Novelist as a Vocation, page 10
What this story shows is that, no matter what you have written, it can be made better. We may feel that what we have turned out is excellent, even perfect, but the fact remains there is always room for improvement. That’s why I strive to set aside my pride and self-regard when rewriting, and cool the passions generated by the creative process. I have to be careful not to cool them too much, though, since that would make rewriting impossible. I also have to prepare myself to handle the comments that come from my outside readers. Though their criticisms may hurt, I still must somehow find the patience to listen to what they are saying. By contrast, I don’t take criticisms that come out after a novel is published all that seriously. If I worried too much about that stuff, I couldn’t go on! When the writing process is still underway, however, I have to be able to incorporate criticisms and suggestions in as humble and open-minded a way as possible. This is and has always been my firm belief.
During my many years as a novelist there have been editors with whom I have not seen eye to eye. They were not bad people, and I’m sure they worked well with other writers, but when it came to editing my books the chemistry just wasn’t there. Their opinions often left me shaking my head, and there were times (to be honest) when they really got on my nerves. I could even get angry. Nevertheless, I had to make it work somehow—it was our job, after all.
On one occasion, when we were at the manuscript stage of a novel, I did a rewrite of all the sections the editor had queried. In most cases, however, I rewrote them in a way that was the opposite of what he had suggested: when he instructed “Make this section longer,” for example, I made it shorter, and expanded the sections he wanted me to cut down. Pretty outrageous behavior, I know, but the rewrite that resulted turned out to be a big improvement. Thanks to our exchange, the novel was far better than it would have been otherwise. Paradoxically, he turned out to be a very useful editor for me. Far more helpful, at least, than those editors who told me only what I wanted to hear. To my way of thinking, at least.
What’s crucial, in short, is the physical act of rewriting. What carries more weight than anything else is the resolve to sit down at one’s desk to improve what one has written. Compared to that, the question of which direction to take in those improvements may be of secondary importance. A writer’s instinct and intuition derive less from logic and more from the level of determination brought to the task. It’s like beating the bushes to flush out the birds. What difference does it make what kind of stick you use or how you swing it? Neither matters as long as the birds take to the air. It is that flurry of movement that jolts our field of vision, allowing us to see things in a new light. This is my opinion, anyway, crude though it may be.
At any rate, I spend as much time as I can on the rewriting process. I listen to the advice of the people around me (even if it makes me angry) and try to bear it in mind as I rework my novel. Their comments are valuable. Anyone who has just finished writing a long novel is bound to be in an emotional, overstimulated state. In a way, we are out of our minds. This makes sense, since anyone in their right mind would never undertake to write a novel in the first place. Given the circumstances, therefore, it is perfectly acceptable to be deranged as long as you are aware of that fact. For like it is with all crazy people, the opinions of the sane are really important to you.
That does not mean, of course, that you must swallow whole whatever others tell you. Some of their opinions are bound to miss the mark or be entirely wrong. Nevertheless, since they are uttered by those of sound mind, they carry a certain meaning for you, whatever they are. They will cool you down to a more proper temperature. Such opinions are nothing less than those of the world at large—in short, those who will read your book. If you ignore them, you can bet that they will probably ignore you. Some of you may say, “That’s perfectly all right with me.” I have no problem with that. If, however, you are a writer who wants to maintain contact with the outside world (and I think most writers do), then it is important to ensure that you have one or two people near you who will read your work, “fixed points” that you can use to orient yourself to your surroundings. Naturally, those fixed points should be able and willing to communicate with you in a frank and honest manner. Even if you flip out every time you hear criticism!
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How many times do I rewrite? There is no specific number. There are countless rewrites at the manuscript stage, and I ask for new galleys many times during the proofreading process, much to my editor’s dismay. I mark the galleys up in pencil until each page is covered in black and send them off, then mark them up again when the clean copy is returned. Over and over again. As I said before, writing is a profession that requires stamina, and in truth, I don’t mind. The fact is, I have a deep-rooted love for tinkering, so I have no problem reading a passage multiple times to check its rhythm, or fiddling with its word order, or making tiny adjustments to its expression. I like looking at the galleys being covered in black, and the ten or so No. 2 pencils wearing down to stubs on my desk. I don’t know why, but I can’t get enough of it. I could go on like that forever and not get tired.
Raymond Carver, a writer I love and respect, also enjoyed tinkering. He wrote, about another writer, that “he knew he was finished with a short story when he found himself going through it and taking out commas and then going through the story again and putting commas back in the same places.” I know that feeling exactly, for I have had the same experience many times. You reach the limit. If you tinker any more you will only damage what you have written. It’s a subtle point, easy to miss. The bit about replacing commas hits it right on the head.
