Yatagarasu Series
Volume 6:
The Raven's Flourishing
Author: Abe Chisato
A Conversation Between Abe Chisato and Yumemakura Baku
From All Things Reading, July 2017 issue
Yumemakura: It’s been quite a while since you received the Matsumoto Seichō Prize. How many years has it been since you published your first novel?
Abe: It’s been five years now. I’ve admired your work for ages, long before I published my first novel. Your Sorcery series was in my school library; I loved it!
Yumemakura: It’s interesting to hear so many writers mention Sorcery to me—you’re far from the first. It was written well before you were born. I’m glad you liked it.
Abe: I’ve always been particularly taken with Princess Tsuyuko, the insect-loving princess. There’s something about her that draws me in.
Yumemakura: Princess Tsuyuko is indeed a delightful character. I wish I could write about her more often, but I haven’t written much in that world lately.
Abe: Please consider bringing her back for your next work!
Yumemakura: All right, I’ll do my best to write her back in.
Abe: Thank you! I can’t wait to read your next book. I’ve always thought of you as a mentor, so I hope it’s not too presumptuous of me… [laughter]
Yumemakura: That’s quite flattering. Your debut novel, Ravens Shouldn’t Wear Kimono, is very impressive—writing that at just twenty years old is no small feat! There were a lot of surprises for me in the second half. When I was your age, I was far less aware of the dangers of relationships. I really struggled to understand people back then.
Abe: I had no idea you’d be reading my work someday! I’m kind of stunned; I need a minute, uh… anyway, I first read Sorcery in my first year of middle school. The world was so alive and colorful. Your settings are always so easy to visualize; I feel like I’m in the story with the characters. Your lush and sensual descriptions made a powerful impression on me as a kid. I would copy down passages I liked to read them over and over again. It was like copying prayers.
Yumemakura: You took notes on my books? [laughter]
Abe: Sorcery has such a vivid setting. Do you start out with the setting when you write?
Yumemakura: Generally, yes. However, I don’t feel the need to write down every detail. For instance, if I have two men walking, I’ll picture which is taller, the moon’s position, and how the light falls on them—just enough to capture the mood of the scene. It’s not something I force; it comes to me naturally.
Abe: Is there a reason you choose to start with the setting?
Yumemakura: Because it’s easy for me. [laughter] You know, when I find myself in a tough spot, I tend to just focus on the setting and let the rest take care of itself. Ms. Abe, you plan everything out and write sequentially, right? That’s not really my style. I prefer to improvise. I rarely know the end when I start a story. When I have three days before a deadline, I make myself sit down and write the setting, and then the next scene flows from that. Sometimes I finish in time; more often I get stuck and send an incomplete story to my editors. I submit more of the story as I figure things out.
Abe: That’s impressive. I’m not sure I could manage that.
Yumemakura: I believe everyone has their own methods that work for them. Planning everything out in advance feels limiting to me. Of course, that’s just my perspective. My method isn’t foolproof, and it doesn’t always get me the best results, especially on a first draft. I like writing this way, though. I’m always wondering what’s about to happen next.
For instance, when I was working on Beast Hunting, I started simple: “Bunsei Senkichi was standing in the wind.” It was spring, so I followed that up with, “The scent of plum blossoms that had just bloomed lingered in the air…” The rest wrote itself. As I describe a scene, I find that connections from previous scenes help me figure out what Senkichi will do next. It took me thirty-three years to wrap up Beast Hunting, so it’s not a quick process. When sales are slow, just keep writing serialized novels. [laughter]
Abe: [laughter] I find it incredible that you wrote the same story for thirty-three years, especially since I’m only five years into my writing career.
Yumemakura: I admire writers who can map everything out to the very end; that’s impressive in its own right. How long were you writing before you published Ravens Shouldn’t Wear Kimono?
Abe: Ravens Shouldn’t Wear Kimono was the third novel I completed. Back in elementary school, I wrote a lot but I never finished any long stories. In junior high, I wrote a hack job first novel, and in high school, I created something that later morphed into Princess Tamayori, which became the fifth book in the Yatagarasu series.
Yumemakura: Writing improves with practice. Each work teaches you something. It’s humbling, but also kind of frightening.
Writer’s Block Isn’t Scary
Abe: So far, I haven’t run into writer’s block yet. You’ve been writing for a long time—how do you deal with writer’s block?
