Novelist as a Vocation

by Haruki Murakami

Pablo Picasso.

Natsume Sōseki

Ernest Hemingway

Sōseki

Hemingway

It is relatively easy to take up examples of “originality” from the past and analyze them from today’s perspective. Almost always, the things that should have disappeared—for lack of originality—have already done so, leaving us to confidently evaluate what remains.

The Beatles

Many saw their songs as no more than a passing fad, throwaway music not in the same league with classic works. In fact, most of the establishment actively disliked them and expressed that disapproval every chance they got. It’s hard to believe now, but many older people detested their haircuts and fashion, to the point that it became a social problem.

Bob Dylan

The Beach Boys

Brian Wilson,

Pet Sounds,

Beach Boys

An artist need not fulfill all three requirements equally, of course, to be considered “original.”

I have witnessed that pattern in a variety of fields. Creative artists may grab your attention right off the bat with their daring novelty, but before you know it, they have disappeared.

Beethoven

I hope to be “original” in my expression, just as I imagine all artists do.

One saving grace—or at least a possible salvation—for me is the fact that so many literary critics have harshly criticized my works.

con man

An illusionist

There were members of the literary community, of course, who looked favorably on my work, but they were few and their voices were lost in the din.

At the beginning, when I was still uncertain if my work was any good, I tended to take the criticism to heart, though I tried to shrug it off, but as time passed I gained a certain amount of confidence—never more than a certain amount, mind you—that my novels were turning out well.

It seems there’s a sizable number of critics who will go on disliking whatever I write, no matter its quality.

Zbigniew Herbert

I’m not a big fan of generalizations, but if you will permit me to venture one (my apologies!), Japan is a country where most people really hate it when you go against the flow.

In the case of literature, for a long time after the Second World War ended, the literary status of authors and their works was carefully arranged and slotted within an axis of fixed coordinates—“vanguard” vs. “rear guard,” “right wing” vs. “left wing,” “popular” vs. “serious.”

When I made my debut as a writer in 1979, this system was still firmly entrenched, its power basically unchallenged.

I’m not the type of guy who enjoys fighting and arguing (really!), so I wasn’t up for battling the system, or duking it out with any of the unwritten laws.

From the outset, I had a pretty clear idea of the novels I wanted to create. I could even picture what they should look like, once I had developed my skills to the point where I could write them.

Think how many—far too many—things we pick up in the course of living. Whether we choose to call it information overload or excess baggage, we have that multitude of options to choose from, so that when we try to express ourselves creatively, all those choices collide with each other and we shut down, like a stalled engine. We become paralyzed. Our best recourse is to clear out our information system by chucking all that is unnecessary into the garbage bin, allowing our mind to move freely again.

Speaking again from experience, I have found that these distinctions are actually quite easy to make. One rule of thumb is to ask yourself, “Am I having a good time doing this?” If you’re not enjoying yourself when you’re engaged in what seems important to you, if you can’t find spontaneous pleasure and joy in it, if your heart doesn’t leap with excitement, then there’s likely something wrong. When that happens, you have to go back to the beginning and start discarding any extraneous parts or unnatural elements.

Hear the Wind Sing,

Looking back, however, it strikes me that for an aspiring writer, writing “something that simple” may not be so simple. It’s easy enough to think and talk about ridding your mind of unnecessary things through a process of subtraction and simplification, but actually doing it is hard. I think that I was able to pull it off without too much fuss because I had never been obsessed by the idea of being a writer, so I was not hindered by that ambition.

If there is indeed something original about my novels, I think it springs from the principle of freedom.

free and natural sensibility

It is my belief that a rich, spontaneous joy lies at the root of all creative expression. What is originality, after all, but the shape that results from the natural impulse to communicate to others that feeling of freedom, that unconstrained joy?

A brilliant person may use every ounce of his intelligence to develop form and style, may diagram every step, but if he lacks that natural impulse he is likely to fail or, if not fail, produce something that will not last.

This is purely my opinion, but if you want to express yourself as freely as you can, it’s probably best not to start out by asking “What am I seeking?” Rather, it’s better to ask “Who would I be if I weren’t seeking anything?”

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.

“writer’s block.”

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.

trans...

translator,

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.

journal editors

writer’s block

“originality”

Beach Boys

Beatles

natural high.