The voice calling to make up could be heard 　Preface

The voice calling to make up could be heard

                          Preface

   This novel, titled after the renowned cantata by Bach, is a love story, a narrative of a young man's setbacks and resurgence, a tale of the independence of both men and women, and a story of Japan's regeneration that has grown fat with money. In essence, it can be read in various ways, and its interpretation varies as much as the number of readers. Therefore, there is absolutely no need for explanatory prefaces or the like, and readers can skip such lengthy introductions without any concern.
   However, if, upon completing this lengthy novel, there is something that lingers in the reader's heart, or even if one abandons it midway, I recommend picking up this book again when stumbling in life, when unsure where to escape from the depths of despair, or when facing the challenge of creating something. The reason being that this novel weaves another story behind it – the story of how an ordinary man with no significant talent became a writer.
 
   It is not clear when I started working on this piece, but it was probably in the latter half of my twenties. It was around the time when I was approaching the age of forty that I finally revealed its complete form and arranged it into the format of a full-length novel. Therefore, it can be said that it took over ten years to finish this work. I wonder how much I have written to complete it. I wrote and discarded, discarded and wrote, and the amount, so to speak, may be twenty to thirty times more than this novel, or even more. I had no idea how to write a full-length novel. I simply pushed forward aimlessly through the mist, along an unknown path. There was no exit of light anywhere in the front. Once I finally crossed one mountain pass, there was another. If I reached that pass, gasping for breath, there was another, even higher pass towering ahead. I often wondered if I might never be able to finish writing this story for eternity."
 
   It was truly a battle of either overcoming or being overcome, and every time I sank into the depths of despair and lamentation, I began to doubt whether I had any talent to become a writer. I had been somewhat conceited, not claiming to be first-rate but believing I possessed a reasonable amount of talent. However, in reality, I had not just second-rate but even third-rate talent, and voices constantly sought to knock me down, asserting that novels written by such individuals had no meaning at all. Yet, I couldn't simply yield to such voices. If I were to abandon this here, it would be like chasing after a mirage. I couldn't discard it so easily. Why shouldn't a third-rate talent write a novel? I reminded myself that there is a way for third-rate talents to write, and with renewed determination, I slowly climbed the daunting peaks that stood before me. It was truly the sluggishness of an ox, the pace of a turtle. And so, it took more than a decade to complete this novel.
 
   And then, another formidable challenge lay ahead – the hurdle of promoting this novel somewhere and turning it into a book. This, too, was an exceedingly high peak for an unknown author. For a writer, the period of creation is when the novel is completed, but I still wanted to send this novel out into the reading society. It was through the continuous writing of this novel that I became a writer, as it is filled to the brim with love and hatred.
So, a few years after completing this work, I decided to send it to three major publishing houses on a whim. Company A returned it without even touching it, accompanied by a curt message: "We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts. We have various prize-winning novels sponsored by our company, so please consider submitting your work there." Company B wrote, "I read the work, but it seems to clash with the character of our publications. Additionally, our publishing plans for this year have already been decided, and we cannot make any changes." Company C sent a letter saying, "It is indeed a powerful work, and we struggled with the decision to publish it. However, new works by unknown authors always carry a lot of risks, so unfortunately, we have decided to pass on it this time."
 
   I wasn't particularly disappointed by the outcome; it was almost expected. Rather than feeling disappointment, I thought that, through this, a significant medal had been bestowed upon this work. I'm not comparing myself to the author of Lolita or the writer from the Tropic of Cancer, but great books are always persecuted and rejected. I decided that the rejection of my novel was also because it contained some internal issues.
   I still think that way. The theme of this novel has not faded at all; on the contrary, it is now shining more brightly than ever. While the economy has continued to grow, the Japanese people, on the contrary, have become increasingly stingy and small. Be that as it may, this novel is my starting point. By completing this novel, I became the writer Goro Takao, and this work had to be the first one sent out into the reading society. And so, another dozen years pass by.
 
