Date: 2023-09-30 Pages: 224 Do with these facts as you will. I've read a lot of Murakami — enough to (1) write a school newspaper piece on him (2) skip class to finish 1Q84 (3) start an Instagram caption with him — and while there are aspects where he deserves criticism, I have also read every translated work by him. Maybe this is just a personal thing, but some artists/authors/etc invariably inflict some kind of reaction. [^1] For Murakami, this reaction is extreme drowsiness. I am almost certain this is not related to his prose style (which I believe to be high quality & interesting), but instead a Pavlovian effect where I read almost exclusively Murakami before bed for a few months straight. Part of the consequences of having read so much Murakami is that I am relatively familiar with most of the personal details — think running routine, daily pace, other notorious quirks — he shares in the book. What was novel (haha) — and interesting — was his reflection on these details. This is not a book about writing. Well, it is a book about writing, but there are lots of things that apply to a broader set of things than just writing, in my reading. Or maybe writing is just a narrow force that expand to cover many broader things, and this book is just a commentary that targets this narrow force, which then covers those broader things. I just wanted to dump these things somewhere. Sorry about that — anyways, on the book. --- One thing Murakami didn't necessarily write much about, but I found interesting, was *where* he writes. Some books he writes at home at his desk (expected) but others he wrote in European cafes. My surface-level thought is that this is significant: we tend to think of the spaces we do focused work in as (sometimes) equally important to the effort being put into the work. Especially for a task like writing, a space you associate with writing and complete quiet would logically lead to better work. Yet at the same time, Murakami produced some gripping novels at cafes that (I assume) were not quiet or entirely associated with writing; novels that I probably could not distinguish from novels he wrote at 4am/5am/6am (whatever ungodly hour he wakes up at) in the comforts of his home. The next thought I have is that these non-home, unfamiliar contexts might possess a special property that improves writing. I'm not quite sure how to explain, but stay with me for a moment: One thing I think a lot about is really going all-in on life (obviously, not an original thought — and in fact one that a number of very smart people I respect and am grateful for recommended me think more deeply about). By this, I mean doing the activities that terrify you; that are almost unimaginable. Sometimes these things are done for the cameras — for social media, to shock others, etc — and I sometimes wish that we did them because they shocked us & scared us & we didn't post them immediately upon completion. Sometimes those things are relative: an extreme acrophobe jumping up and down on the Empire State glass floor may be equal in challenge to making the NBA. Moving to Europe, writing a novel with no past experience, writing at the same time as being the cash-strapped owner of a jazz bar — these are "all-in" that demand substantial energy, time, and focus. When your surrounding world changes so rapidly and pushes your limits day-by-day, perhaps it becomes easier to immerse yourself in a new mental world (or put words to your current one). And perhaps, out of that, beautiful writing is born. [^2] [^1]: For instance, these last few days, I spent a lot of time strolling around Paris set to the albums of A Tribe Called Quest, because they always bubble up an odd mix of contentedness and wishing I was just a little bit cooler than I am. It also reminds me to not forget my wallet. [^2]: Murakami built some wordings absolutely beautifully, to the point I just wanted to paste them into a document and keep them forever. I've started a [[1/quotes]] page to do just that (thanks to Justin for the inspiration).