Applying to the Creative Awards: 142 Works, 420,000 Characters. And Yet, I Still Haven't Written Enough

Click.

I pressed the left mouse button, let out a sigh, and leaned back deeply into my chair. The chair creaked. I could feel the tension that had been coiled throughout my entire body draining away somewhere.

This morning, I finished my submissions for the note Creative Awards. The last piece I hit the publish button on was "The Gigolo's Certificate of Commendation." I felt such an incredible sense of having given it my all that I couldn't move for a while, just staring at the screen.

I took out the earphones I had been wearing.
The sounds of reality suddenly flooded into the space that had been filled with music from YouTube Music until just a moment ago.

The sound of someone walking briskly down the hallway of the apartment building behind mine. The swish-swish sound of the janitor sweeping the asphalt with a bamboo broom. The muffled sound of trucks driving on the distant main road.

Ah, it's morning.
The world is spinning as usual.

I closed the text editor and browser research tabs that had been spread across my screen, one by one. The act of mindlessly clicking away the "Do you want to save?" dialog boxes that popped up each time felt a bit like cleaning up after a festival, and it made me feel a little lonely.

“...It's cold!”

My body suddenly shivered.
I instinctively hunched my shoulders and rubbed both my arms.

In my home office where the air conditioner is brokenit had been unbearably hot while I was writing. Even though I had been sitting directly in the breeze of a circulator, the moment I finished writing, the enthusiasm faded and a chill suddenly washed over me. I shuddered, and turned off the remote control.

Looking back now that the deadline for the note Creative Awards has arrived, I submitted a staggering 142 works. Since each piece averages over 3,000 characters, the total easily exceeds 420,000 characters. What is 420,000 characters? That's the level of a thick, full-length novel. I think I've lost my mind.

This was my first time participating. I had heard that the level gets higher and stricter every year, so I blocked off the smart, adult escape route of saying, "Well, it's the taking part that counts," and wanted to seriously, doggedly give it everything I had. It was like a challenge letter to myself, a way to move from where I am now to a new stage.

While writing, my defensive instincts kept popping up, wondering if someone would say something if I wrote this or that. But every time, I forced them down with sheer willpower. If I just decorated myself, there would be no point in me writing. This time, I decided to thoroughly depict my honest introspection, and even express myself by exposing my pathetic, shameful parts if necessary.

Looking back at what I've written so far, my essays are truly a showcase of my life itself. I write them myself, read them back myself, and enjoy them alone, thinking, "This is interesting," so it's the ultimate cost-performance activity.

The origin of my essays is "The Phantom Local Exploration Club and the Never-Ending After School," which looked back at my club activities in junior high school. The regret of that time when I let go of what I loved because I was pressured by the strong opinions of those around me. The unreasonableness of being measured by someone else's yardstick. I wanted to save the me of that time somehow through the power of writing.

And then, "When the Warblers Sing at the Tower," which is my life itself.
The story of building a grave after a heavy family history. This is my life, and it was a theme I had been keeping warm, knowing I had to write it someday. Actually, it's only the first episode of a grand concept planned for ten episodes, but by releasing this to the world, I felt like one of the sediments inside me had been purified.

The last piece I published, "The Gigolo's Certificate of Commendation," is quite a favorite of mine. It's the intense episode from the day I went to my wife Torako's parents' house to ask for their blessing for our marriage and was unexpectedly called a "gigolo." I fashioned it into a slightly tear-jerking home drama, likening it to a Dragon Quest adventure. It's a secret that I was the one tearing up the most while hitting the keyboard.

Come to think of it, in "The Sound That Clunked Won't Go Away," I wrote about the day I got sick on the Shinkansen heading to Aomori and had to tearfully throw away the rice ball I had been looking forward to in the trash can. I realized while writing that the dark "clunk" sound that echoed at the bottom of the trash can that day had been stuck inside me all along.

While tracing past pain, I also had new discoveries.
When I wrote "I Thought of Something Amazing," I first awakened to the fun of the "circular structure" technique that connects the beginning and end of a story. I enjoyed writing it while fully utilizing the circular technique. Even though it's just a trivial story about my wife Torako trying to remember a forgotten idea, I laid out foreshadowing, resolved it at the end, and drew a full circle. Since this work, I feel like my writing style has clicked into place. From about that work on, I couldn't help but enjoy writing.