   Today, we often hear the theory that there are numerous literary prizes, making it easier for unknown authors to debut compared to past times. However, the reality is quite the opposite, and one could even say it's a dark age for true writers. Aspiring writers abound, and their mediocre compositions overflow, leading to the existence of literary prizes as a means to sift through those who wander aimlessly with their inconsequential writings. Only those who pass through that narrow gate are acknowledged to possess the potential to be a writer, even if it's uncertain whether they are of the sea or the mountains. Anything else is considered rubbish, and the unified consensus, held not only by major publishing houses organizing these literary prizes but also by small publishing houses surviving in the backstreets of dirty buildings, is that if you don't want to be labeled as garbage, you should give up trying to become a writer. Foolishly, this has become the prevailing wisdom in society. To become a writer, the first step is to win a literary prize, akin to hitting the jackpot.
 
   In my younger days, I too held such beliefs and submitted my completed works to literary contests multiple times. Was it that they didn't catch anyone's attention at all? I recall buying magazines featuring the selected works, especially those I thought I could have easily surpassed. The chosen authors, now the judges, would solemnly critique the entries, pointing out flaws such as rough writing, low aspirations, structural issues in the latter part, or a slight weakness in the professionalism of the writing. I couldn't help but think that becoming a writer was indeed a formidable challenge after glimpsing these evaluations.
   However, now, whenever I read the critiques these judging authors spout like cheap judges, I can't help but marvel at how they conveniently ignore their own shortcomings and freely dispense arbitrary pronouncements. Is it not your work that has rough writing? Is it not your novel that lacks aspirations? It's absurd to accuse others of having low aspirations when you've been churning out empty novels. Criticizing structural issues here and there when your own work is nothing but a collection of flaws. In short, I feel like slapping a congratulatory seal on their critiques and sending them right back to these judging authors.
 
   Why did they involve themselves in such a ludicrous thing as judging literary contests? They might say something like wanting to be a force for discovering hidden talents, encountering outstanding works, or enriching the literary soil by introducing new talents. It's a ridiculous notion. What they actually face is just a handful of entries selected by the editors of the company that organized the contest, out of hundreds of submissions. While comfortably sipping grape wine at some high-class restaurant, they casually comment, "All these are just at the level of compositions. They're short and sweet, each with its own merits."
   If they were to confess everything honestly, these authors have no deep intentions, kindness, or a desire to enrich the literary soil. They participate because they were asked by the publishing house, because they don't want to be cut off by the major publishing house, and furthermore, being a judging author is like a badge of honor, adding weight to their status. It might be of such insignificance to them, but its significance is immeasurable. The reason is simple: they have become the gatekeepers of a fortress that slaughters true writers.
 
   Have they ever pondered the horror of this situation? Have they ever considered that the true writers who infuse power into the Japanese language, give birth to new stories, and enrich the reading society might actually be on the side of those condemned to slaughter? The true writers, with abilities and rich qualities far surpassing these judging authors, are estimated to number at least a thousand scattered throughout Japan, according to my speculation. Yet, they all remain hidden from the world. Along the edges of rice fields, in the basement of a tax office, in the back alleys of snack bars, in wooden apartments, in the corner of a bar counter, in a mansion on Sixth Street, behind the back gate of an agricultural school, in the warehouse of a fisheries cooperative, in the penthouse of Golden Town, in the attic of a pachinko parlor, deep in the forest, on a real estate agent's sofa, in the shadows of a Western restaurant's refrigerator, on the emergency staircase of an advertising agency, behind the toilet at the International Freight Center, in a flower shop in Ningyocho, and in a mountain hut in the Northern Alps, they hide. Most of them would never have thought of submitting their work to literary contests. They know the absurdity too well. Therefore, they remain hidden from the world, and the gatekeepers of the guillotine fortress could never encounter them.
 
