My Writing Style is Similar to Haruki Murakami’s
As I’d started my lectures, the students always asked me where I got my inspirations from?
And, I’d liked to ask you that, where, does your inspiration come from? And, are good inspirations, guarantees, for good novels? Can you give me some examples from your earlier works? I believed, that the earlier the work, the lacking of techniques in writing they’d all had, and back then, inspiration became, the most important thing.
On inspiration, I’d always recalled Marquez’s “I just want to borrow the phone”.
The female protagonist, Maria’s car broke down on her way home. She’d looked for a phone in distress, to tell her husband, and, she’d gotten on a torn up bus, with women of various ages, shapes, and sizes, the only common thing they all had was, that they were all, very, quieted, wrapped in blankets, and, all, asleep.
Maria had, ignored this, odd sight, she’d wanted to find a phone, and so, she alighted the bus, and, started on a weird journey.
In the end………Maria was, institutionalized forever until she died.
A very, shocking story, a wrong choice, and, it’d, ruined Maria’s life forever. The first time I’d read this novel, I’d thought, if I were Maria, and this broken down bus appeared before me, I would’ve, reached, for the only driftwood around, meaning that…………I would also, certainly, end up, in a mental institution too.
And, writing a novel, we’re, on the same journeys, if we hurried ourselves to write a novel, I couldn’t even tell, if the enormous amounts of inspiration that I was having, would it, send me into the nut house, or the garden of Eden?
At the start of my writing, I was, more easily, inspired, by things that are, quite abnormal.
Take for instance, my first award-winning novel, “Why Doesn’t Anyone Believe Me”, once as I’d talked to a friend, don’t know what we were talking about, the person told me mysteriously, “As the dog went into the tunnels, it will, never come back again”, actually, this wasn’t that special, as I’d, already, heard it before, but what hearing it at that time meant different to me, back then, all that was on my mind was writing, and so, it’d, hit me hard, then, following, I’d, started this journey of writing from my mind.
My writing style is, more like Haruki Murakami’s.
Once, as the Japanese writers, Takashi Murakami and Haruki Murakami were having a conversation, they’d talked about how they wrote. Takashi said that his style of writing was more like painting, that he’d had a nearly completely picture in his mind, and, writing was, merely, slowly, painting that picture into complete. As for Haruki, he’d, belonged to the opposite end of the spectrum, he said he’d, written a first character, then, the second, then, used the first two characters, linked to a third.
For instance, the first word, “you”, second, “are”, third, “so”, fourth, “full”, fifth, “of”, sixth, “it”.
Yeah, I’m, calling someone a bad name, without calling him straight, of course, Murakami was, bullshitting, but, I’d, loved these, exaggerations that get passed around.
And, my writing style was, closer to Murakami’s, I’d written a first, then a second, paragraphs, then, used the first two paragraphs, to write a third.
For instance, after I’d written, “as the dog entered and passed through the tunnels, he could not return to before”, I’d made the dog go into a journey inward of sorts.
I’d often stated, egotistically, I don’t’ need inspiration, but thinking back, everything came back at me: I………lied!
For a very long time, after I woke in the morn, I’d, headed over to the 7-11 to flip through the newspapers, to sort through the headlines quickly, only knowing the headlines, and none of the details, is suited well, for someone who’d, drained out her brains.
Often, as I’d read some keywords, my mind would, concoct up a whole storyline, and yet, after I’d read the complete reports, I’d come to believe, that my stories were, way better, than what had been, reported or written down, and so, as I retell it to someone else, I’d, naturally, added, my own embellishments.
This had, troubled me so, a lot of the stories I thought I’d read up, I couldn’t find the sources of their origins anymore, because they…never…existed.
Like the incurable illnesses those protagonists of horror stories get.
Drifting too far already, now, back to what we were talking about, “Why Nobody Believes”.
My inspiration of this novel was from here say of how “after a god went into a tunnel, it won’t, ever get back again”, as I’d written this first paragraph, the second paragraph came out immediately right afterwards, “The dog was fine, so why would it, head into the tunnels?”, as this thought came up, my childhood memories, all flooded back to me again.
When I was a young child, we had a female dog, later, as she became in heat, she’d, attracted, a ton of males. Several days later, this young female puppy disappeared for good. My father told us, that the female puppy ran away with the males, and, we’d all, believed him.
Reason why we’d believed him wasn’t because we were naïve, nor because we were, too stupid, but because, we didn’t, love her anymore.
Back then, we’d gotten, really bored with having her, she’d disappeared, and, it’d made us, feel alleviated. And yet, we’d still had to, fake it, called that young female bad, how she could, desert her kind young owners. At this time, my half-drunk father told the truth to us. At first, the three of us, brother and sisters, believed every word he’d told, that we would, love that young female puppy, as if she were our own young, but in the end, it’d been my father, who’d, held his straight face, caring for the pup.
Later, the young female was in estrus, and, she’d, attracted the entire population of male strays, and my father could no longer take it anymore. He’d gone against our backs, and drove his pickup, and, took our young female puppy, and, drove to some unknown spot, then, acted like a kidnapper who’d not gotten the payments, and just, dumped her somewhere.
