Oh, Murakami, you sly fox, you mercurial and fluid, thread a web between East and west that we at once desperately need and can’t quite comprehend. And yet we return, thirsty and increasingly drunk of the elixir that is the product of your craft.
Writing a novel is a complicated equation involving a lot of variables and moving parts — not the least of which are the authors themselves. In fact, the process of writing a novel is so arduous and soaked in magical thinking that many writers struggle to explain the process coherently,
Our story is never-ending.
That to say, I will always love you.
Aware of this dream state which is my tendency to romanticize the past.
I will be confident — not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar.
I will be, act, speak with intention.
I will be finished, will shop my novel.
Novelist. Reader. Archaeologist.
After high school I hit the road. A spontaneous bus ride to Mexico City led me into the hazy mountains, the deep emerald forests of Chiapas where I discovered the beautiful and heartbreaking world of the Maya (yes, they still exist) and found something deeply rooted, down in my heart of hearts: A need to be part of something greater, to commit myself to people less fortunate.
I mean, it’s not cheating if nothing happens. Oh, but emotions run deep. Which begs the question: What’s worse, an emotional or a physical affair?