Note is not a place for presenting ideas. It is a rearrangement of what is already understood ━━To writers seeking novel material《This week's three-topic story presentation》

When the cherry blossom viewing season arrives, I feel a little awkward every time I see apple candy at a food stall. It's there every year. It's red every year. And every year, that feeling of it turning your mouth into a festival the moment you bite into it remains unchanged.

Yet, people line up for it every year without fail. Seeing that, somewhere in the back of my mind, I think that clichés must still be alive. It stands properly in the line at the food stall with the face of an old honor student who has been left behind by trends.

When I look at note, I sometimes think about this strangely. There are things that are cliché but interesting. Conversely, there are things that are novel but not interesting at all.

New words, new angles, new structures, new perspectives. Even though the approach is certainly new, the brain of the person reading it remains stuck at the entrance, unable to take off its shoes. Before I can enjoy it, I run out of breath just trying to understand it. It feels like standing in front of a reception desk in my head, being told, "Today's exhibition is avant-garde," and just standing there. No, being avant-garde is fine. But I haven't even seen the floor plan yet.

It's not about "clichés being justice." If you start saying that, the world of expression becomes like a classroom newspaper. Safe, harmless, and something no one gets angry at, but nothing remains after you read it.

That's not it; it's that clichés have their own traffic management.

When people see a scene they recognize, they enter it quickly. If you say it's cherry blossom viewing, they can already see the blue tarp under the cherry trees. The feeling of a slightly squashed convenience store rice ball, the laughter of people drinking since daytime—it all pops into their heads. This is the strength of it. Because "cherry blossom viewing" alone brings all that to mind, the explanation cost is low.

On top of that, I think it's about what one single thing you decide to screw into that.

If you try to make everything new, the reader's head gets busy. It's like being dropped into a country where the map is new, the vehicles are new, the currency is new, and even the laws of gravity are different. It's not tourism; it's a shipwreck.

Writing that is novel but boring usually feels like this.

To the person writing it, everything is connected. It looks natural. But there is no bridge built to the other side yet. Even if someone waves from across the river saying, "Come over here," the reader can only see a future where their socks get wet.

For example, the Kanji Kentei (Kanji Aptitude Test) is like that. If you are suddenly presented with a first-grade problem, you feel a sense of eye-rolling before you feel any appreciation. Characters like "Rose" or "Azalea"—well, I think it would be cool if you could write them.

But if you only encounter characters you don't see in daily life, it feels more like participating in an ancient ritual than taking a test. People get fired up for things they can reach if they stretch a little, but if the height makes their knees shake just at the warm-up stage, only admiration remains. You might admire it, but it's hard to get absorbed in it.

Isn't what writing needs "optimal complexity"?

If it's too easy, you get sleepy. If it's too difficult, you can't get in. People linger longest in that space in between—where it's understandable but slightly new, where it's something you know but the way it's phrased is clever, or where the scenery is familiar but the objects placed there are strange.

Maybe a silver medal is just right.

I think to myself, "Isn't gold better?" You should say gold. But there is a strange sense of reality to a silver medal. It's amazing. It's plenty amazing. And yet, there's a slight mix of regret. You can see the last half-step. The distance that felt reachable but wasn't becomes the story itself.

Rather than finishing everything in writing, having a part that hasn't quite reached the end makes the reader want to reach out.

Something that is too perfected has correctness, but no room for participation. It gets applause, but it's hard to feel like you want to write something yourself.

It seems like readers are coming to see the writer's finished product, but I don't think that's actually the case.

They are looking for the sensation of standing in a place they can understand while the world they know shifts by just half a step.

Like having one strange conversation in a scene you've seen at a cherry blossom viewing stall. Or having a high-density word like a Kanji Kentei problem mixed into the flow of everyday Japanese. Or, even though you were talking about a classic story, suddenly realizing, "Oh, this person has a very strange perspective." That half-step is effective.

Writing that strikes a chord is not writing that is packed with novelty. It is writing that places a new center of gravity on top of a foundation the reader already knows.

If you take this foundation lightly, you will usually fail. Because in your desire to avoid the mundane, you end up throwing away the functions that the mundane possesses.

There is a reason for classics being classics. The reason cherry blossom viewing works even if it's a cliché every year isn't just because the cherry blossoms are strong. It's because the anticipation of what people will see, what they will drink, and what they will talk about is already shared as a scene. By using that shared knowledge, the writer can devote their energy to the deviation they really want to show.

Well, saying things like this makes me feel a bit embarrassed, as if I'm someone who has it all perfectly designed. In reality, I write and think, "This is too ordinary," then twist it and think, "Who is going to get this?" and I spend more time sitting small at my desk in that back-and-forth.

I fear clichés, I long for novelty, but I want to be read. It's quite selfish. Writers are probably all just slightly troublesome cherry blossom viewers. We are always thinking about things like wanting to reserve a spot but not wanting to lay down a blue tarp that stands out too much.

The next time I write, what I want to be slightly more conscious of is not adding novelty, but not erasing the ground the reader stands on.

You don't have to invent everything. One thing is enough. Place an angle that hasn't been seen before within a scene that has. That is what lasts the longest.

People who are always thinking about writing are probably always adjusting that balance. The mixture of cliché and discomfort. The boundary between what is understood and what is not. They are looking for that perfect balance, like the redness of a festival stall and the slightly chilly wind on the way home.

Writing is not a complete new development. It is the work of mixing an unknown touch into a world the reader already knows.

So you don't have to try to make your next article entirely new. It can be a scene as well-known as cherry blossom viewing. You just need to place your own silver medal there. Readers will, surprisingly, find it just fine.

《This week's three-topic story》
1. Tetris
2. Targeting
3. First sign of spring

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[Image cooperation: Sachiwa]

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