Yumemakura: I don’t; it’s not something I struggle with. I’ve had moments where writing didn’t flow, but in the grand scheme of things, those were just minor blips. Writer’s block is just a brief obstacle. If you’re committed to writing for the long haul, writer’s block loses all of its power. There are times when distractions pop up, like when a crush doesn’t return your feelings, or when your mind drifts to everything else but writing, but those deadlines? They always sneak up on you.
Abe: Deadlines are the worst.
Yumemakura: Yes, but without them, I would have written much less than I have. I owe a lot to deadlines. There’s always a temptation to procrastinate, and ideas don’t just materialize from thin air—they require effort to capture. I remember playing shogi with Kunio Yonenaga once.
He gave me a handicap, of course, but at one point he told me, “Think until your brain hangs down to the board.” I’ve borrowed that line and applied it to my own writing. When I dive into fiction, I push myself to think deeply until the ideas start flowing. And when I get into a rhythm? Story development can be almost comically fast—two lines become four, then ten, and suddenly the sentences just pour out of me.
Abe: You write by hand, right? I started that way, too, but I’ve shifted to working on a computer. If I don’t have a pen handy, I jot down notes on my phone. It’s interesting—writing by hand, typing on a computer, and writing on a cell phone all feel so different. Even if I’m working on similar content, the final product comes out differently depending on the medium. Is that why you stick to writing by hand? Is that the best fit for you?
Yumemakura: I really enjoy the feel and sound of a fountain pen gliding across the paper. It’s become such a part of my routine that it feels ingrained in my mind. Typing on a computer, though? I find it frustratingly slow, and it forces me to adjust my expressions to fit what’s easy for the machine to recognize. There’s so much nuance in writing kanji and kana. Take the verb omou, for instance—I want to choose between the “thinking” spelling and the “feeling” spelling based on my mood and the character I’m writing about, but the computer doesn’t let me express that subtle difference.
And let’s not even get started on smartphones that auto-correct sentences! They’re handy for quick emails since it’s just about getting the information across, but for something deeper, like a novel—well, that’s another story.
Abe: I see your point. I think for those who started out using computers, it’s become a natural skill for them, which is perfectly fine. But style and storytelling evolve over time. My writing reflects the influences of Hagiwara Sakutarō and Miyazawa Kenji—authors my generation admired. But for emerging writers today, their written voices might not connect as well.
Yumemakura: I fully appreciate the benefits of writing by hand. When I’m typing and see a row of kanji conversion options, it really derails my thoughts.
Abe: I totally relate to that. I traveled a lot when I was young, so I needed to write everything by hand. All I needed was a pen and some manuscript paper, and I was good to go, even without power. Speaking of travel, you’ve been to some remarkable places for research, haven’t you? Which destination left the most lasting impression on you?
Yumemakura: Oh, that’s a tough question. There was this time in the Himalayas, at Manaslu. In my early thirties, I caught a stunning NHK documentary called “Cranes Crossing the Himalayas,” and I was captivated. I just had to see those cranes! We set up base camp at 4,800 meters above sea level, and soon after that, it started snowing. Every night I could hear avalanches! Imagine being in your sleeping bag and feeling the ground rumble like a jet engine beneath you. I got up and tried to run a few times, but then the avalanche would stop. It was terrifying! I ended up sleeping with a knife in my grip and my boots on, ready to slice my way out of my tent if necessary. As our food dwindled, we’d all huddle in one big tent. We talked about a lot of things then. I think we started off talking about women, and we inevitably started talking about God next.
Abe: Why was that inevitable?
Yumemakura: It made sense at the time. [laughter] I remember one story a sherpa told me about seeing the Buddha. As a kid, he trained at a temple and claimed to have encountered a glowing Buddha. When he shared this with his temple master, he was told it couldn’t possibly be true—that it was just the devil trying to trick him. Classic story, right? There’s a similar narrative in Konjaku Monogatari.
While we were deep in discussion, another sherpa made his way down to the nearest village and returned with a sheep. We ended up consuming nearly every part, except for the horns and hooves. Marrow, eyeballs, brain—you name it. That was quite an experience.
Abe: It sounds like you have a lot of stories from that trip.
