Friday, September 2, 2011

Haruki Murakami - What I Talk About When I Talk About Running


I recently finished Haruki Murakami's memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. I actually read his memoir before having read any of his other more famous works. I guess what got me interested in his story was that he decided one day to write a novel. Now he didn't decide after hours of deliberation, weighing the pros and cons and deciding what he would need to accomplish the feat. No, his realization came at a baseball stadium in Japan and the exact time came around the time when an American hit a double late in the game. And as epiphanies go, he decided right then and there that he had to write a novel. So that night he went home and wrote for an hour. And the next four months he wrote an hour a night after work until he had something resembling a short novel. He entered it into a writing contest and the rest was history. The fact that he worked in a jazz/coffee bar for ten years before deciding one day to write a novel also caught my attention. So I read his book about running or rather what he talks about when he talks about running. He started running around the same time as well. Perhaps at the age of 30-32 and he went on to run most everyday eventually getting up to marathon and occasionally ultra-marathon status.
            I've never been much of a runner. I was always consistent but more consistently slow than fast, but what I liked about this book is how he equates his state of mind when he writes to this state of mind when he's running. There's a determination and focus that I'm finding most writers must have. Just as must runners must be focused and determined. There's a certain training regimen that both writers and runners must have to condition their mind and bodies to do these two grueling tasks day in and day out. It's interesting, though, because writing is extremely unhealthy. Right now I'm hunched over typing and if I keep this up I might not move the slightest for hours at a time all the while I'm in my head trying to pull out words. Some could argue that the best writers are extremely flawed individuals who are driven to drink(think Bukowski) and other unhealthy activities. And then there's running which I'm fairly certain is the definition of a healthy endeavor. Actually the idea of Charles Bukowski jogging each morning before he writes is a pretty funny image.
So anyways, I think it's interesting that Murakami balances one unhealthy activity with a healthy one. The balance of the two, I would imagine, keeps his mind and body trained. Ok, so I don't jog and I barely write but the memoir was good and I liked a lot of his ideas on writing and running. He described his state of mind when running, at one point he runs an ultra marathon (62 or so miles), and through his mantra (Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional) and also through the ability to clear his mind, to actually think about nothing, having a void of thought as it were, with only the physical motion of putting one foot in front with eyes set straight ahead, and through this training of his mind and body to upstand the rigors, Murakami has kept on writing and running day in and day out for twenty years.

Rough Draft #2

Write a story about a place you loved that no longer exists. What was lost and what persists? How do loss and location mingle in your memory? What do we hold onto and what does that say about us?

It was on the right side of the road as I drove south and west. Just past a ditch and a 4-foot-tall wire fence, sitting on a small bump of a hill (all alone) was my favorite tree. I passed my tree three or four times a week and I always wanted to wake up early, when dew and low-lying fog covered the ground, and take a picture of that tree. But things happen and time passes and lightning strikes. And one day my favorite tree was gone. It had just ceased to exist. I think what happened was a storm, one of those Midwestern storms that come out of nowhere and turn the land black and ominous. I imagine through a sea of menacing clouds a steady roll of thunder filled the air and a flash of electric, blinding light carried on down to my tree. And through the smoke and fire, shards of tree lay scattered on the hill beside highway 50. Looking back on it now, it was only in a flash of time that I was able to admire the solitary tree. For a few seconds I would say ‘there’s my tree’ (and it’s funny to think but I felt a kind of peace of mind.)  For an instant at 60 miles per hour I must have appeared as a white streak of metal on tires. It was about 55 minutes into my hour and a half drive when I reached this spot just past Knob Noster. Of course the tree is now gone, but the memory and the feeling that I have of it will never fade. Nostalgia can be both a dear friend and a mortal enemy. It can give you happiness and it can also send you into a deep depression with no end in sight. I think the reason I was sad when my tree was no longer there was because I imagined the tree was me at my happiest. Always there through the storms and the perfect days, never wavering, always bending with the westerly wind and always growing up toward the sky and down through the earth.