I’m taking a break this week from the IJOSASa/oBC to talk about something that’s been on everyone’s minds and very much a part of the national conversation lately. I’m talking about the New Yorker, of course, and its cover art, which incorporates the “dark imaginings” of America’s current cultural landscape into a tableau that is both satirical and controversial.

That’s right, I’m talking about the artwork on the front of the June 9 & 16 Summer Fiction Issue, with artwork by Adrian Tomine—by far the magazine’s edgiest, cleverest cover in recent history. It depicts a UPS courier delivering a package from Amazon, presumably full of books, to a woman who is looking sheepishly over at the proprietor of the independent bookshop located next door. Excellent satire, and incisive cultural commentary. It doesn’t get much sharper than this! Well done, Tomine. Another one out of the ballpark.

Anyway, the issue contains—in addition to fiction, of course—a wonderful personal essay by Haruki Murakami about his origins as a writer, which happened to coincide with his decision to take up running as his primary means of physical exercise. Since writing and running are the two things I spend the majority of my waking life doing nowadays, I was naturally drawn to his piece.

Turns out, Murakami came to writing relatively late. “I was about to turn thirty. I was reaching the age at which I wouldn’t be considered young anymore. And, pretty much out of the blue, it occurred to me to write a novel.”

A lot of Murakami’s narration is like this, and makes his path to being a commercially and critically successful author sound pretty effortless, like a series of happy accidents. “When I got a call from an editor … informing me that my novel had made the prize’s short list, I’d completely forgotten having entered the contest.” I always get a little suspicious when writers’ (or really anyone’s) tales of their ascension to success contain curious elisions like this: no mention of the struggle and the doubt, or the extreme patience, required by the craft.

But aside from that one qualm, I found a lot to like and relate to in Murakami’s piece. Over the past couple of years I’ve slowly been carving out a lifestyle for myself where both writing and running, once two incredibly unappealing and arduous activities, are now simply matters of fact—not necessarily any less arduous, but less intimidating, easier to fathom and commence on a daily basis. Every single day, every single time I sit down to write or am faced with a free hour or two when I could go for a run, the temptation to do something esaier, lazier—take a nap, watch a DVD—is overwhelming, and nearly impossible to resist. But I am resisting it more often than not, and when I do, I’m always glad I did.

Of course, this conundrum—hating the very thing you’re good at, resenting the hard work that makes life worth living—is universal. Great writers like Murakami share it, and great runners apparently do too:

Once, I interviewed the Olympic runner Toshihiko Seko, just after he had retired from running. I asked him, “Does a runner at your level ever feel like you’d rather not run today?” He stared at me and then, in a voice that made it abundantly clear how stupid he thought the question was, replied, “Of course. All the time!”

I knew how dumb [my question] was, but I wanted to hear the answer directly from someone of Seko’s calibre. … Seko’s reply came as a great relief. In the final analysis, we’re all the same, I thought.

Every morning I wonder if this will be the day I can’t think of a single thing to write, if I sit paralyzed at the keyboard and never press a key. Every afternoon I come home, feet dragging, having gotten insufficient sleep the night before, wanting more than anything to take a nap. But I’ve increasingly been flinging myself back out the door before I have a chance to lie down, running out into the muggy heat, to go three or four miles. Because I know that a nap will make me more sluggish and sad, while a run will energize me.

Last week I turned thirty-two, and like most people—maybe more than most people—I am occasionally self-conscious about my age. In an era when the best and brightest writers, musicians and artists seem to emerge and peak at younger and younger ages, it’s hard not to internalize the (unfair, incredibly insidious, self-defeating, and ultimately inaccurate) notion that if you haven’t made it big by the time you’re oh, let’s say twenty-six, then it ain’t gonna happen. I alternately entertain and scoff at this notion every single goddamn day, and I’m not sure I’m any closer to dispelling it. But I am getting better at ignoring it.

Murakami and countless other really talented people are living proof that such notions are bullshit. His explanation of how he went from an out-of-shape nightclub owner to a successful novelist and marathon runner may at times be smooth, zenlike and direct, but he is careful to emphasize that it was hard-won:

Having the kind of body that easily puts on weight is perhaps a blessing in disguise. …. People who naturally keep the weight off don’t need to exercise or watch their diet. … Those of us who have a tendency to gain weight should consider ourselves lucky that the red olight is so clearly visible. …

I think this viewpoint applies as well to the job of the novelist. Writers who are blessed with inborn talent can write easily, no matter what they do—or don’t do. … I have to chip away at a rock with a chisel and dig out a deep hole before I can locate the source of my creativity. … If people who rely on a natural spring of talent suddenly find they’ve exhausted their source, they’re in trouble.

In other words, let’s face it: life is basically unfair. But, even in a situation that’s unfair, I think it’s possible to seek out a kind of fairness. …

At any rate, this is how I started running. Thirty-three—that’s how old I was then. Still young enough, though no longer a young man. The age that Jesus Christ died. The age that F. Scott Fitzgerald started to go downhill. It’s an age that may be a kind of crossroads in life. It was the age when I began my life as a runner, and it was my belated, but real, starting point as a novelist.

The things most worth doing are going to be the things that entail the hardest work. This seems like a foregone conclusion, but it’s easier to pay it lip service than to actually believe and follow it. I think I came especially late to this philosophy, and it’s only recently that I’ve begun to see it borne out in my own life.

I don’t mean to brag, because at heart I am a profoundly lazy person, but I’m in the best shape of my life right now, both physically and mentally. I ride my bike everywhere and run four miles every day; I’m producing more meaningful writing than ever before because some very smart people trained me how to do it every day. So it’s taking me a little longer than the hotshots publishing books at twenty-five. It’s not a fucking contest.