Yumemakura: I went there with the intent of writing about Tang Sanzang. I retraced his route. It echoes the path taken by the Otani Expedition across the Tianshan Mountains, but I hit a snag on my journey. It was tough going, yet fascinating all at the same time. I still haven’t written the story I meant to write back then.
Abe: You’ve had some extraordinary experiences, I think.
Yumemakura: You could say that. I’m happy that I managed to return alive. There are lots of people who are braver and more adventurous than I am, though. Martial arts and mountains are intertwined in Asian culture. Mountain climbers tend to be foolishly daring, pure-hearted, and sometimes violent and greedy. They travel perilous paths that most would shy away from, and sadly, they don’t always make it back. Being close to such people has added to my life story in wonderful ways.
Abe: What do you think motivates people like that?
Yumemakura: They have a purpose—a fire in their bellies. Take Tang Sanzang, for example; his seventeen-year trek to India for scriptures wasn’t solely for the benefit of others—it stemmed from an insatiable intellectual thirst for knowledge. People like that are easy to write about; their motives are pure and simple.
Reading the Reviews
Abe: Mr. Yumemakura, how much do you pay attention to the opinions of your readers?
Yumemakura: I consider my readers a lot, of course, but I’m not writing just to please them. When I began using a computer, I used to look up how I was perceived online. After four decades of writing, you’re bound to see long-time readers say things like, “Yumemakura hasn’t been on his game lately.” It’s probably best not to take that stuff to heart, but if you’ve already seen it, you can’t unsee it. In those moments, I try to remind myself that I always care about my work and do my best, and that I can’t please everyone all the time.
I’m sixty-six years old. Even Usain Bolt has to hang up his running shoes eventually; he can’t clock in those nine-second sprints anymore. Writing is hard work, just like physical training, and I’m starting to realize that my brain doesn’t flex the same way it did in my twenties and thirties. I’ve been writing The Way of the Lone Wolf and Chimera for about three decades now. I’ve written a ton about martial arts, and every time I try to come up with original tales, it gets more challenging. My old stories have opinions about my new ideas. [laughter] But the challenge excites me. When I hit on a new idea that I can use, I’m revitalized.
Do you pay much attention to what your readers say, Ms. Abe? Do you read online reviews?
Abe: I do tend to read reviews. I know that I still have a lot to learn, so I try to take constructive criticism in the spirit it’s given in. But when the feedback is brutal, it lights a fire under me. [laughter]
Yumemakura: You have to channel that combative spirit into something productive. Those negative emotions can really fuel your work.
Abe: Exactly. “Humiliation can be funneled into strength” is my guiding principle. I want to harness my personal shame as a source of green energy.
Yumemakura: I’ve been doing that for years. When I was around twenty-three or twenty-four, I was cycling through the city when a guy suddenly jumped on the back of my bike, demanding, “Take me to Sannō in Odawara.” I told him to get off, and he hit me on the head! I thought, “This guy is trouble,” so I raced to the nearest police box, but there was no officer around! [laughter] To top it all off, he was missing a finger, and he said to me, “You know what this means, right?” I ended up saying, “I understand, I’m sorry,” and I kept apologizing to him. That experience turned out to be fantastic material for my writing, especially for those scenes where I throw a brutal beatdown on a yakuza character.
What about you, Ms. Abe? What’s your go-to source of inspiration?
Abe: I keep a humiliation notebook.
Yumemakura: This I have to hear.
Abe: Back in elementary school, I jotted down things that made me mad or happy. One of my oldest entries is about a time when my aunts were chatting, and they said, “Your cousin is so bright, but you? Well… you are a future disappointment.” I got mad and said, “I’m going to become a novelist and win a big prize someday!” My aunt wasn’t impressed. She said, “You’re just an ordinary kid; you’ll never do something like that.” I was so annoyed that I wrote it down right then and there!
Yumemakura: It’s quite impressive that you started keeping that journal so young! I’m sure it’s a treasure trove of material.
Abe: One memory that sticks with me is from a sixth-grade Japanese test where I got an answer marked wrong. That didn’t sit right with me, and when I asked the teacher for clarification, I didn’t get a satisfactory answer. My classmates said, “Maybe you just didn’t read it carefully enough?” It seems so trivial now, but back then, it was beyond humiliating. I still have that test paper, and I often tell myself, “See? I wasn’t wrong!”
Yumemakura: [laughter] I bet every kid has felt like that at some point.