   The judging authors are ultimately pitiful gatekeepers, hired to do a job. The problem lies with the major publishing houses that have created the fortress of literary contests. They never question the form of these contests, considering the gate as the stepping stone for writers. However, one might ask whether those who emerge from this gate are individuals who, while well-organized, lack significant power, talent, and consequently produce works that are neat but utterly charmless. Occasionally, they may encounter genuine talent, but most of these individuals end up writing inconsequential works and quickly fade away. In essence, wasn't this gate letting through individuals who lacked the soul to become writers? The reality is quite close to that. Despite creating such gates, they complain, saying, "Recent newcomers are no good. They lack significant talent. Their writing is like compositions by female students, lacking an impressive scale." And to escape this decline, they raise the prize money.
 
   The metaphor may be off, perhaps too exaggerated, but when someone begins to carve words, they do it with their life at stake. There's a burning passion within, struggling with grand hypotheses, grappling with a story that grows in spirals, and facing the crisis that if the overflowing words aren't spewed outward, their very being will crumble. They wish to purify their profound agony through words. Once engaged in such a struggle, there's no room for petty tricks to neatly wrap it up. The story is in chaos. Like surging waves, the narrative goes wild, dancing like leaves in the vortex of abundant words. It's nothing like the polished novels produced by honor students. The writing is rough and crude, the structure is a symphony of successive breakdowns, and in terms of appearance, it's as rugged as a misshapen pumpkin. Such a novel can never pass through that needle's eye. No matter how polished or finely tailored it is, it will never pass through. In fact, if you were to shape a novel to pass through that hole, it would cease to be a song of the soul.
 
   In the end, those who can pass through the narrow hole of literary contests are only capable of producing compositions akin to those written by honor students. Their souls are merely constructed from an aspiration for the image of trendy authors incessantly created by television and magazines. They have no connection to the struggles of the Japanese language or the hardships of the Japanese people. What they aspire to achieve is to ride in a Jaguar with ample royalties, live in a stylish mansion, be flattered as a respected teacher, effortlessly handle a flood of orders, and swiftly become the executioner in the fortress of betrayal. Publishing houses should scientifically measure these aspects. Despite producing a vast number of prize-winning novelists, they should assess how much these individuals have enriched the literary and reading society. If there were keen analysts in such a desolate scene, they would undoubtedly conclude that literary contests, especially prize-winning novels, are the primary factors causing the degradation of the soil of literature.
 
   In the end, the ability to pass through the narrow hole of literary contests, or rather prize-winning novels, is reserved for compositions at the level of model students. Their essence is built on the aspiration of the image of trendy authors created incessantly by television and magazines. They are unconcerned with the struggles of the Japanese language or the suffering of the Japanese people. What they aim for is to ride a Jaguar with ample royalties, live in a fashionable mansion, be flattered by everyone as "sensei," effortlessly handle a flood of orders, and casually become the executioner of the fortress, betraying it without hesitation. Publishers should scientifically measure such aspects once. Despite producing a vast number of prize-winning novelists, they should assess how much these individuals have enriched the literary and reading society. If there were sharp analysts present, they would undoubtedly conclude that literary contests are the biggest factor in the degradation of the soil of literature.
  
   No, that's not the case. The reason significant literary prizes are not being won despite the frequent occurrence of literary contests is that truly talented individuals have stopped writing, and the means of expression have diversified. There are no longer people diligently engaged in the dark work of writing words. Furthermore, the nature of words has gradually changed in meaning and composition, causing the existence of novels to become increasingly rare, making it even more difficult for writers in this era.
However, that is not true. There should be at least a thousand true writers hidden in Japan. They never seek to please. They never submit their work to literary contests. They remain hidden. They depart from this world while remaining concealed. Their works also vanish, turning into ashes in an incinerator without ever being published after their death. What a loss it is. Those works are the essence of the Japanese language, Japanese stories, and the songs of a people.
 
