekening akan kamu dapatkan dalam balasan email tersebut.

Jadi, tunggu apa lagi? Segera daftar, karena tempat sangat terbatas. Hanya untuk 10 orang saja!

Salam hangat,


*berikut naskah yang harus kamu terjemahkan (romance dan fantasi, silakan pilih salah satu)

In a lecture hall of 189 students, it’s unusual for one of them to stand
out the fi rst day, but not unprecedented. When one separates from the
herd that early, it’s typically because of something negative. Like asking
stupid questions. Or talking during the lecture—and missing the
evil eye from the professor. Excessive body odor. Audible snoring.
Or my personal anathema: being a trendy douche.
So I wasn’t too surprised when I became aware of such a guy during
the fi rst week of fall semester. Typical previous BMOC of his high
school—used to toadies toadying. Still expecting it, still getting it.
Frat guy. Casual but affl uent clothes, expensive haircut, self-important
smile, perfect teeth, and the requisite cute girlfriend. Likely majors:
econ, poli sci, finance.
He annoyed me on sight. Biased of me, sure—but it’s not like my
opinion mattered. He paid attention in class and asked competent
questions, so he was unlikely to need tutoring, though that didn’t
preclude him from showing up to the study sessions I administered
for Dr. Heller three times a week. Often the brightest students made
up most of the group.
The first semester I did supplemental instruction—last fall—I paid
close attention during Heller’s lectures. I’d made an A in his class, but
it had been a year since I took it, and economics isn’t a stagnant fi eld.
I didn’t want a student asking me a question in the middle of a tutoring
session that I couldn’t answer. By the third semester—my fourth
sitting through the class—I didn’t really need to be there, but class
attendance was part of the tutoring gig, and it was easy money.
So there I sat—bored off my ass on the back row, working on assignments
from my senior-level courses, sketching out design project
ideas, keeping an ear on where the lecture was going so I could stay on
topic during my sessions, and resolutely ignoring my pointless dislike
of the conceited sophomore sitting in the center of the class with his
accessory of a girlfriend.
But by the end of that first week, my attention was straying to her.
Since childhood, drawing has been a comforting diversion, and
sometimes an escape. My mother was an artist, and I don’t know if she
discerned that I had a natural aptitude for it or if it was a learned skill
resulting from her early encouragement and plenty of practice. All I
know was that by the time I was five or six, paper and pencil were my
way of relating to the world. My personal form of meditation.
Once I began college, most of my drawings became mechanical or
architectural in nature—probably unavoidable, given my mechanical
engineering studies. But even in my free time, I rarely sketched bodies
or faces anymore. I had little desire to do it.
Until her.
Entering and exiting class, her boyfriend sometimes held her hand.
But it was like he was holding a lead, not the hand of a girl he cared
about. Before class, he talked football, politics, music, and frat particulars
like rush or upcoming parties with other guys like him and guys
who wanted to be like him. Nearby girls bestowed sidelong glances he
pretended to ignore.
Somehow, while he was preoccupied with everything and everyone
around him except her, I suddenly couldn’t see anything else. She
was beautiful, sure, but in a university with thirty thousand undergrads,
that was hardly riveting. If not for my initial annoyance with
her boyfriend, I might never have noticed her at all.
Once I realized how often my gaze drifted over her, I consciously
fought the inclination—but it was no use. There was nothing in the
room as interesting as this girl. What fascinated me first and foremost
were her hands. Specifically, her f ngers.
In class, she sat next to him, wearing a loose smile, sometimes
quietly conversing with him or others nearby. She didn’t look unhappy,
but her eyes were almost vacant at times, like her mind was
elsewhere. During those moments, though, her hands—her
fingers—were performing.
At first I thought she had a nervous habit, like Heller’s daughter,
Carlie, who’d never stopped moving since the day she was born. Carlie
was forever tapping a fingernail or a foot, jiggling a knee, talking.
The only thing I’ve seen calm her was petting Francis, my cat.
This girl wasn’t tapping her fi ngers restlessly, though. Her move-
ments were methodical. Synchronized. Sitting far enough to the left of
her to study her profile, I watched her chin bob, so subtly it was almost
undetectable—and at some point, I realized that when her expression
was remote and her fingers were moving, she was hearing music. She
was playing music.
It was the most magical thing I’d ever seen anyone do.

