I’m reading Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami and this is a joy, in part, because it features a young woman who is struggling to become a writer. She pours out her frustrations to a friend, “Images, scenes, snatches of words…in my mind they’re all glowing, all alive. Write! they shout at me. A great new story is about to be born – I can feel it. It’ll transport me to some brand-new place. Problem is, once I sit at my desk and put all these down on paper, I realized something vital is missing. It doesn’t crystallize – no crystals, just pebbles. And I’m not transported anywhere.”
In response, the friend offers the following, “A story is not something of this world. A real story requires a kind of magical baptism to link the world on this side with the world on the other side.”
A story is not something of this world?
Does this mean I need to become a dimension-hopping, holy thaumaturge? Was that in the job description?