   Certainly, novels seem to be in a continuous decline, but it's not necessarily a cause for pessimism. For example, there's a theory suggesting that mystery novels are thriving and continue to sell well. However, this phenomenon is likened to the situation where Japanese films are in a state of ruin, yet a plethora of adult videos are being produced, emphasizing a sharp and decadent appearance. Adult videos can no longer be called films, and if we were to label them, they are simply arousal products for desire. In this analogy, the flock of mystery novels becomes like an enema injected into the anal cavity of modern individuals who have become constipated due to irritation and stress. Mystery novels represent one of the origins of literature, and the method of delving into the mysterious depths is also an important style when writing novels. Even Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment" and, further, "The Brothers Karamazov" could be considered as mystery novels. Rather than rejecting mystery novels, it's their absurd and cheap nature that is criticized. They are filled with completely ridiculous tricks and shallow stories, resembling the monotonous pattern of repeated sexual encounters in adult videos. It's astonishing that someone can seriously write such material, and it's equally surprising that readers can endure such simplistic novels until the end. However, in today's Japanese reading society, only products of this kind seem to sell, and this has turned the reading society into a soil that only supports such commercially viable content.

   Japan's economic strength, evident in its acquisitions of cultural icons like Columbia and CBS, doesn't translate to a powerful energy in its own culture and arts. This is starkly apparent when looking at the dismal state of Japanese cinema. On the contrary, the United States, despite economic setbacks and defeats in various areas, continues to produce vibrant and powerful works in film, music, and literature. How can this be explained? Japan has also invested substantial funds and energy into films, with examples like the film "天と地" (Heaven and Earth) costing fifty billion yen. However, the hollowness of such films is striking. They are unbearable in their emptiness, embodying a pinnacle of waste, decadence, and nouveau riche aesthetics. These films lack any trace of substance, featuring nothing more than lavishly adorned groups moving about aimlessly.
 
   It was truly astonishing how such a vast sum of fifty billion yen could be poured into such an empty film. Instead of investing such an amount in such a film, I couldn't help but think that allocating two or three billion each to two or three dozen unknown filmmakers would have a much higher probability of producing superior films. For instance, there was a literary film titled "わが愛の譜" (Melody of My Love), depicting the life of Rentaro Taki. It involved filming in Europe, featuring local orchestras, and performing numerous masterpieces. However, I was dismayed by the emptiness of its content, the banality of the dialogue, and the one-dimensional nature of the characters. It seemed that these filmmakers had little understanding of what makes a film. Perhaps they believed that by playing beautiful music and capturing scenic landscapes, they could create a truly exquisite film.
 
   While it appears that exhibitions are held everywhere, showcasing the world of art in a glamorous light, the stagnation and decay of Japanese art are likely similar, perhaps even in the realm of fine arts. For unknown creators, it remains a winter age, and the majority of painters probably painted within a lifestyle not much different from the impoverished and struggling life of Van Gogh, who continued to paint amidst abject poverty. Despite such artists, just recently, a Japanese individual invested a considerable sum of five billion yen to purchase a painting by Van Gogh. Shortly after, another person appeared, investing eight billion yen, and to add the final blow, a businessman appeared who spent a whopping ten billion yen to acquire a painting. The irony lies in the fact that all these paintings were created by Van Gogh, who fell into poverty and despair, unable to sell a single painting during his lifetime. What would Van Gogh think if he could observe this scene from above? If we could hear Van Gogh's voice from the heavens, he would probably say something like this: "Distribute that ten billion yen among unknown artists."
 
   What unknown artists need the most is time to continue creating, and the money to create that time. It's an urgent issue for them, much like bread to stave off hunger. Therefore, supporting them with living expenses to create time for production is the way to go. Two million yen per year would likely be sufficient. However, one year is meaningless. To break through the barriers standing in front of them, unearth the veins of talent within them, and overcome numerous peaks of hardship to stand as an artist on the earth, at least five years is required. Give without saying anything for five years. Two million for five years would total ten million yen. However, even if you were to give ten million yen to each individual, with the one hundred billion yen spent acquiring a single painting by Van Gogh, you could support a thousand artists. A thousand artists would begin astonishing creations. After five years, an entirely new art movement, a dynamic era akin to a contemporary Renaissance, would undoubtedly be born.
 
