Retelling Yesterday's Story, Today

Have you ever been at an izakaya and found yourself eavesdropping because the conversation at the next table was just so interesting?

It might be some stranger's minor work complaints or a story about getting scolded by his wife, but the tone of voice and the timing are so exquisite that even though you didn't intend to listen, your ears just naturally turn toward them.

That feeling where you pretend to reach for the edamame on your table while secretly wondering, "So, what happened next?"

That is exactly the state I aim for when I write essays. Rather than having people read them, I want them to find themselves listening. And not just out of polite obligation, but with a genuine sense of leaning in.

Instead of being praised for writing something "informative," I want to write pieces that make people think, "Wow, I ended up sitting next to someone interesting. Let me listen a bit more."

However, in reality, I am sitting at my desk at home, facing my computer, groaning as I squeeze out sentences. I am less like a fun guy talking at the next table and more like someone in the corner of the staff room making handouts for tomorrow.

At such times, I came across a remark about essays by the creator Mikey.

"Retelling yesterday's story, today, a little better."

Ah, I see.
I stared at that one line on my screen for a while.

This person is truly amazing. While I was agonizing over things like "the distance from the reader" or "the sense of presence in the narrative"—terms that sound like I'm about to get lost in the writing technique section of a bookstore—they summed it all up in a single line that sounds like talking to a friend.

To use an analogy, it’s as if I had brought a stepladder and a tape measure out of the storage room to figure out "what makes an interesting piece of writing," and Mikey just wandered over, cracked open a canned coffee, sat down nearby, and said, "Why don't you just retell yesterday's story a little better today?"

The secret to the "person talking at the next table" that I have aimed for all these years was right there.

That said, when I write normally, I don't become a fun-loving guy sitting at the next table; I become a serious teacher standing in front of a blackboard.

I know the reason. I have written technical blogs for a long time, and in my day job, I create textbooks. Both require clarity, logical order, and leading the reader to a proper conclusion at the end.

That is useful for work, but when it comes to essays, that uninvited teacher enters my writing.

For example, even if it's just a story about choosing bananas at the supermarket, if I'm not careful, I start summarizing it with, "From the above, it is important to purchase bananas with the day you intend to eat them in mind." What on earth am I trying to teach in the banana aisle?

Writing is something that can suddenly change professions with just a single phrase.

If I write, "Let's keep this in mind," it immediately takes on the tone of a game strategy guide. If I write, "From the above," it becomes a research report, and if I write, "What is important is," a principal suddenly starts climbing onto the morning assembly platform.

And if I go so far as to write, "In short, life is..." a grand podium and microphone are brought right into the supermarket's banana aisle.

This doesn't make me a fun guy at the next table; it just makes me a preachy, annoying old man. No. That is not the pompous speech I want to write.

So, I use metaphors to divert the conversation away from the teacher who appears in my writing.

When a serious conversation is about to start, I send something strange running in from the side. I welcome the air conditioner as politely as a big-name actor, turn a five-blade razor into an unproductive employee, and transform the banana section into a tense shogi match.

What's more, once I've thought of a metaphorical world, I don't return from it easily.

In the story about electricity running between a silver tooth and a metal spoon, I built a power plant inside my mouth. Then, a branch office was established in my brain, and just by someone using a metal spoon on TV, all the facilities would start operating at once.

In the story about the razor, I appointed the skin-protecting lotion as the "accident response team" and asked the replacement blades to take on "post-retirement re-employment."

I live in the world I've created like that for a while, continuing the story while increasing the number of residents in that land. It seems I use metaphors not as decorations for a sentence, but as places for short-term stays.

If Mikey-san is someone who catches interesting stories with his bare hands, I think I am someone who carries a net, sets traps, and even draws up meticulous maps of the planned capture points. It's quite elaborate, but that's my way of doing things, so it can't be helped.

The other day, wanting to verify this writing style of mine, I had Claude read all 233 essays I had written up to that point. Since I couldn't find my own way of speaking, I filed a missing person report with the AI.

