Novelist as a Vocation

by Haruki Murakami

If you start picking holes in how they make their decisions, there is no end to it. If you worship the award, however, there is no end to that, either.

In the end, after all, honors are merely a formal social and literary ratification of an existing reality.

“The most important thing,” I tell them, “is good readers. Nothing means as much as the people who dip into their pockets to buy my books—not prizes, or medals, or critical praise.”

A literary prize can turn the spotlight on a particular work, but it can’t breathe life into it. It’s that simple.

As long as one in twenty is like us, I refuse to get overly worried about the future of the novel and the written word. Nor do I see the electronic media as a threat.

The form and the medium aren’t all that important, and I don’t care if the words appear on paper or on a screen (or are transmitted orally, à la Fahrenheit 451). As long as book lovers keep on reading books, I’m happy.

I am just too much of an individualist. I am a person with a fixed vision and a fixed process for giving that vision shape. Unavoidably, sustaining that process entails an all-encompassing lifestyle. Without that, I cannot write.

That is my yardstick, my recipe for success, but although it works for me, I doubt it would be suitable for other writers.

A writer’s greatest responsibility is to his readers, to keep providing them with the best work that he is capable of turning out.

A writer perpetually groping to discover what to do next, inching forward through the perils of the literary battlefield.

What I wish to emphasize above all is that a writer’s own individual qualities are their most important possession.

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,

Nevertheless, the storm of criticism showed no signs of abating. To the contrary, the gusts only grew stronger.

“To reach the source, you have to swim against the current. Only trash swims downstream.”[2]

I had never planned to be a writer and had never given serious thought to what sort of novel I should be writing, which meant that I was under no particular constraints.

I just wanted to write something that reflected what I was feeling at the time—nothing more. It was that simple, straightforward impulse that drove me to start scribbling, without a thought to what might lie ahead.

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 heavier that discussion gets, the farther freedom retreats, and the slower your footwork becomes. The slower your footwork, the less lively your prose. When that happens, your writing won’t charm anyone—possibly even you.

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.

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.

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.

I think the first task for the aspiring novelist is to read tons of novels.

To write a novel, you must first understand at a physical level how one is put together.

Through it you will develop the basic novelistic muscles that every novelist needs.

Build up your foundation. Make it strong while you have time to spare and while your eyes are still good.

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

Observe what is going on around you and the people you encounter as closely and as deeply as you can.

“Imagination is memory.”

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.

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.

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.

Things the world sees as trivial can acquire weight over time, while other things broadly considered to be weighty can, quite suddenly, reveal themselves to be only hollow shells.

The unending creative process cannot be perceived by the naked eye, but its power, aided by the passing of time, yields such drastic turnarounds on a regular basis.

So if you lament that you lack the material you need to write, you are gi...

So if your aim is to write fiction, take a close look around you. The world may appear a mundane place, but in fact it is filled with a variety of enigmatic and mysterious ores.

Novelists are people who happen to have the knack of discovering and refining that raw material.

Short stories are agile vehicles that can be maneuvered to cover the smaller topics that novels can’t handle very well.

They are perfect for launching bold new experiments, whether stylistic or plot-based, and treating material for which their form is particularly well suited.

When writing a novel, my rule is to produce roughly ten Japanese manuscript pages (the equivalent of sixteen hundred English words) every day.

More than being artists, novelists should think of themselves as “free”—“free” meaning that we are able to do what we like, when we like, in a way we like without worrying about how the world sees us.

After all, the idea that anything can be “perfectly written” is a clear fallacy.

Though their criticisms may hurt, I still must somehow find the patience to listen to what they are saying.

“Time and tide wait for no man,”

if time isn’t going to wait for you, you have no choice but to take it to heart and actively construct your schedule on that principle.

In other words, assume command of the situation and s...

But no matter what triggers the writing, once a novelist sits down to write a novel he’s utterly alone with the task.

Some novelists might have help from researchers, but all they do is gather materials helpful to the novelists.

but writing a novel—especially a really long one—is exactly that: extremely lonely work.