and write your novels?” From the world’s viewpoint this makes perfect sense. And most people
probably didn’t think I’d make it as a professional writer. But I couldn’t follow their advice. I’m the
kind of person who has to totally commit to whatever I do. I just couldn’t do something clever like
writing a novel while someone else ran the business. I had to give it everything I had. If I failed, I
could accept that. But I knew that if I did things halfheartedly and they didn’t work out, I’d always
have regrets.
Despite the objections of everybody else, I sold the business and, though a bit embarrassed about it,
hung out my sign as a novelist and set out to make a living writing. “I’d just like to be free for two
years to write,” I explained to my wife. “If it doesn’t work out we can always open up another little
bar somewhere. I’m still young and we can always start over.” “All right,” she said. This was in 1981
and we still had a considerable amount of debt, but I figured I’d just do my best and see what
happened.
I settled down to write my novel and that fall traveled to Hokkaido for a week to research it. By the
following April I’d completed A Wild Sheep Chase. I figured it was do or die, so I’d put everything I
had into it. This novel was much longer than either of my previous two, larger in scope, and much
more story-driven.
When I finished the novel I had a good feeling that I’d created my own writing style. My whole
body thrilled at the thought of how wonderful—and how difficult—it is to be able to sit at my desk,
not worrying about time, and concentrate on writing. There were untouched veins still dormant within
me, I felt, and now I could actually picture myself making a living as a novelist. So in the end the
fallback idea of opening a small bar again never materialized. Sometimes, though, even now, I think
how nice it would be to run a little bar somewhere.
The editors at Gunzo, who were looking for something more mainstream, didn’t like A Wild Sheep
Chase at all, and I recall how unenthusiastic their reception was. It seems like back then (what about
now, I wonder) my notion of the novel was pretty unorthodox. Readers, though, seemed to love this
new book, and that’s what made me happiest. This was the real starting point for me as a novelist. I
think if I’d continued writing the kind of instinctual novels I’d completed while running the bar
—Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973—I would have soon hit a dead end.
A problem arose, though, with my decision to become a professional writer: the question of how to
keep physically fit. I tend to gain weight if I don’t do anything. Running the bar required hard physical
labor every day, and I could keep my weight down, but once I started sitting at my desk all day
writing, my energy level gradually declined and I started putting on the pounds. I was smoking too
much, too, as I concentrated on my work. Back then I was smoking sixty cigarettes a day. All my
fingers were yellow, and my whole body reeked of smoke. This can’t be good for me, I decided. If I
wanted to have a long life as a novelist, I needed to find a way to keep fit and maintain a healthy
weight.
Running has a lot of advantages. First of all, you don’t need anybody else to do it, and no need for
special equipment. You don’t have to go to any special place to do it. As long as you have running
shoes and a good road you can run to your heart’s content. Tennis isn’t like that. You have to travel to
a tennis court, and you need somebody to play with. Swimming you can do alone, but you still have to