On the other hand, public reaction is truly unpredictable.
I only wrote about my ridiculous figure as I was shocked by a Preppy pen worth a few hundred yen and sank deeper and deeper into the fountain pen swamp in "The Beginning is a Preppy. A Record of a Man Who Fell into the Fountain Pen Swamp," but for some reason, it blew away my other works I was confident in and hit an outstanding number of accesses. It's more than double the second-place work. Are there really that many fountain pen lovers lurking in the world? It's a mystery.

Speaking of things that make you chuckle, I can't leave out "I Only Took Off My Slippers.." It’s a grand adventure of killing time during my hospitalization for oral surgery. The sheer embarrassment of that public execution—wandering the hospital in slippers and being called out by name over the intercom in front of a fried chicken vending machine in the middle of the night. I intended to write with full force about the absurdity of exploring an oral surgery ward in slippers. It starts with slippers and ends with slippers. Even now, when I recall my own foolish figure shuffling down the hospital corridor back then, I can't help but laugh.

Having written and scattered 420,000 characters like this for the big festival that is the Creative Awards, I feel like I’ve started to see some of my own writing habits.

I want to write about my current feelings in a fun and interesting way, but I can't just dash it off; I almost always end up structuring it like a story, weaving in metaphors, foreshadowing, and lingering impressions. If I don't draw up a blueprint first, I just can't settle down to start writing.

At the root of my essays, I think, is probably the act of "looking back at the shadows of things lost." In any case, I can't rest until I've outlined the contours of the things that are bothering me.

Looking back, many of the essays I write are about episodes from 40 years ago. Perhaps I am desperately trying to enjoy, now, the things I couldn't get when I was a child or a young man.

For example, the piano keys I couldn't play even though I wanted to. "The Sealed Keyboard | A 40-Year-Late Invitation Played by My Fingertips," which unfolds the joy of the moment I finally got the piano I had longed for after 40 years, set to the tempo of music.

Or "40 Million Steps Later, I Am Still Writing Essays," where I encouraged myself more than anyone else that you can do new things even from the age of 50.

I carve out the contours of the things that bother me, little by little, with a knife made of words. I am now reclaiming them in my writing and enjoying them with a smirk all by myself. I can't help but love that process.
That must be the kind of person I am.

And one more thing. By writing, I realized how many things and people I am surrounded by and supported by.

The day I was surprised when the note editorial department picked up "I'd Rather Be Someone Who Can Be Surprised Than Someone Who Can Do It All. The Day I Witnessed Professional Work," a story about work; the palms of Torako-san, who revived the plum tree in the garden and made homemade pickled plums in "It Tastes Like Time, Doesn't It?."; and the story of "Three Bricks Away. I've Come a Long Way," where I remembered the forms of success and happiness I once dreamed of after seeing a magnificent hedge in the neighborhood.

The note Creative Awards festival ends here for now.
But that doesn't mean my creative work is over. There are still so many things I want to write about.

I want to slowly write down stories about the many people who made me who I am today, and "I'm Going to Listen to the Real Sound," which depicts the impulse of that day when I became so enchanted by the tone of the clarinet that I couldn't help but want to hear the sound of a real instrument. As a sequel to that, someday I want to bathe my whole body in the overwhelming resonance of real classical music at the Muza Kawasaki hall and write about it.

Or perhaps I could even use AI to create a theme song for my essays or a short commercial-like video. Just imagining it sounds interesting. Even such delusions are starting to grow.

And above all, the many days of my life with Torako-san, which are absurdly peaceful and just a little bit funny. This is my life's work. This, at least, I want to keep writing forever.

And I want to keep writing, slowly and steadily, so that those who read my work can have an immersive experience, as if they were right there with me.

Hmm?
Something smells good.

As if drawn by the scent, I stand up unsteadily, rubbing my cold back, and head to the kitchen to find Torako-san brewing coffee. The sound of hot water dripping rhythmically echoes pleasantly in the quiet room.

"Oh, are you done?"
she asks, turning around.

"Yeah. I just put out the last one."

Torako-san presses a mug of coffee into my hands and walks briskly toward the window.

"Come on, take that, let's go see how the blueberries and watermelons in the garden are growing. They've gotten quite big."

Beyond the window, the morning light of summer is already beginning to pour down, strong and dazzling.

My new story, having traveled between heat and cold, begins to quietly trace a circle once again from this small garden.

　
　　
Aioi Essay

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