Abe: During elementary school, I struggled with a serious inferiority complex. Arithmetic was my nemesis, and fractions were a complete mystery to me. I think the other kids couldn’t grasp why I found it so confusing, especially when it came to multiplying fractions—like how you multiply numerators and denominators. They would tease me, calling me hopeless and stupid.
Yumemakura: Do you still have that notebook?
Abe: I do. I still feel the same insecurities at times, but once I started college, my inferiority complex eased up quite a bit.
Yumemakura: If you see that struggle as stepping stones to becoming the writer you are today, then that’s perfectly fine.
Abe: I do see it that way. Even during the most difficult times in my life, I’ve always had mentors and friends who understood me, not to mention the unwavering support of my parents. People often mention me as the youngest recipient of the Matsumoto Seichō Prize, but that was only possible thanks to all the support I received. I try to stay grounded; no one likes an egotistical writer.
Yumemakura: Indeed, they do not.
Media Adaptation and the Feminine Mystique
Abe: Your works have been turned into various media. How do you engage with those adaptations as the original author?
Yumemakura: I don’t turn down any opportunities that come my way. After I get involved, I usually let the adapters take the reins. Writing novels is often a solitary journey, so collaborating with others is refreshing. The very first kabuki adaptation I collaborated on was really special—I was directly involved with that. I remember being invited by the illustrator Yoshitaka Amano and an editor to see Bando Tamasaburō’s kabuki performance. It was mesmerizing, and I felt a strong urge to have them bring my story to the stage. I crafted a script called Ikko-Sanzon Amida Nyorai: ‘Zōtan’ with a sorcerer as the lead and presented it to Mr. Tamasaburō. Looking back, I realize I probably wouldn’t do that now, as I was much bolder in my thirties. He asked me to rewrite it, which meant they wanted to produce it, so I gladly revised it. It was all new territory for me, writing scripts, but Mr. Tamasaburō provided guidance, and I really enjoyed the experience.
Abe: There’s a lot to learn from adaptation. Like, when there are three people on stage and one of them doesn’t speak for a while, I would get feedback like, “It’s a bit sad that the actor has no lines, so can we create a cue for them to exit?”
Yumemakura: That’s something you wouldn’t really grasp unless you’ve been involved in theater work.
Abe: Since we’re talking about adaptation, why not shift naturally to perspective? I’m curious about how you approach writing from a woman’s viewpoint.
Yumemakura: Honestly, I struggle with that. I try to imagine their experiences, but I know I often miss the mark. Women are still a mystery to me. Maybe I’ll send my next manuscript to you so that you can give me some pointers. [laughter]
Abe: No way, I’m not qualified for that! [laughter] Lately, I’ve been struggling with how tough it is to create distinct characters of both genders.
Yumemakura: Interestingly, I’ve always found it easier to write older characters, even when I was a young man. Writing women has always been challenging for me. But there’s a bit of a thrill in writing about what you don’t completely understand.
Abe: I really like the women in your stories. I wasn’t expecting to like them quite so much, but I do.
Yumemakura: I tend to idealize women in my stories. Women rarely complain.
Abe: I’ve had male readers tell me, “I wouldn’t want to date any woman from your books.”
Yumemakura: Well, you’re not forcing anyone to date them, are you? [laughter]
Abe: It doesn’t help that I know what they mean, though. My women tend to be tough, not sweet.
Abe no Seimei and the Yatagarasu
Yumemakura: So tell me, Ms. Abe, do you have any projects beyond the Yatagarasu series?
Abe: I’m hoping to branch out into other works eventually. Up until last year, I was completely focused on my master’s thesis.
Yumemakura: Ah, so you’re still in school. What’s your major?
Abe: Oriental history.
Yumemakura: That makes sense. The Yatagarasu series is fantasy, but it’s deeply rooted in Japanese mythology and Heian culture, right? I noticed it has intricate details and some terms I’m unfamiliar with. Do you research those on your own?
Abe: Yes, I do my own research or ask my professors for guidance. I choose my courses specifically to facilitate my writing. With Ravens Shouldn’t Wear Kimono, I originally aimed for a Heian setting, but I found that some aspects of that culture just wouldn’t fit. Eventually, I realized I could present the story as fantasy. I ended up taking a course called Traditional Japanese Culture. The professor helped me figure out what books to read, which really pushed me forward in completing the novel.
