Well, I'm hooked on a novelist

Hooked on Akio Morisawa
Since my writing career started to move little by little, my dormant passion for reading has begun to bubble up. Before I knew it, I was going to the library every day.
I usually stay for a little less than two hours.
The road from my house to the library is nothing special.
I pass by a convenience store, cross two traffic lights, and walk along the side of a park where the scent changes slightly depending on the season.
Even though it's just that kind of road, strangely, it gives me a push, saying, "I'm going to enter my writer's time properly today, too."
Even the sound of the library's automatic doors opening has become a rhythm of my daily life.

I try to leave at about the same time and park my bicycle in the same spot.
At the entrance, I give a slight nod to the staff member I always see.
That interaction has become something like a small commute rather than just "visiting the library."
When I enter the quiet atmosphere, I feel the unnecessary switches inside my body turning off smoothly.
My body, which had been following the flow of people on the train station platform, regains its own pace here.
I think I keep coming here because I like this feeling.

My seat is usually decided.
I change it depending on my mood that day—a seat where I can see the window or a seat near the shelves—but either way, there is a place where I feel, "If I sit here, I can start reading."
The scratches on the wood grain of the desk and the slight creaking sound of the chair have now become sources of comfort.
I think this is probably the same as getting used to the wear on a guitar neck in the old days.
When your body gets used to tools and places, your heart stops having unnecessary hesitations.

At first, you know, I thought I would do some "research" that was typical of a writer.
Reading mysteries and horror.
It was for my writing. Trends, structure, how to lay out foreshadowing, how to build up fear. I wanted to look at the techniques of skilled people, incorporate them into myself, and eventually make them the skeleton of my own work.
When I'm looking at the spines in front of the shelves, I get excited, too. Discoveries like, "Oh, this part of this book is selling well," or "This kind of gimmick is trendy right now," are fun.
The time I spend reading is, of course, interesting.
But "reading for fun" and "reading to write" are similar but slightly different. Once I start being conscious of the latter, I end up becoming like an examiner somewhere along the way.

To be honest, it was difficult.
Reading is fun.
There are moments when I can't stop turning the pages.
I get chills down my spine during scary scenes, and I even let out a "Wow, that's amazing" at a clever plot twist.
Yet, the moment I imagine myself writing, my hand stops somewhere. Before the assembly can even begin in my head, my heart gives a small shake, as if to say, "Hmm, this might not be my forte." This was more of a fundamental feeling than a technical problem.

For example, even though it's fun to understand how a trick works, when I think, "Then should I design the same thing?" it suddenly feels distant.
The direction of fear is fine as a reader, but when it comes to "Then should I do that in my own world?" for some reason, my breathing becomes shallow.
If I forced myself, I might be able to write it. But writing that is forced also gets conveyed to the reader.
I think it gets conveyed to me, too.
The lines between the text reflect more honestly than you'd think where the author is taking a breath and where they are struggling.

When that continues, the weight of the word "research" increases. I have to research, I have to become able to write.
The more I strained myself like that, the more I felt like my own seat was getting narrower, overwhelmed by the skill of others.
Around me, there were students silently facing their desks, an old man reading a newspaper, and a child holding an illustrated encyclopedia. Even though everyone was just spending their own time, there were days when I somehow ended up with a look on my face like "someone who came here to finish an assignment."
If I went home with that look, I wouldn't feel like continuing at home either. I wouldn't be able to read even though I wanted to.
I wouldn't be able to write even though I wanted to.
That was probably my body properly rejecting it.
That kind of discomfort you feel when you try to run in shoes that don't fit.

At times like that, I stopped and thought for a moment.
What kind of person was I to begin with?
That's right, I was an aspiring musician.
Since long ago, I've made songs, written lyrics, and placed my thoughts there. Love, romance, life, and helpless self-questioning.
There were times when a line I jotted down before going to sleep the night before a live show became the chorus the next morning. I would dive deep into my heart, pick up what was stuck there, and put a melody to it. That's how I've always done things.
I've always sung "this is what I feel" before "this is what I have to do." That probably hasn't changed even now.

I realized that I have lived by putting into words the more familiar "swaying of the heart" rather than big incidents or clever tricks.
The moment you fall in love with someone, the anxious nights even though you're in love, the days when you're a little scared of tomorrow coming.
I have given shape to the texture of those ambiguous emotions—things I can't say definitively, things I don't want to say definitively—with sound and words.
I finally realized that this experience had been separated from "the writer me."

If so, wouldn't it be more natural to write about those things?
Writing that I can write at the speed at which I breathe. Stories that suddenly light a lamp somewhere in the reader's heart. Stories that don't try to reach too high, but still have the sound of a heartbeat in them.
I should just go back there without forcing it.
"Going back" isn't a retreat. It means returning to the point that is most real to me. I thought of it more as a fulcrum for extending further from here.

When I thought that way, the way I saw the bookshelves changed.
I started looking for "books to walk with" instead of "books for research."
The former has a destination ahead, while the latter has value in the time spent walking itself.
I don't read to steal something, but to remember something. Lately, it's closer to that feeling.