   However passionately we argue about this, the situation is unlikely to change. Art, fundamentally, does not connect with money. Artists have always been poor. Sadly, they tend to remain poor, with most artists collapsing within poverty. This has been the case throughout history. Thus, to become an artist, one must have a spirit that can endure poverty. Artists, willingly or unwillingly, develop such a spirit. Therefore, poverty is not a significant issue for artists. There are various jobs to make a living, and artists are willing to do any kind of work, whether it's strenuous physical labor or precarious jobs that leave them in tatters. The real problem is that what troubles artists the most is the lack of places or opportunities to present the works they've created, works that have been carved out of their very lives. How does an unknown composer present their work? How do unknown filmmakers create and showcase their films?
 
   How do unknown painters present their works to the world? Indeed, the film industry, music industry, art industry, and publishing industry exist splendidly, constantly introducing new works and new artists. However, the methods and spirits with which these businesspeople present their works to the world are likely to align with the image of publishing houses laboriously sending out prize-winning novels. It's about how to profit easily, efficiently, and quickly, extracting as much money as possible. The cunning, cash-driven, miserly mindset rejects and repels those individuals who embrace large hypotheses and seek to infuse new life into Japan and its people.
 
   Reviving the soil of language is not achieved by creating small holes here and there. It's not about hanging prize-winning novels, increasing prize amounts, or repeatedly presenting cheap detective novels in various forms. Rather than these superficial measures, one must fundamentally address the core of decay. The most essential action is figuring out how to encounter unknown authors with significant souls. Then, the focus should be on how to bring their body of work into the world. It involves delving into the works they struggled to complete, interpreting them on a different scale, engaging in more human connections, and collectively refining the golden fruits, sending them out into the reading society. It may be a costly and time-consuming process that could jeopardize the business of publishing houses. However, if one perseveres with patience in this work, the reading society will gradually transform. Authors nurtured with care will draw in a multitude of readers from various realms, reshaping the reading society.
 
   The fruits of language become more flavorful, more radiant, and more powerful. The Japanese language evolves, giving rise to numerous new stories. The soil of language undergoes transformation. As the reading society enters a period of abundant harvest, all forms of art are bound to begin bearing fruitful results. This is because the core of Japan is becoming enriched, and the spirit of Japan is finally entering a phase of maturity. Art sings about humanity—it sings about the depths of suffering, about love and hatred, about anger and sorrow, and about joy and prayer. Through art, humanity is deepened, healed, and infused with courage. The heart's farmers and fishermen, the artists, sing songs of human revival. They sing for humanity to be lively, to be proud, to rise from despair and sorrow, and to live not as slaves to organizations, technology, or machinery, but as individuals who live for themselves. They sing for each person to establish a spirit that can say no to the world.
 
   "I couldn't give up on publishing 'The Call to Awaken' and, a few years later, I sent it along with two or three other completed works to three or four publishers once again. Faced with the nonchalant response from major publishers, I set my sights on mid-sized publishers this time. The feedback remained largely unchanged. The manuscripts were returned, accompanied by brief letters. Unlike the indifferent letters I received from major publishers, the wording this time showed a bit more empathy. 'I believe it's an excellent masterpiece. However, we hesitate to venture into new literary works by unknown authors. Considering the quality of this masterpiece, I recommend trying other publishers.' Alternatively, 'I had some editors read it. Some were deeply moved, but our company currently lacks a project to make this novel a success. As an aside, we suggest you look into other publishing houses,'" it went.
 
