Novelist as a Vocation

by Haruki Murakami

Liberated

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

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.

“self-expression”—but

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.

It is especially important to plow through as many novels as you can while you are still young.

Next, before you start writing your own stuff, make a habit of looking at things and events in more detail.

value judgments—conclusions

Some individuals decide what or who is right or wrong based on a quick analysis of people and events. Generally speaking, though (and this is purely my opinion), they don’t make good novelists.

academics

That’s the type of guy I seem to be. Of course, my brain doesn’t work that fast in the first place, so when I do voice a quick opinion on something it often turns out to be wrong (or inadequate, or completely off the mark), a failing that has led me into countless painful experiences.

fool’s errand.

That is why I don’t leap to judgment when something happens. My mind no longer works that way.

conclusions

critic

news commentator,

aspiring novelist.

minimal kind of information-processing system

minimal system.

personal chest of drawers.

Paul Valéry

Albert Einstein,

Come to think of it, there have been very few situations when I wished I had a notepad on me. Something truly important is not that easy to forget once you’ve entrusted it to your memory.

mental chest of drawers

James Joyce put it most succinctly when he said, “Imagination is memory.” I tend to agree with him. In fact, I think he was spot-on. What we call the imagination consists of fragments of memory that lack any clear connection with one another. This may sound like a contradiction in terms, but when we bring such fragments together our intuition is sparked, and we sense what the future may hold in store. It is from their interaction that a novel’s true power emanates.

mental chest of drawers.

Kafka,

The Castle)

someone who starts sneezing whenever they get angry,

For Fiction Only

In my case, though, essays are no more than a sideline, like the cans of oolong tea marketed by beer companies. If something is really tasty, I save it for my main job—my next novel. Once a critical mass of such material has accumulated, my desire to launch a new book naturally kicks in. This is why I guard my chest of drawers so carefully.

Steven Spielberg’s

E.T.

E.T.

The first time I sat down to write a novel, nothing came to mind—I was completely stumped.

In other words, I had spent a mundane and nondescript youth. My grades weren’t the greatest, but they weren’t the worst, either. There was nothing, in short, that I felt absolutely compelled to write about.

The way I see it, the “E.T. method” is their sole option. Their only recourse is to throw open their garage doors, drag out whatever they have stored away to that point—even if it looks like no more than a pile of useless junk—and slave away until the magic takes hold.

Hear the Wind Sing,

having nothing to write about.

Two principles guided me. The first was to omit all explanations. Instead, I would toss a variety of fragments—episodes, images, scenes, phrases—into that container called the novel and then try to join them together in a three-dimensional way. Second, I would try to make those connections in a space set entirely apart from conventional logic and literary clichés. This was my basic scheme.

Jazz

rhythm.

chords, or harmony

free improvisation,

In my opinion (and this is based on my experience), having nothing you feel compelled to write about may make it harder to get started, but once the engine kicks in and the vehicle starts rolling, the writing is actually easier.

In contrast, writers who from the first write about heavy topics may eventually—although, obviously, this does not occur in all cases—find themselves faltering under the very weight of that material.

Ernest Hemingway,

The Sun Also Rises

A Farewell to Arms,