And yet, that young female, would find her way back to our home, after two, three days, of walking through the lands. Until my father’s heard, “After the tunnels, no dogs can find their ways back”, and, had driven her past the tunnels, and that time, she’d, never returned back to us again.
After I’d learned the truth, we’d all, fallen silent, because we didn’t know who to blame, and the young bitch wasn’t there, for us, to scapegoat.
Four years later, I’d started, writing, and the story of that young bitch made its way into my tales.
“Why nobody believed”, was the very first novel that I’d written which won an award, I’d cherished it especially, because that was, the starting point, of how I’d, started out writing, how I’d, deserted something I should’ve, loved.
Lastly, let’s, get back to “I’m only here, to borrow the phone”.
As I’d read this short story a second, a third time, I’d unknowingly, switched my perspectives, from the protagonist, Maria, to her husband.
Her husband was the only one who could, save Maria, but why did he not, help her?
The name of the husband was, Santano, the third man Maria had, ever had, once after they’d made crazy love, Maria disappeared suddenly. But, as Santano had, gone through the distances to finally track her down, the reason she gave for leaving him was merely, “there are long-term and short-term loves, and what we had was, short term.”
Such an awful answer, and, Santano admitted to defeat, and left her, but, after a year, Maria suddenly returned, in a bride’s gown.
Turns out, Maria was, dumped by her fourth man—at the Catholic church, at her wedding, with her soon-to-be-wedded husband, never shown up.
This time, Maria admitted to defeat, and came back to Santano. Santano asked her, “How long can you last with me this time?” Maria gave a very vague and very pretty answer, “However long love lasts, that, would be, our eternity”.
And, if we must find a source of Maria’s tragic end, I’d wanted to point toward her husband, at least, the driver, of, how the entire country had, worked, but, the end of the end, I can only say, that this, is a story that showed how personalities had, altered her destiny.
And now, that is, how I see inspiration, not as something that appears suddenly, the reason why we have it, is to recall those, long forgotten, memories—so I can, atone, for the sins only I know I’d, committed, inside my novels.
The young master of “Why Nobody Believed”, after learning the beginning, the middle, and the end, also passed into that same tunnel, and lost forever, and became, crazy, and can’t get home again, just like Maria, who never, found the telephone she’d needed to find.
Live Well, and, Experience the Good and the Evil to the Fullest Extents
If inspirations truly existed, then, the beginning of every story would be, closest to the moment where, inspiration, first hit.
Those dreams we’d, revisited, the familiar scents or sounds, appearing, so, suddenly, the lights, captured, in the miniscule of seconds, everything writing, and, as I’d written for twelve hours straight, I’m still, battling my inspiration, and, normally, it’d not, ended well, and there were, only files, of incomplete, writings.
I don’t believe it to be problematic, if you’d, stolen, or, borrowed the inspirations, the point is after you’d, stolen or borrowed it, how does that magic bean grow to become that tall beanstalk, that took Jack to an alternative magical world.
As I’d reread “I Only Want to Borrow the Phone”, you’d stated how Maria had, made her husband distrust her love, and I’d wanted to talk about how as the bus entered into that mad space of the nut house, of the goings on in her mind. She’d lost the only value of existence of her self as a human being, no matter what she did or said, it wouldn’t be, correct now, in the caste system of the hospital, the paramedics and the managers are like those hooks with the thorns, lured out Maria’s original ego, or superego even. In this closed in space, she’d slowly, lost herself, and finally, turned into someone, that the world forgot.
I’m sure, that reason why Maria was in pain, must be because, she’s, too awake, as a madden world didn’t need order, or feelings anymore, and comparing to the other aspects of life, this seemed, a lot, easier.
The best thing about novels is, how it can, wrap up a tragedy, with the weird structures, like metaphors of life, and, the readers can, guess the parts that the writers hadn’t written down, that was, always, the gains I’d received, other from being inspired from reading the works of others.
Lastly, I want to talk about something that’s, unrelated to inspiration.
As I’d part-timed through school, I’d worked a ton of entry level jobs. One year, I’d delivered the materials, managed the warehouses, as the quality control of an electronics factory, and, of those posts, I’d gotten to walk around, and there were, a couple of months I was, assigned to the production lines of the parts, and, I could, no longer walk around, and being set at working on the production lines, with the only movements, happening in my hands, that was, too hard.
Back then, I had, yet to, figure out, what writing was, all about, and how fictions are, made up stories out of, reality.
Or maybe, what saved me back then was, that ability to fictionalize things, how I’d, stubbornly, believed, that writing can, make me happy. And later on, as I had my writer’s cramps, I’d always, envisioned, that silvery white, mechanical arm.
If, we can, live this life, and truly, experience the good AND the evil here on this planet, that would be, the most amazing, kind of inspiration we can, ever get.
And so, the inspirations comes from, everyday things, the things you come across daily in your lives, can become a source of inspiration for you, to create something that’s, completely, different from the source of your inspirations, you just have to, open up your minds, and, let it take you wherever it is that it’s headed to…