TERJEMAHAN 2 (Fantasi)
How To Break A Dragon’s Heart (Cressida Cowell)
Poor Fishlegs jumped two feet in the air, thinking that the Something might be a ghost-lady.
But it was Something large and solid sticking up out of the white sands of the Beach of the Broken Heart.
‘Maybe it‘s Camicazi‘s boat!‘ cried Hiccup hopefully, screwing up his eyes and trying to see. ‘Perhaps it crashed and it‘s sticking kind of upwards out of the sand…‘
The Warriors were a little reluctant, to say the least.
The sun was sinking rapidly, in a beautiful display of pink and red and gold. However, no one was in the mood to appreciate a lovely sunset. Was it their imaginations, or was that drumming noise coming from the direction of the island of Berserk getting louder?
‘But Chief,‘ Nobber Nobrains pointed out, ‘that beach over there is not only haunted, it is also part of the territory of UG the Uglithug.‘
UG the Uglithug didn‘t like visitors.
‘Well we‘re not going to land or anything are we?‘ barked Stoick the Vast. ‘We‘re just going to check it out… and what are you doing questioning my orders? I AM THE CAPTAIN OF THIS SHIP AND YOU SHOULD OBEY WITHOUT QUESTION!‘
So they oared their weary way towards the Something on the beach, grumbling as they went.
‘O Useless, you‘re just a delight I could just smack your Useless fat head,‘ snarled Snotlout savagely. ‘And I would if I wasn‘t too tired and hungry to be bothered.‘
But as they drew nearer, into the shallower water of the Bay, through a jigsaw of floating driftwood that had been thrown up by the storm, even in the failing light of the dying evening it clearly wasn‘t a boat.
‘It‘s too rectangular,‘ said Fishlegs.
What could it be?
Fishlegs had just decided in his head that it was a COFFIN when there was a
sudden CRRRUNCCH!! from the ship‘s bottom and they came to an abrupt halt.
‘FOOLS!‘ yelled Stoick. ‘You‘ve hit a rock!‘
‘You didn‘t tell us to stop,‘ pointed out Nobber Nobrains, not unreasonably. ‘You’re the Captain. We just obey orders.‘
They had hit a rock, and holed the boat.
Water poured in from the starboard side.
And The Fat Penguin gently laid her very fat bottom on the sand of the Beach of the Broken Heart and refused to move.
It is always embarrassing for a Viking when he sinks his own boat.
Especially in only two feet of water.
It is an occupational hazard.
But it could not have happened at a more awkward time.
The Vikings got out of the boat. The water was knee-deep. Tactfully, nobody said anything.
‘THUNDERING THIGHS AND GINGERY WHISKERS AND LITTLE TWIRLY BITS OF THE GREAT GOD THOR!‘ exclaimed Stoick the Vast, bright red in the face. As he shook his fist at the heavens above, the last blink of sun disappeared on the horizon, and there they were, stranded on the Beach of the Broken Heart until they could mend the boat in the morning.
‘RIGHT!‘ shouted Stoick the Vast. ‘I think we‘ve found our camp for the night.‘
The Hooligans on the other boat weren‘t so very keen to join them on the beach. ‘Our boat is all right,‘ called out Baggybum the Beerbelly. ‘We might just stay aboard and sleep here…‘
It was not what you might call the perfect camping spot. But what choice did they have?
The sun had sunk.
So had their boat.
The moon was coming up, and the first of the Glow-worms were beginning to light up the still evening air.
Too tired to argue, the Hooligans anchored the other boat where it was, and threw their animal skin blankets over their shoulders, and waded through the knee-high water and up and on to the beach.
At least they found out what the Something on the beach was.
It was a Throne.
An enormous, empty THRONE.


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