The Art of Writing a Love Letter
To Morimi Tomihiko: Love Letter Anti-expert (August 27-October 5)
August 27
To: Morimi Tomihiko, addlebrained author
I—Morita Ichirō, who once so yearned for the city of Kyoto—am now leaving Kyoto. I am composing this letter in a dim café deep within the bowels of the Kintetsu Mall in Kyoto Station, hunched over a table, counting down the minutes until my train leaves.
Thank you ever so much for that wonderful night. After visiting a certain underground abode and hearing the full story of the Titty Incident, my rage against you only grew. How immature of you, trying to throw Mamiya under the bus. Even if he did want to see the lab, you should have pointed out that it was already 9 at night and steered him towards bed like a responsible adult, not sauntered onto campus with all the ladies in tow. This is all your fault, all of it.
I’d like to set things straight: as I already explained to you, that buxom screening was just a means to set Komatsuzaki free from his delusions.
It’s been a trying three days; my little sister even told me, “You’re dead to me.” But the silver lining is that I got my hands on a computer belonging to a particularly odious colleague of mine from the lab. If I hadn’t, I might well be waiting at the station right now with a discount Seishun 18 ticket in hand, off to seek my fortune at the edge of the world. I hear it’s a magical place with no experiments, no graduation theses, no job hunting, no heartbreak, no Taniguchi, no boobs. Actually, let’s keep the boobs.
Don’t bring the computer I entrusted to you outside, and under no circumstances should you bring it to the lab. My revenge against my hated foe depends on you holding on to it. By wreaking my vengeance, I shall emerge a new man and take the next step in my evolution. Once my foe admits defeat, I will send instructions on the computer’s return.
My train will be pulling in soon.
Whenever you feel like complaining about how hard writing is, consider how fortunate you are that anyone wants to read your insignificant twaddle at all. Look at me: in that lab at Noto, hardly anyone even remembers that I exist.
I struggle alone in that forsaken place against an array of mundane yet formidable obstacles. How will I graduate? How will I make my living? How do I get the person I like to like me back? Since the dawn of time, how many students, uncounted and uncountable, must have wrestled with these selfsame problems, rolling around and bawling in their 4½ tatami quarters! I disdain the ordinary, and yet it’s the ordinary problems which I just can’t seem to overcome.
But I have a plan to surmount this crisis: I will master the art of writing a love letter!
Let me finish before you start to judge. I master the art. I put on the moves. I get the girl. I find my reason for living. My motivation skyrockets. I nail the interview. I get the job. I bust my ass to get to graduation. I graduate. I marry the girl. We have a kid. And we all live happily ever after.
A flawless plan, no?
What do you mean it won’t work?
And what exactly, pray tell, is wrong with it?
Morita Ichirō
September 10
To: Mr. Morimi Tomihiko
Good day. It is I, Morita Ichirō.
My sincerest apologies for the late reply. You’re right: summer is ending, not that there was any point in checking with me. It’s still sweltering, but the cool breeze that whispers through the window in the mornings and evenings now is no longer that of summer. Our summer is going away. Once again we late bloomers have wasted yet another summer. Save your tears; tears that won’t even buy you any sympathy are worthless.
I couldn’t help but notice as I read your letter that you were subtly implying that I was to blame for your lack of progress on your novel. Stop wasting time with such transparent chicanery. And if you’ve got a toothache you ought to go to a dentist. If you want to have a pajama party, have it by yourself. And I’m pretty sure guys don’t normally throw pajama parties. Loincloth parties are the name of the game for us.
Now onto the serious business.
To be frank, I really don’t have the time to be writing this drivel. When I arrived back in Noto, it was to find that in my absence the cowardly Ōtsuka Hisako had stolen a march on me, as well as my computer and research notes. Truly the work of a dishonorable mind. Taking the initiative to steal her computer was the right call. I can only throw myself upon the mercy of drill sergeant Taniguchi. I am negotiating with Ōtsuka in good faith, but it looks like it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
The computer you currently hold in your possession is my ace in the hole. You need to be very careful with it. Don’t let it leave your apartment. You never know who could be on the prowl. Your opponent is clever, inflexible, egotistical, ruthless, and beautiful to boot. Without question, she’s one tough customer. Keep your guard up.
Request favor of your reply ASAP.
Morita Ichirō, Negotiator
September 15
To: Mr. Morimi Tomihiko
Looking out from the platform at Noto-Kashima Station at the sea, it seems that the course of summer has a little left to run yet. Yet here I stand, watching the last grains run out on a summer of regret. I am in agony. I want to walk into the sea. No, not to swim in it. I just want to get away from it all, baby.
I’ll take your advice in the spirit that it was given. You’re completely correct: I should put aside my silly pride and return her computer. And I should stop wasting time on this pointless squabble and focus on practicing writing love letters.
