A Literary Walk

I have lived in this neighborhood for more than ten years, but only recently have I fallen in love with walking it. After work, I change into something easy to move in and hurry out of the house toward the walking path along the stream, about five minutes away. After spending the whole day indoors, staring at a screen, I love this small hour when I can finally look up at the sky. With my favorite music in my ears, I look at flowers of every shape and color whose names I do not know. I watch the ducks that sometimes visit the water, and one of those long-legged birds I can never name. I look at the sky, suddenly washed in sunset, and at the tiny, fluffy dogs trotting busily past. As I walk, my eyes are busy gathering pretty things. One by one, I let go of the thoughts that had bothered me during the day. As the soles of my feet keep meeting the ground, again and again, I find my own slow rhythm. From that moment on, thoughts begin to rise in me—pop, pop—like fish jumping out of the water.

Lately, a large part of my mind has been occupied by writing. One day, while walking, I suddenly thought of Daily Lee Seul-ah, an email subscription project in which the writer Lee Seul-ah sent an essay a day directly to her readers. I had known about it for years, but I only subscribed for the first time this May. The reason I came to it so late was, honestly, jealousy. She was my age. While I was paying off my student loans by staring at numbers and Excel spreadsheets for a salary, she had paid off hers by working with words, by writing. It was childish, I know, but the moment something becomes widely loved, a small and petty part of me wants nothing to do with it. For no good reason, I did not want to read her work. But as expected—and more than expected—her writing was good. So good that I found myself waiting for it, wondering about it, even feeling sorry to hear that this would be her final serialized run. In one anecdote about a rude interview, I was struck by how sharply she answered when asked what she thought literature was.

“Sometimes my writing is good, and sometimes it is not. But I remember it as having been, for the most part, literary. I think what I have done so far is literature. People may disagree over whether it is excellent literature. But I do not think that means it has no reason to be called literature. Of course, many of the books I love were written by authors who came through Korea’s traditional literary establishment. Most of the Korean novels and poems I grew up reading belong to that world. But I think that is only one branch of literature. Outside it, all kinds of literary work are being written too.”

Outside it, all kinds of literary work are being written too. I copied that sentence into my notebook, and something in me settled. It quieted the confusion I had been carrying about what, exactly, my own writing was. After all, one does not need to enter through the traditional literary establishment to become a writer. Nor does one need an official stamp of approval before claiming the right to write. Reading her made me realize that what I write does not have to wait for someone else’s permission to be called literature. And that was not the only clarity I found through her words. She also gave me an answer to another question that often came to me during my walks: why I write at all.

There must have been a first ‘because of you’ in my writing too. Was it because of a kindergarten assignment? A birthday card for my grandfather? Praise from a teacher I liked? I no longer remember exactly. It no longer matters. Too many reasons have been added over the past thirty years.

“The people who made me want to write have been countless. You, who were good. You, who were hateful. You, who were funny. You, who cried. You, who were sick. You, who made me jealous. You, to whom I was sorry. You, who deserved to be celebrated. You, who were extraordinary. You, who were strange. You, who were beautiful. You, who simply had bad luck. You, who were an animal. And I, who saw, heard, smelled, touched, tasted, and remembered all those yous. The reason for literature is the sum of all those others.”

I had always thought I needed to define, clearly and precisely, why I write and why I want to write. But when I read that sentence, something rang through my head. I had been doubting myself, wondering whether it made sense to write without one exact reason or definition. What a foolish worry. Writing had never come from a single reason in the first place. There were too many people in it, too many moments, too many things I had noticed and kept. By the time I turned toward home, evening had settled over the path, and my steps felt a little lighter.