Then, an interesting result emerged.

・Circular structure (returning to the opening topic at the end): 92.7%
・Use of metaphors: 99.6%
・Appearance of Torako-san (my wife): 84.6%

Lined up like this, it immediately looks like meeting materials for a Monday morning, but it seems I return precisely to the starting point at the end with a high probability, even if the conversation derails far away once. I don't know if I have a good sense of direction or if I just lack the courage to go far away.

And, I was taking the conversation to some other world almost every time using metaphors, when I could have just said it normally. Well, I can't deny that I enjoy doing that.

The highlight is the 84.6% appearance rate of Torako-san.

I reported that to her last night.

"By the way, it says Torako-san is at 84.6%."

"What is?"

"Your appearance rate."

"Do I talk that much?"

She does talk. To be precise, even if she doesn't remember it at all, I am the one who arbitrarily runs a reenactment film in my essays and makes her talk. If I write 100 books, my wife appears in about 85 of them. She is now the star actress of the program called Aioi Essays.

And there was one more number in the analysis results that pleased me.

Of the 558 metaphors I have used so far, almost none were reused; they were almost all one-time expressions. Furthermore, each of the 233 essays used a different approach.

The things I squeezed out every day while sweating over my desk came back to me as a number: 'You have told 233 different stories properly.'

What the AI discovered was not a general way of writing essays, but my clumsy, exaggerated way of speaking when I sit next to someone. It felt like I was being acknowledged that I hadn't just been going around in circles in the same place for 233 essays, and honestly, I was quite happy.

But.
Once you know your own style, you start to become conscious of it. 'I haven't used a metaphor yet,' 'Maybe I should bring in Torako-san soon,' 'I have to secure a path back to the beginning at the end'...

If I start thinking about things like that, I won't be 'the person talking next to you' anymore, but 'the person desperately trying to replicate my own essays.'

No one thinks, 'If I introduce my wife around here, my relatability will go up to 84.6%,' while talking to a friend. If someone did, they would be holding a ratings meeting in their head while looking at their friend's face.

A style might not be something you set up in advance to protect, but rather the footprints left behind when you look back at what you have written naturally.

...Writing things like that, the teacher appeared again.
It's dangerous. Just now, he was about to carry a podium in from the back of the banana section.

After all, I want to be an uncle who forgets about calculations and techniques and tells interesting stories next to people. It seems that what I should be polishing is not my writing, but my own sensibility.

Wanting to get even a little closer to that ideal sensibility, I read essays by Sensha Yoshida and Momoko Sakura. On top of that, I learned that my favorite, Iio-san from Zun, is also writing essays.

However, I'm sure I'll just laugh out loud and it won't be a study at all. But that's fine. I want to be a person who can write such sentences.

Mikey-san's words: 'Retell the story you told yesterday, better today.'

To me, it sounded like being told, 'You don't have to think about this and that in a complicated way.' I think it's a truly wonderful phrase.

Yet, I kneaded the structure of that one line, brought in metaphors, and even dragged out the analysis results of the past 233 essays, turning it into this one long essay.

It seems I can't be satisfied unless I hold a serious meeting in my head to retell yesterday's story better today. It's a troublesome personality, but well, that must be my way of speaking.

And, this morning, as I write this.

I told Torako-san, who was in front of the washing machine, about the AI's analysis results and Mikey-san's wonderful quote, gesturing and speaking proudly.

'...I heard that last night, too.'

Exactly.
That is why I am retelling it well again today.

Aioi Essay

▽ This is the article that made me think about "yesterday's story again today."

▽ My essay entry for the note Creative Awards 2026 is collected here. Please take a look.

Thank you for reading until the end 😌

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I also write essays that capture casual, everyday moments, which are also entered in the Creative Awards. Please feel free to take a look.

Threads, and Substack feature behind-the-scenes stories about how this essay was created, along with images that couldn't fit into the note post.