But I no longer have any reason to give the time of day to trifling things like common sense. Things are different now, for you see, after standing tough at the negotiating table, I am at last back in possession of my computer and notes. What have I to fear now? My enemy requests that I return her things, having returned mine. How gullible. Too gullible, forsooth. There is much I still desire. And so, she will just have to suffer a little while longer.
No doubt you’re already preparing a pious, self-righteous lecture for me.
But after the Titty Incident I have nothing left to lose. Boobs have changed me. But Morita Ichirō is not so gutless as to blame everything on boobs. It is not boobs that are at fault. Boobs are virtuous things. The fault is mine for having been vanquished.
My eyes have opened to the cause of justice. Wherever there is injustice, I will be there to oppose it. Empress HIsako once ill-used and mistreated me: now I shall smash her fortress of treachery, liberate the once-proud laboratory from her tyrannical reign, and sow the seeds of a better tomorrow. If I am vilified, despised for my actions, so be it: I shall gladly pay that price for the sake of my fellow researchers, and those who will come after me. For what is the world but a den of perfidy? History is written by the victor, and anyone who is taken in by silver-tongued falsehoods has only himself to blame. Call me a coward if you like. Forget me, and go back to writing letters to your raven-haired maidens. But remember not to sign away your copyrights. And don’t ever kid yourself that those maidens aren’t gunning for them. There’s no other possible reason anyone would be sending hot and heavy love letters to someone like you.
That will be all for today. I want constant vigilance with that computer.
Morita Ichirō, evil incarnate
September 20
Master Morimi: apologies for this humble postcard. Thanks for most convincing letter. But things have taken sudden turn. Mortal enemy Ōtsuka Hisako more devious than I could have imagined. Computer and notes once again in clutches of the foe, negotiations reopened. Situation slightly dire. Enemy could be anywhere. Double check all locks. Knowing her, possible she’s sniffed out your address and is en route as we speak. Extreme caution: repeat, extreme caution. Morita Ichirō
September 22
To: Morimi Tomihiko, whipping boy
I used to respect you, Morimi. Maybe I did take advantage of your easygoing (some would say lackadaisical) nature and go a little too far. Maybe I did treat you with less respect than you deserve. But never in my wildest dreams did I consider that you might be the cause of my downfall.
Yet here we are.
How many times did I warn you not to let it leave your apartment or take it to the lab? How many times did I tell you not to return it without my express permission? But what did you do? Unbelievable. Do you really have to be such a goody two-shoes?
Ōtsuka Hisako’s high-pitched cackling rings in my ears. With my ace in the hole down the drain, I had no choice but to write an apology to her yesterday and yield to her every demand. I’m sure you would like to know what they are.
- I will master the art of writing a love letter
- I will organize a pep-up party for Ibuki
- I will send a love letter to Ibuki
How did it come to this?
There’s no way I can write a love letter.
For months I’ve begged and I’ve pleaded, yet still you refuse to divulge the art of writing love letters. That is why my proficiency in romantic correspondences has remained stagnant. And it’s not like I was ever any good at writing ordinary letters to begin with. Every time I write a letter under the pretext of epistolary boot camp, things take a turn for the worse. And after all that, I ended up whispering, “Three cheers for boobs,” right in front of Ibuki, sweeping away the last petals of hope that might have remained. And now I’m supposed to hand her a love letter in public? My granddad once said to me, “Don’t you turn into the type of pathetic jackass who gives a girl a love letter in public. One, the whole street would laugh at you. And two, you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning her heart.” And dammit, he was right.
I’ve already lost everything I have; do I really have to lose my dignity too?
It’s all your fault that things have turned out this way.
It’s your fault! It sounds so nice I’ll say it twice. It’s your fault!
Sincerely,
A man on the edge
September 29
To: Morimi Tomihiko, Representative Director of Love Letters ’R’ Us
Thank you for your letter. If you agree to teach me the art of writing a love letter, then all will be forgiven. Things are a little less lonely around here at the lab now that Komatsuzaki has also been dispatched here from Kyoto. I suppose I ought to be grateful to you for keeping me in your thoughts as I slowly descended into madness.
Ōtsuka Hisako has returned my computer and research notes. You may be surprised to learn that the abusive drill sergeant who was supposed to be mentoring me was in cahoots with Ōtsuka all along. In spite of the fact that they own matching mandolins with the Heart Sutra emblazoned on each, it never crossed my mind that they might be an item. It blew my mind. Romance remains a mystery to me.
I spend my days now going through the motions, setting up experiments and cataloguing data.
One day I will leave this place. I will return to Kyoto, and with a little more diligence I will leave the sheltered harbour of the university campus and paddle forth boldly into the great unknown. I don’t want to paddle out. No ship can long withstand the tempestuous waves that await out in the real world. Yet neither can I stay here, happy and content in this lab by the sea. I will never find true happiness here.
