After finishing Philip Pullman’s book about writing I returned to Haruki Murakami’s. Either I misremember picking up this book and reading it years ago, or I am now in a better place to receive his wisdom, because it feels as fresh a read as if I never cracked its spine before.
It’s a memoir of sorts, that connects Murakami’s love of running long distances with the work of a novelist. Often while discussing running a fascinating idea about his life as a writer will bob to the surface before sinking back to the depths.
There are two paragraphs that speak to me personally and reflect feelings I have about myself and about my own writing. The first is about being disliked.
“[I]s it ever possible for a professional writer to be liked by people? I have no idea. Maybe somewhere in the world it is. It’s hard to generalize. For me, at least, as I’ve written novels over many years, I just can’t picture someone liking me on a personal level. Being disliked by someone, hated and despised, somehow seems more natural.”
Firstly, I haven’t made it as a professional writer yet, although I hope to be one some day. I write and I receive royalties. I edit others work and I receive fees, but I still have to earn money as an employee to survive. Even so I have spent my life assuming that I am not a likable person. When people tell me I am too self-absorbed I am quick to believe them. In contrast if someone says they like me I assume it’s because they don’t know me well enough or are lying. Perhaps it is the process of spending considerable time in ones own imagination that alerts a writer to their faults and the undesirability of their personality. Perhaps authors (professional or not) are outcasts by nature, observing but never truly feeling like a part of the world. Murakami’s thoughts resonate with mine. Being disliked does feel more natural.
The second paragraph that strikes me is similar to the reason I give when people ask me why I write. I write to answer questions. On this point I may be a few steps ahead of Murakami in that I have reached some conclusions, albeit fluid and often ephemeral ones.
“As I suspect is true of many who write for a living, as I write I think of all sorts of things. I don’t necessarily write down what I’m thinking; it’s just that as I write I think about things. As I write, I arrange my thoughts. And rewriting and revising tales takes my thinking down even deeper paths. No matter how much I write, though, I never reach a conclusion. And no matter how much I rewrite, I never reach the destination.”
It’s difficult to gauge whether this is a good book, but it is a good book for me at this moment. It reminds me that in order to write a novel the same dedication and persistence is needed as when you are training for a marathon. That the more you use the muscles (and skills) you have the easier it is to see the task through and feel proud of what you achieve. It also makes me want to put my running shoes on and stretch my leg muscles, but that will have to wait until this nasty cold has passed. I hope while waiting for good health the desire doesn’t pass, and I won’t forget that I want to run.
Murakami is one of my favourite authors. I picked up “Norwegian Wood” a decade or so ago in a second hand store and have since grabbed as many of his books as I can find. My favourite is “Kafka on the Shore”, but there are so many wonderful stories. “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” might not be the book for you, but I would recommend you at least try one of his great novels. His subtle steps from reality to fantasy and back again are beautiful to behold.
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