Yumemakura: Even in the realm of fantasy, crafting a lengthy narrative is quite a challenge. It really highlights the importance of thorough preparation. For instance, when Okano Reiko adapted Sorcery into a manga, I found it fascinating—and a bit daunting—because as a novelist, I can simply say that a character is wearing a black robe, and that’s it. But for illustrations, it’s a different ballgame; you need to understand specifics, like how the collar overlaps or the length of the sleeves. Okano is an incredibly dedicated artist; she researches everything meticulously. Her historical knowledge is much deeper than mine.
Abe: I totally agree; illustrators need a whole new kind of understanding. I took this class where we actually wore period garments, and it was a game changer. In those classes, I learned how to don formal attire for both civil and military officials, and I got to try it on.
Yumemakura: That hands-on experience of actually putting the clothes on and grasping how heavy they are or how your movements are constrained really adds depth, doesn’t it? I’ve only worn historical clothes a couple of times. There was one funny day when I ended up cosplaying with Okano Reiko in a black robe. [laughter]
Abe: Speaking of research, there was a time I was obsessed with figuring out what the entrance hall was like during the Heian period. I sifted through numerous sources, but I found nothing. Then I asked Professor Gomi, and he said, “There were no entrance halls.” I was stunned. Experts truly have a remarkable depth of knowledge. I tap into their wisdom as much as I’m allowed.
I must admit that since I’ve completed my thesis and left the university, I’ve been feeling less confident about writing historical fiction.
Yumemakura: Isn’t it funny how over-analyzing can sometimes stifle creativity? Can I ask you what inspired you to write the Yatagarasu series?
Abe: It all started with a project in high school that laid the groundwork for Princess Tamayori. I introduced the Yatagarasu as characters in that story. It’s interesting because Princess Tamayori is one of the gods worshiped at Shimogamo Shrine, and her father, Kamo Taketsunumi, is a Yatagarasu god. I thought it would be intriguing to have the Yatagarasu portrayed as a servants to a god. Having them be talking ravens seemed too simple, though. I wound up deciding that they could transform into human and raven shapes. My friends read it and liked it, so I kept working on it. That’s how the Yatagarasu series got started.
Yumemakura: I was thinking about how those old Chinese paintings often depict the Yatagarasu as ravens with three legs recently. I did a bit of research and it struck me that this mythological raven might have inspired the pentagram symbol. I popped into a museum and inquired about the meaning of the pentagram, and the museum curators mentioned that it symbolizes the sun. Now, here’s where it gets interesting: there’s a shrine in Kagawa that has ties to Abe no Seimei, and their mark features a dot in the center of a pentagram. It’s intriguing—could that version of the pentagram be a representation of a bird? I think it’s possible. In Chinese mythology, a three-legged raven carries the sun on its back. As the sun dips closer to the horizon, those with sharp eyesight might notice sunspots or blink floating motes of light out of their vision. They could have looked at those spots and asked, “Could that be a bird transporting the sun?”
[Translator’s Note: This is challenging to explain in words; the images below illustrate the “sun spots” effect that Yumemakura is describing. Looking directly at the sun distorts vision temporarily and might have led to some ancient peoples perceiving ravens moving with the sun across the sky.
Source: Jinsha Site Museum. Original author: ancient Shu people. - http://english.jinshasitemuseum.com/Treasure, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=116704061
Source: Three-legged crow flanked by dragon and phoenix. Mural from the Korean Goguryeo period, Ohoe Tomb no. 4, 6th – 7th century, Ji’an, China.]
It’s intriguing how the Kamo family, tracing back to Kamo Taketsunumi—who guided Emperor Jinmu in the form of a Yatagarasu—and Abe no Seimei, who bore the pentagram crest as a family symbol, are so closely intertwined.
Abe: Mythology is so enthralling! In my Yatagarasu series, there’s a monkey character associated with the sun that makes an appearance later on. In terms of divine significance, the god Sarutahiko aligns closely with the Yatagarasu—both are sun gods or related to them, right? I can see how the combination of a raven and a monkey could evolve into something really remarkable. I’m quite excited to explore that further.
Translator's Note
The description of the princess refers specifically to daifuku mochi, a type of Japanese confection consisting of a small round rice cake stuffed with a sweet filling, most commonly a sweetened red bean paste made from adzuki beans. Daifuku mochi are often pink.
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