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So that’s how I go about writing my novels. Some people really like them, and others don’t. It takes all kinds. I myself am far from satisfied with things I wrote in the past. I am keenly aware of how much better they could be if I wrote them today. That’s why I pick them up only if I absolutely must—they contain so many weaknesses!
All the same, I am sure they were the best that I could do at that time. That’s because I know the absolute effort that went into them. I spent as much time as I needed and exerted all the strength I had to bring them to completion. It was the equivalent of all-out war. That satisfaction of having given it my all remains with me even now. My novels have never been written on request, so I have not been hounded by deadlines. I have written what I wanted, when I wanted, in the way I wanted. I can state that much with confidence. Seldom have I had to look back and say, “I wish I’d done that differently.”
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There’s another aspect of time one must take into account when writing a novel. That is the “gestation period,” something especially important when writing a long work. The “quiet time” spent germinating and cultivating the seeds of what is growing within you. Through this internal process you build up the zeal to tackle the novel. Only the author knows for sure if enough time has been invested in each step of the process: completing the initial preparatory work, giving the ideas concrete shape, letting them fully “settle” in a cool, dark place, exposing them to the natural light when they are ready, carefully inspecting them, and then tinkering. The quality of the time spent doing these things will manifest itself in the persuasiveness of the completed work. It is an invisible process, but the difference it makes is huge.
A fitting metaphor for this might be soaking in the tub at home versus doing the same thing in a hot spring. Even if the water in the hot spring is tepid, the heat seeps into your very bones and stays with you long after you get out. A bath at home, by contrast, doesn’t penetrate so deeply, and no sooner have you gotten out than you start feeling chilly. I think most Japanese will know what I am talking about. When we enter a hot spring we heave a deep sigh of contentment, for we immediately feel the difference on our skin. If we try to explain that feeling to someone who has never visited a hot spring, we find ourselves at a loss for words.
I think great literature, and great music, follow a somewhat similar pattern. While the temperature of the bathwater at home and at the hot spring may be similar, soaking our naked bodies in them yields different results. We know this through our skin. Yet that “physical” knowledge cannot be expressed in language. The best we can do is “Yeah, the heat seeps in somehow—can’t really explain it.” If someone counters, “But the temperature is the same—it must be psychological,” then we (especially someone as ignorant of science as I am) can offer little in reply.
This is why I am able to shrug off harsh—sometimes unbelievably harsh—criticisms of my work with an “Oh, well, what can you do?” I know at the physical level that I cut no corners in the writing; that I gave it all I had. I spent whatever time was needed to gestate the novel and let it settle, and further time tinkering to get it right. This is why I never feel down or lose my confidence, however much I am criticized. Sure, it bothers me on occasion, but not all that much. I believe that any work into which so much time has been invested will pay off in the end. Time will tell. There are some things in this world whose value will become apparent only after many years have passed. If I weren’t certain of that I might grow depressed, however thick my skin. As long as I’m confident that I did everything I should have done, without stinting, there is nothing I need to fear. I can place my future in the hands of time. If we treat time with all the respect, prudence, and courtesy it deserves, it will become our ally.
Raymond Carver wrote the following in a 1982 essay he wrote for The New York Times, “A Story-Teller’s Shoptalk”:
“It would have been better if I’d taken the time.” I was dumbfounded when I heard a novelist friend say this. I still am, if I think about it, which I don’t. It’s none of my business. But if the writing can’t be made as good as it is within us to make it, then why do it? In the end, it’s all we have, the only thing we can take into the grave. I wanted to say to my friend, for heaven’s sake go do something else. There have to be easier and maybe more honest ways to try and earn a living. Or else just do it to the best of your abilities, your talents, and then don’t justify or make excuses. Don’t complain, don’t explain.
These are harsh words from the usually gentle and genial Carver, but I totally agree with what he is trying to say. I don’t know how things are at present, but back in the old days there were quite a few Japanese writers who went around bragging that they couldn’t complete a novel unless a deadline was hanging over their heads. This was considered cool in the literati tradition of that era, I guess, but there is a limit to how far that kind of helter-skelter, seat-of-the-pants approach to writing can carry you. You may be able to get away with it when you are young, even turn out some fine work, but it is my impression that a writer’s style becomes strangely impoverished if he carries on like that over the long haul.
In my opinion, using your willpower to control time is what makes it your ally. You mustn’t let it go on controlling you. That just makes you passive. “Time and tide wait for no man,” they say, so 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 stop being passive!
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I have no idea if my work is any good, or if it is, to what degree. As the author, it’s hardly my place to voice an opinion. Readers have to decide for themselves. As for the value of my books, well, all an author can do is wait quietly for the passing of time to make that clear. At this stage of the game, all I can say is that I gave of myself unsparingly—to quote Carver again, my works are “as good as it is within me to make them.” Since I put everything into their creation, I will never have to say, “It would have been better if I’d taken the time.” Whatever limitations they have are the result of my own deficiencies at the stage I wrote them, nothing more. That’s too bad, but nothing for me to be ashamed of. Deficiencies can be overcome if you work hard enough. A missed opportunity, however, can never be regained.