   The words expressing admiration for the masterpiece or being deeply moved sounded hollow within the text, and I began to believe that these were nothing more than standard phrases used when declining a submission. I arrived at a conclusion—namely, their reluctance to engage with the works of unknown authors was not based on the quality of the works themselves. Even if exceptionally well-crafted pieces were submitted, they would likely be rejected. In essence, the situation was this: books are not selling well at the moment, and in such times, there is no way that the books of unknown authors would sell. Faced with this harsh reality, my conviction only grew stronger that it was time to unequivocally withdraw from this futile endeavor.
 
   However, one day, an express mail arrived at my house. The contents were as follows: "After a long journey, the day has finally come for me to encounter the extensive works of Mr. Takao Goro. I would like to discuss my thoughts on publishing, so please visit my studio." And on that same day, another express mail arrived, as if chasing the first one. It read, "Finally, I've thoroughly read through the longest novel I've been passing around, 'The Voice Calling You to Wake Up.' Captivated by the charm of this novel, it's truly an admirable work. Somehow, it lifts my spirits." On that day, I stood at Ochanomizu Station and made a phone call. They mentioned it might be a bit hard to find, so they would guide me over the phone.

   The streets of the student district were bathed in the bright autumn sunlight, with the scent of youth wafting through. Turning at the instructed church, at the end of the street stood a person wearing a beret. It was Mr. Ryohei Komiyama. The area around Sarugakucho slopes down, with a hotel called "Yamanoue Hotel" indicating the steep slope connecting the upper and lower parts of the town. Mr. Komiyama had come up the challenging right-side slope of Otoko-zaka (Male Slope) to greet me. This flight of stone steps might leave someone over seventy slightly breathless due to its incline.

   I was led into a room named "Atelier," which had the atmosphere of a study. There, he brewed Japanese tea, peeled persimmons that had arrived from Shinshu, and mentioned, "The part I really liked in your work is here." As it turned out, that particular passage was also a part I considered to be a crowning achievement, so I was a bit taken aback. I currently have two or three manuscripts that far exceed the standard at hand, and I had been contemplating how to publish these works. However, after holding your work and witnessing this person thoroughly delving into it, I felt a determination to embark on a new phase, marking a significant culmination in my long publishing career. He spoke passionately about his plan, and it seemed to be maturing within Mr. Komiyama. He made youthful and sparkling declarations towards the publishing world, even launching an office called the RKO Studio.
 
   However, Mr. Komiyama lamented multiple times that things weren't progressing as he wished, saying, "If only I were ten years younger." Ultimately, that attempt did not bear fruit, and this novel also did not become a book under Mr. Komiyama's guidance. Nevertheless, through this encounter, I was able to firmly reaffirm the world I had diligently built. Reading over a thousand books written by Mr. Komiyama, it became clear how profound the words "genuine author" and "authentic work" truly are. I was no longer afraid of anything thereafter, and I remained unwavering in all matters. I just needed to keep writing genuine works. Looking back, that fortunate encounter was a bigger event for me than creating a single book.
 
   Furthermore, as if invited by that stroke of good fortune, a new fortunate encounter awaited me. Two individuals, Mr. Tsumi and Mr. Shimamura, came to my office with the proposal to publish a small magazine aiming for 500 regular subscribers and a print run of 500 copies. They expressed their desire to include my short stories in the magazine. As they revealed the name of this small magazine, I was taken aback, to say the least. The name was none other than "Leaves of Grass." I had believed that in contemporary Japan, there were no readers who appreciated Walt Whitman's poetry. To my further surprise, they added, "Once 'Leaves of Grass' gains momentum, we plan to launch the 'Leaves of Grass Library,' and within it, we would like to publish your entire body of work."
 
   They had already read my major works, and it felt like an encounter with a fox. The small magazine was published, and the "Leaves of Grass Library" began its publication. Watching their work unfold with excitement, I couldn't help but be amazed by the magnitude of their hypothesis and the pioneering work to carve out new horizons. The work of "Leaves of Grass" is truly in a state of becoming, an adventure and experiment that is nothing now but will soon encompass everything. Once again, I strongly feel that "The Voice Calling Me to Awaken" has fallen into the hands of individuals worthy of this novel.
 