Currently my motto is, “Do something, anything,” so I’ve thrown myself into the job hunt. I stay up late into the night, analyzing my strengths/weaknesses and filling out applications. As you know, I have never been one to shy away from casting my discerning gaze upon reality, and it did not take long for me to discover an undeniable fact: there’s nothing appealing about setting sail into the real world.
Certainly I have plenty of energy to write vast numbers of pointless letters. When it comes to pointless ventures my cunning knows no bounds (Then how was I beaten by Ōtsuka? The answer, of course, is that she is a demon in human clothing). I have spent many years in deep contemplation on the subject of boobs. In fact I was once quite revered as a guru on the topic by a number of male college students. But life is sufficiently long that man cannot live upon reverence alone, and I am far from certain about spending my life as a philosopher of breasts. What if one day I were to ask my beloved’s father for her hand in marriage, only for him to angrily rebuff me, thundering, “No titty philosopher is going to have my daughter!” No, thank you.
Yet that’s the only talent I have.
What a preposterous, unjust dilemma.
If I can’t get any companies to hire me, I’m thinking I’ll just start a company myself. You’re the only one I can turn to. What do you say we join forces to start up a venture writing love letters? Don’t worry, all you need to do is provide the capital. Together we’ll be unstoppable. We’ll be listed in all of the up-and-coming young entrepreneur showcases.
Great idea, don’t you think? Fine, I’ll say it so you don’t have to: it’s a terrible idea.
The Titty Philosopher (first publication forthcoming)
October 5
To: Morimi Tomihiko
No joke, it’s fall now.
The other day I was by the shore filling the sea with tears for fears about my future, when I noticed red spider lilies blooming along the embankment. It was such an otherworldly sight that I ran away in sheer terror. I have yet to experience the finer things in life, so you’d best believe I’m not ready to embark towards the great hereafter just yet. First I’d need to know whether the afterlife has boobs…and the fact that this is all I talk about is exactly why I’m so hopeless. I’m such a moron! I’m such a stupid moron!
In any case, congratulations on finishing “The Night is Short, Walk On Girl”. I guess all the advice I dispensed when I visited you in Kyoto really paid off. We should get together and celebrate when the book comes out. Cash is a perfectly acceptable form of repayment.
You’re right: this whole “love letter startup” thing is just me running away from the fight. And you’re also right that I need to stop taking refuge in fantasies and face reality. But why does hearing you say that annoy me so much? Don’t you feel any shame, superciliously lecturing me from atop that self-righteous throne? Are you going to abandon your principles for the sake of being right? What happened to the Morimi Tomihiko who groaned in that cafe, “If I can’t be a poet or a gentleman of leisure, then I don’t want to become anything at all”? Were those just crocodile tears that trickled down your face?
I just wanted to try saying that.
Sorry.
I know that you’ve got deadlines breathing down your neck, which makes me all the more grateful that you still spent the time to share your thoughts on love letters. I’ve been poring over them in between experiments and job applications.
I understand what you’re trying to say. But isn’t advice like, “Use intensity to seize her heart,” a bit, well, simplistic? There’s nothing very secret about that. And it’s not like I needed you to tell me that, I’m already putting my heart and soul into these letters. Each word is seared onto the page with the ardour of my entire being. My soul is engraved in each line. You said that, “you’re stuck in the mud because you rely on half-baked gimmicks,” but nothing could be further from the truth. Only a blackguard like you would harbour such suspicions. My soul is as squeaky clean as a freshly scrubbed toilet bowl.
Yet what do I have to show for it?
I’ve written several drafts, but my nerves always give out before I can drop them in the mail. Re-reading them makes my face burn with embarrassment; I keep wondering, What was I trying to write? Sure, the emotion almost makes the ink run on the page. It’s pretty good writing by my standards, straightforward and passionate, and sometimes I catch myself wiping a tear from my eye, it’s so beautiful. But there’s a critical flaw. Partway through my letters always go a little odd; I don’t know what it is, but it just doesn’t feel like I’m writing with a pure mind.
Why does this happen? What am I doing wrong?
As a kid I loved writing letters, even if I wasn’t very good at it. I loved it so much that I even used to tie letters to red balloons and watch them sail into the sky, hoping that they’d come down to earth in some far off town where I’d find a penpal. Yes, grade schoolers like that do exist. I was so innocent in those days, so very innocent. But someone must have taken divine pity on those innocent hopes, because imagine my surprise when someone did write back. Everything was beautiful about that letter: the writing, the pen strokes, the envelope. The summer that exchange ended was one of the saddest summers of my life. Just thinking about it makes the old flame flare up. I can even hear the sirens.
I just can’t not screw things up.
A vagrant soul