Why I'm Psyched to Write My First Fiction Novel

Based on my experiences living in Japan

The world outside is dark, peaceful, still. It’s 4:30 a.m., and I hear the hoo of an owl. Fragments of the dreamworld linger as my eyes gain clarity.

I haven’t woken this early in a while, but I’m gearing up to write my next book, and nothing lights me up in the same way.

I lived in Japan for the last two and a half years, and I’ve imagined that my third book would be a nonfiction portrayal of that chapter, similar to how my first two books depicted transformative chapters in my life thus far.

Recently, however, while walking through Princeton, New Jersey on an East Coast trip, I had an insight. It was dusk. The sky was beautiful, the road and bordering woods damp and grey.

Fiction!

The next book will be my first fiction novel, based on my time living in Japan.

Why does fiction feel perfectly suited for this story? Well, I can use my actual experiences in Japan as an outline while playing with the elements of one of the most complex and mystical countries on Earth to fill in the colorful details.

It just feels right.

Still, it’s daunting to write fiction when there are countless novels out there, with only a small fraction getting seen by the public, and even a smaller fraction making money.

So why commit to the slog?

Because if you’re a dreamer, there’s no alternative. The point of writing a book isn’t to be better than other books; I’m not trying to be the next Hemingway, or Kerouac, or Murakami. I’m not trying to be better than today’s young writers like Ocean Vuong or Elisa Shua Dusapin.

The point to me is honestly not even to make money, although that’s an intended byproduct of writing something real and unique.

I’m writing these books — even fiction — to figure out who the hell I am and what I’m capable of. That’s something best uncovered through creating.

Writing in my Tokyo dojo.

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The early morning feels sacred. No trivialities — just an owl’s call, the fading moon, and a blank page. I can think clearly. Thoughts of the story blow through my mind like a gust of wind clearing out any remaining celestial dust. I absorb the calmness; it imbues my work.

What’s happening here? My heart pounds strongly. My spirit feels alive. Through that beautiful act of building, comprising early mornings such as these, we become more than we currently are.

We work on something, getting after it again and again, focusing on a single mission for a long time, and we gain insights that illuminate those less-traveled corners of our own psyche. And why else are we alive than to truly know ourselves?

“What you produce is not necessarily always sacred, I realized, just because you think it’s sacred,” writes Elizabeth Gilbert in one of my favorite books, Big Magic.

“What is sacred is the time that you spend working on the project, and what that time does to expand your imagination, and what that expanded imagination does to transform your life. The more lightly you can pass that time, the brighter your existence becomes.”

I can say without a shadow of a doubt that writing books has made my existence infinitely brighter. It’s a challenge, but a worthy challenge is what human beings are built for. It’s what we crave, and it’s what many of us are missing.

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When writing my first book, Arrows of Youth, I recall the early morning writing sessions. It felt like working during that odd hour shielded me from reality, a reality in which I had no right to be an author.

But this was a different world, one where I chose to get up at 4:30 a.m. and write my story. I was twenty-five, a kid who believed I could actually write a book. And I did it — one ethereal early morning session at a time.

Now I’m back in that space, reading with greater interest, eager to learn the intricacies of storytelling. I’m curious about names and where they come from, taking notes on cool ones for my book.

I leave my phone at home on walks so I can just think, letting my imagination roam. I’m on the journey of creation, and I’ve realized that to continually walk this path — no matter the outcome — is the life I’m after.

“You can live a long life, making and doing really cool things the entire time,” says Gilbert.

“You might earn a living with your pursuits or you might not, but you can recognize that this is not really the point. And at the end of your days, you can thank creativity for having blessed you with a charmed, interesting, passionate existence.”

A charmed existence indeed. With my second book, When the Sky Opens and the Answers Shimmer, I recall writing in my off time while working as an English teacher in Japan.

Picture an arbitrary Japanese town in the Kansai area (where Kyoto and Osaka are located), and you could find me deep in thought in some basement of a shopping mall or a bustling cafe, penning my European tale.

It didn’t really matter where I was.

I was writing a book.

That endeavor is what I look back on with pride, not necessarily finishing the thing, but the hours and hours I spent building it, and who I became while on that journey.

I finished the book and started to do the marketing, the audiobook, and everything else that comes with publishing.

“It seemed like once you finished the book,” my girlfriend told me recently, “it sort of took the joy out of it!”

Strange, but true. I should have been psyched — it’s over! I finished the damn thing! But that means there’s a whole that remains where the challenge of creation used to be.

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There’s a concept called ‘gold medal syndrome,’ which is the emptiness and even depression that many athletes feel after completing the Olympics. Even if they win gold, the mission that they committed their lives to is over.

It might not be as extreme with whatever it is you and I face (unless you’re training for the Olympics), but the lesson remains:

Achieving the thing really isn’t the juicy part of the story. Having the courage to go for something that matters to you — that is what it’s all about.

So if you have an idea for a business, a book, a career change, anything that stokes an ember of curiosity within you, fucking go for it.

As hard as it is, try not to get so caught up worrying about the end result or if the thing will be successful. Take a shot, throw your hat in the ring, and embark on a journey that will instill your life with substance, passion, and maybe even a hint of magic.

Just begin.

For me, this means writing the first chapter, the first page, the first sentence. You don’t have to have it all figured out before you start something. Sure, it’s good to have a roadmap. But we so often paralyze ourselves with expectations before we simply set sail.

So this is me, leaving the dock. I have no clue when I’m gonna land on that foreign shore that will be my first novel. But it really doesn’t matter. I’m doing this for the adventure, the mystery of the open seas, the man that I’ll become.

Just go, write, create, build — and enjoy the ride.

Photo of the author. Osaka, Japan.