Over the years, I have taken pains to maintain and preserve the system that has made this approach to writing possible, making sure to keep it well oiled and free of dirt or rust. In my own small way, I feel proud to have sustained it to this point. In fact, I think I enjoy talking about my system much more than I do talking about the value and specific qualities of the various books I have written. I think this kind of talk has more practical value as well.
If readers experience even a little of the warmth from a hot-spring bath when reading my works, then I am truly happy. I myself seek such warmth in the books I read and the music I listen to.
Forget all the chatter—we should trust in our felt experience above all else. For the author, and for his readers, that alone is the ultimate standard.
A Completely Personal and Physical Occupation
Writing fiction is an entirely personal process that takes place in a closed room. Shut away in a study, you sit at a desk and (in most cases) create an imaginary story out of nothing and put it in the form of writing. The formless and subjective is transformed into something tangible and objective (or at least something that seeks to be objective). Defined simply, this is the day-to-day work we novelists perform.
I’m sure there are many people who will say, “But wait, I don’t have anything like a study.” The same was true for me when I started out writing—I had nothing resembling a study to work in. In my tiny apartment near the Hatonomori Hachiman Shrine in Sendagaya (in a building that’s since been torn down) I sat at the kitchen table late at night after my wife had gone to bed, scratching away with a pen on Japanese-style manuscript paper. That’s how I wrote my first two novels, Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973. “Kitchen-table” fiction is what I’ve dubbed these early works.
When I first started writing Norwegian Wood, I wrote at cafés in various places in Greece, on board ferry boats, in the waiting lobbies of airports, in shady spots in parks, and at desks in cheap hotels. Hauling around oversized, four-hundred-character-per-page Japanese manuscript paper was too much, so in Rome I bought a cheap notebook (the kind we used to call college-ruled notebooks) and wrote the novel down in tiny writing with a disposable Bic pen. I still had to contend with noisy cafés, wobbly tables that made writing difficult, coffee spilling on the pages, and at night in my hotel room when I’d go over what I’d written, sometimes there would be couples getting all hot and heavy beyond the paper-thin walls separating my room from the room next door. Things weren’t easy, in other words. I can smile at these memories now, but at the time it was all pretty discouraging. I had trouble finding a decent place to live, and moved all over Europe, all the while continuing to work on my novel. And I still have that thick old notebook, with its coffee stains (or whatever they are; I’m not really sure about some of them).
Wherever a person is when he writes a novel, it’s a closed room, a portable study. That’s what I’m trying to say.
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Essentially, I believe people don’t write novels because someone asks them to. They write because they have a personal desire to write. And it’s this strong inner motivation that drives them to write, and to endure all their own struggles as they do.
Naturally, some writers write novels because they’ve been asked to do so. This might be true for the majority of professional writers. My own personal policy for many years has been not to write novels because I’ve been contracted to or requested to, but I might be a rare case. For most writers, editors will ask them to write a short story, for instance, for their company’s magazine, or a novel exclusively for their publishing company, and they’ll go from there. In these cases it’s usual to have a deadline, and depending on the situation, to receive a payment up front as a kind of advance.
But the fact remains that novels are written on the novelist’s own initiative, out of an inner motivation. Perhaps there are people who can’t get started writing without those conditions—a specific request from a publisher and a deadline. But even so, deadlines and piles of money and pleas from publishers still aren’t enough to get someone to write a novel unless he’s motivated from inside to write. I think that goes without saying.
But no matter what triggers the writing, once a novelist sits down to write a novel he’s utterly alone with the task. No one is there to help him (or her). Some novelists might have help from researchers, but all they do is gather materials helpful to the novelists. No one else orders all those materials in his or her mind, and no one else finds the right words for him to use. Once you begin, you have to forge ahead by yourself, and complete the novel on your own. It’s not like baseball these days, where if a pitcher can get through seven innings he can then hand things over to a relief pitcher and take a break on the bench. For a novelist there’s no bullpen, and no relief pitchers in sight. So even if the game goes into extra innings—fifteen innings, even eighteen—you have to keep on pitching until it’s decided.
For example—and this is based on my own case—writing a novel means sitting alone in my study for over a year (sometimes two or even three years), diligently writing away. I get up early and focus solely on writing for five to six hours every single day. Thinking that hard and long about things, your brain gets overheated (with my scalp literally getting hot at times), so after that I need to give my head a rest. That’s why I spend my afternoons napping, enjoying music, reading innocuous books. That kind of life, though, gets you out of shape physically, so every day I spend about an hour outdoors exercising. That sets me up for the next day’s work. Day after day, without exception, I repeat this cycle.