While looking for an author close to that "place to return to" and following reviews, I encountered Akio Morisawa's books.
When I was casually looking at the spines in front of the shelf, the title naturally caught my eye, and for some reason, I reached out. I felt like our breathing would match. I can't explain the reason well, but the temperature of the words felt close to my own body temperature.

The moment I started reading, I thought, "Ah, this is it."
The text flows in smoothly.
There's no friction.
And yet, it's not just light.
Before I knew it, it felt like I was sitting next to the characters, laughing or feeling a little warmth in my chest.
"Easy to read" doesn't just mean simple.
There is a sincerity in watching the reader's feet and moving at the same pace.
It doesn't swing difficult things around while they are still difficult.
And yet, it makes a story while properly holding onto the pain of reality.
The perspective is kind, it properly treads the mud of reality, and yet in the end, a temperature that tries to believe in people remains.
Such writing doesn't tire the reader's heart.
Rather, the more tired the heart, the more quietly it can receive it.

I thought that readability isn't the strength with which the author pulls the reader's hand, but "a feeling of walking at the same speed."
Not leaving anyone behind, not rushing them. But not standing still too long either.
This way of matching the pace is probably a very high level of kindness even among writers, and it's not something you can imitate just on the surface. When I read it, I secretly straighten my back.
Ah, doing this kind of kindness in writing is an amazing thing, I thought.

Besides, Morisawa's writing doesn't explain emotions too much, yet it conveys them properly.
Even though it's not said, "This person is thinking this right now," the reader understands it naturally.
That naturalness is very comfortable to read. I suddenly wish I could write that way, too.

What I borrowed today were "Wednesday's Letters" and "Five Miracles Spun by Books."
Just the titles are already unfair. Letters, miracles.
Both have a scent I like.
Actually, there was a time when I felt a little guilty about borrowing books just by their titles.
But lately, I've been trying to trust the feeling of reaching out by the title. That book is probably speaking to me at the angle I need right now.

When I received the books at the library counter, the "face of my late-night self being happy" floated into my mind for a moment.
I think the library is the place where the moment of borrowing contains the most future.
Stories I haven't read yet are entrusted to "the me of the future."
The fact that the air on the way home felt a little happier than usual is probably not just my imagination.

I go home and tidy up around my desk.
These few minutes before I start reading have become another ritual.
I brew coffee, silence my smartphone notifications, and dim the lights by one level. This preparation itself becomes the entrance to reading.
It's the same feeling as when I used to tune my guitar before a live show. I prepare my body's senses for the time that is about to begin.

Tonight is late-night reading time.
I turn the pages in the quiet room and surrender myself to the flow of Morisawa's words.
Then, strangely enough, while reading, the "outline of what I want to write" inside me begins to rise little by little.
It's closer to regaining something than learning something.
"Ah, I should write with this kind of temperature."
"This is where people's hearts quietly bend."
Such small realizations are gently placed at the edges of the story.

And those realizations often come back to me not while I'm reading, but when I'm brushing my teeth after finishing, or the moment I close my eyes after getting into bed.
I think that is surely proof that the writing is soaking deep into my daily life.

In terms of benefits, when you return to a place you excel at, your pen doesn't falter. The distance to the reader also becomes closer. Because you can write with your own body temperature, you can keep at it for a long time.
When you write in a place that doesn't strain you, your 'own words' naturally come into view. As long as you are borrowing someone else's writing style, your breathing will become shallow somewhere along the way.
But when you can write at your own pace, there are times when the sentences, like living things, carry you to the next line. Just having that sensation return changes your daily life as a writer quite a bit.

The downside is that compared to genres where flashy gimmicks or strong stimulation are the selling point, it can sometimes be harder to stand out.
Because it conveys things gradually, it might take time to reach people.
The speed of spreading is different between easy-to-understand impact and quiet empathy. Therefore, it is inevitable that there will be nights when you don't get an immediate response.
Days when you post and the reaction is thin, days when you feel like you aren't reaching anyone even though you are being read. At times like those, you might find yourself thinking, 'Do I need to make it flashier?'
But there is no need to put on shoes that don't fit just to run. Extending the distance you can run in your own shoes is, in the end, how you go the furthest.

Objectively speaking, I think a writer becomes strongest when they dig deep into the 'place where they can write without strain'.
Going as far as you can in the place where your own words are least muddied. That might, in the end, be the way to reach the furthest.
And that place, unexpectedly, has often been right under your feet all along.
What you've done with music, what you've cherished in daily life, your habits and breathing when using words. Everything connects to the writing you do now.

'Meeting a writer you love and can keep reading' is huge for a writer.
Admiration is not just a starting point for imitation; it also becomes a guidepost for returning home. Just being able to recall that feeling from Mr. Morisawa's books when you are lost makes your writing compass point north just a little bit.
Because of that, writing becomes less scary. No, even if the fear remains, it becomes a fear you can walk with. A fear that allows you to move forward even while still afraid.
That is probably the kind of fear necessary for living as a writer.

Now, let's dim the lights a little and open the page.
What kind of breeze will the Wednesday letter bring to me tonight? Where are the five miracles quietly placed?
The answer is probably waiting inside the book with an 'easy-to-read face'.
And after I finish reading, I'm sure I'll want to go to the library again.
Because I feel like, along with the sound of those automatic doors, my time as a writer will softly begin again.