Novelist as a Vocation(20)

The you who is not seeking anything, by contrast, is as light and free as a butterfly. All you have to do is uncup your hands and let it soar. Your words will flow effortlessly. People normally don’t concern themselves with self-expression—they just live their lives. Yet, despite that, you want to say something. Perhaps it is in the natural context of “despite that” where we unexpectedly catch sight of something essential about ourselves.

I have been writing fiction for more than thirty-five years at the time of this book’s writing; yet I have never experienced what is commonly known as “writer’s block.” Wanting to write but being unable to is unknown to me. That may make it sound as if I am overflowing with talent, but the actual reason is much simpler: I never write unless I really want to, unless the desire to write is overwhelming. When I feel that desire, I sit down and set to work. When I don’t feel it, I usually turn to translating from English. Since translation is essentially a technical operation, I can pursue it on a daily basis, quite separate from my creative desire; yet at the same time it is a good way to hone my writing skills—were I not a translator, I’m sure I would have found another related pursuit. If I am in the mood, I may also turn to writing essays. “What the heck,” I defiantly tell myself as I peck away at those other projects. “Not writing novels isn’t going to kill me.”

After a while, however, the desire to write begins to mount. I can feel my material building up within me, like spring melt pressing against a dam. Then one day (in a best-case scenario), when I can’t take that pressure anymore, I sit down at my desk and start to write. Worry about journal editors impatiently awaiting a promised manuscript never enters the picture. I don’t make promises, so I don’t have deadlines. As a result, writer’s block and I are strangers to each other. As you might expect, that makes my life much happier. It must be terribly stressful for a writer to be put in the position of having to write when he doesn’t feel like it. (Could I be wrong? Do most writers actually thrive on that kind of stress?)



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Returning to where we started, when I think about “originality” I am transported back to my boyhood days. I can see myself in my room sitting in front of my little transistor radio listening for the first time to the Beach Boys (“Surfin’ U.S.A.”) and the Beatles (“Please Please Me”). “Wow!” I’m thinking. “This is fantastic! I’ve never heard anything like this!” I am so moved. It is as if their music has thrown open a new window in my soul, and air of a kind I have never breathed before is pouring in. I feel a sense of profound well-being, a natural high. Liberated from the constraints of reality, it is as if my feet have left the ground. This to me is how “originality” should feel: pure and simple.

I came across this line recently in The New York Times, written about the American debut of the Beatles: “They produced a sound that was fresh, energetic and unmistakably their own.” These words may provide the best definition of originality available. “Fresh, energetic, and unmistakably your own.”

Originality is hard to define in words, but it is possible to describe and reproduce the emotional state it evokes. I try to attain that emotional state each time I sit down to write my novels. That’s because it feels so wonderfully invigorating. It’s as if a new and different day is being born from the day that is today.

If possible, I would like my readers to savor that same emotion when they read my books. I want to open a window in their souls and let the fresh air in. This is what I think of, and hope for, as I write—purely and simply.





So What Should I Write About?





When I do Q&A sessions with young people, they often ask me what it takes to become a novelist—what kinds of training, what sorts of personal habits. This question seems to arise no matter where I am in the world. I guess it goes to show just how many people there are who want to be writers, to engage in “self-expression”—but all the same, it’s a tricky one to answer. At least I have difficulty coming up with a good response.

That’s because I myself have a hard time understanding how I made it this far. I didn’t have my heart set on becoming a novelist when I was young, nor did I follow a series of steps to earn my spurs—no special studies, no training, no piling up of notebook exercises. Like so many things in my life, events seemed to follow their own course, pulling me along. Luck played a big part, too. It’s rather unnerving when I look back now, but there’s no way around it—that’s the way it was.

Still, when I look around at the earnest faces of young would-be writers asking what they should do to prepare, I can’t really say, “I have no idea. Just let things take their course and hope Lady Luck smiles on you. Pretty scary, when you think about it,” and then jump to the next question. That would be too mean. In fact, it could cast a pall over the whole event. As a result, I have attempted to tackle the issue head-on to come up with a proper sort of answer.

So here goes.

I think the first task for the aspiring novelist is to read tons of novels. Sorry to start with such a commonplace observation, but no training is more crucial. To write a novel, you must first understand at a physical level how one is put together. This point is as self-evident as the truism “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”