In Place of an Afterword
[This is an author's comment for Sugaru Miaki's novel The Town of Sakura that isn't part of the book itself, but serves as a sort of foreword and/or afterword.]
I wouldn't say I have the best memory, yet oddly, I'm able to distinctly remember the moments when all the stories I've written so far were born. One was born while absentmindedly sipping coffee at a train station café, while another was born when I sat on a park bench on my way to see the cherry blossoms. One was born while waiting for a stoplight, another was born after doing some deep introspection in the bathtub. And one was born while, when driving around aimlessly, I saw a sign that read "Sakura Town." When I saw that sign, I naturally pictured a town where every single person was a "sakura," a fake stand-in. I stopped the car and indulged in playing with that idea for a while. A town where everyone but you is putting on a performance. A town where every little thing, even any goodwill and courtesy, is fabricated.
Of course, there's plenty of precedent for stories like that. Myself, I've tried several times in the past to write my own take on The Truman Show. Yet not one of these attempts took shape. On its own, the idea of "a world where you're being performed to" turned out to lack the strength required to pull the story along to the end. (Granted, this could be said of any idea. Even if it's a fascinating idea at a glance, rarely will it grow to be a fascinating story all on its own.)
But when I mixed the words "Town of Sakura" with a Truman Show-esque situation in my mind, I began to feel more confident that perhaps I could write that story to completion. A container with a good shape also determines the shape of what can go inside it.
I've long had an interest in the nature of "sakura," in the "faker" sense. I've felt immensely captivated by notions like "pretending to be someone's friend at a wedding." There's an inherent hollowness to it that I fear considerably, which is exactly why I couldn't look away. To conquer certain kinds of fears, you need to prove you can handle things smoothly while having a full understanding of that fear. For instance, a novelist may try to achieve that through writing. If they're able to construct a favorable story where the subject is a fear of theirs, that can take them partway to victory over that fear. That's why I actively try to incorporate things I fear in my stories.
Although it's been ten years since I became a novelist, I still feel a bit strange about seeing my books on store shelves. Flashes of unease cross my mind, like "Is this all some giant prank? Surely what I write doesn't have enough worth to be sold - maybe some generous soul is just giving me special treatment to keep me alive?" Even when I see positive reviews online, or receive compliments from people in person, I feel like there's something lurking behind it. Of course, I'm not saying I believe that deep in my heart, just that it's a way I feel occasionally.
I imagine that people who are able to understand those feelings even a little will naturally be able to identify with the protagonist of this story. When fears like that become reality, what kinds of wounds will be inflicted on us? And how can those wounds be healed? The Town of Sakura was constructed to find that out.