   Thus, the novel that was once in the darkness has now closed the circle of creation for the first time. It has been a long period of thirty years since I first took up the pen. Therefore, I can proudly conclude this "Preface to the Leaves of Grass Library Edition" as if, for example, in the fourth movement of Brahms' Symphony No. 2, where all the instruments join together to play a song of joy and liberation. To the unknown young writers wandering in the darkness or the wordsmiths who will emerge one after another after we are gone, I dedicate the courage and light of the fourth movement, like a resounding finale.
 
   Criticizing the reality faced by unknown writers won't change the situation at all. The stronghold of literary contests, akin to a massacre, continues to exist, and there's no inclination to delve into more essential and fundamental aspects to enrich the literary soil of society. Therefore, like many struggling artists, writers must persevere in their beliefs, even while grappling with poverty, taking one step at a time.
   At that moment, I offer a prayer along with a piece of advice: never walk towards literary contests. Involvement with such things will likely not only crush your works but also your soul. No matter how many times you submit, you will never be able to pass through that needle's eye. This is because you are a person with the soul of a genuine writer, not someone sacrificing life to squeeze through such a narrow passage. The very thought of attempting to pass through that needle's eye is, in itself, something to be ashamed of.
 
   So where should one direct their writing efforts? A writer lives within the fervent hope of sending their work into the reading society. However, there are no publishing houses eager to turn your works into books. Try sending a piece you believe to be an unwavering masterpiece, just completed, to a publishing house. You'll be treated dismissively. Entrusting your work to a publishing house is akin to offering it to the hands of the gods, yet their treatment is utterly intolerable. It's an era of hardship and adversity for unknown writers, an era that makes life incredibly challenging. However, that doesn't mean you should be disheartened. No, not at all. If you're defeated here, it means you were never truly a writer. You were merely someone who harbored a longing for the profession of a writer. Didn't you decide to stand in the world as a writer because you had an overflowing desire to express something, a faith that led you to carve that overflowing essence into words? If so, then the advice is to keep writing. Write long novels, short stories, novellas—just keep writing. Whether it sells or not doesn't matter. Just keep writing. That's the only way to break free.

   Continuing to write words that won't even fetch a penny entails subjecting oneself to persecution and ridicule. To complete a single long novel, one must detach from everyday life and live like a recluse, enduring such days for years on end. You may face insults, and at times, even stones might be thrown at you. Yet, you must not give up writing. It is by finishing that long novel that you truly become a writer. Weren't you born to become a writer in the first place? Aren't you living to prove that throughout your lifetime? If so, you must keep writing. Through writing, you become yourself. The mountain passes are infinite. Once you surpass one summit, a new one awaits. With each pass, you grow stronger. With each higher summit, you become more of a writer. Becoming a writer doesn't come from producing bestsellers or winning literary awards.
 
   Your words have finally enabled you to stand alone on this earth. They have become a language of resistance, standing against the world. You are creating a world of strong, beautiful, and robust stories one after another. Even if you haven't sent just a single book into the world, you are undoubtedly a writer. Within your strengthened self, a publishing house is growing. Even for a lone warrior like you, a publishing house is necessary. It provides the energy to write, supports your soul, and signifies that you are not alone. It's not a fantasy. In Japan, there are plenty of publishing houses, and there are publishers who appreciate your work, are moved by your soul, and are willing to turn your work into a book with all their might. Not all Japanese people are so indifferent as to let your soul wither away.
   Therefore, as a writer, where should you direct your writing? It should be towards the publishing house that is becoming the guiding hand within you. Carve your overflowing words into that direction, and keep creating numerous stories. The day will surely come when you encounter the divine hand of a publishing house. Until then, continue writing without fear.