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It’s going on 10 years since I started making a living off writing novels, but I can’t remember writing anything worth being called a novel in all that time.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, here goes Sensei again, saying something sick and twisted.” And, well, I’m no stranger to saying twisted things. It’s more or less my job to say those things, and thinking back, I’ve just spent the past 10 years doing and saying completely contrary and twisted things.

Nonetheless, I’ve grown rather proud of being an eccentric. I couldn’t have kept going any other way. Anything else would have been the death of me.

Now, you could retort with, “If you enjoy playing the eccentric so much, then that just makes you an eccentric, O great Sensei.” And that would also be correct, and I’d have no way to argue against you. When it comes down to it, I enjoy being seen that way, being watched with eyes that are half curious and half contemptuous.

But choosing polarization is like choosing to live with a handicap.

I’ve acted strangely enough at times to make even myself wonder why I would do such things, and there’s nothing to do but conclude that that’s just who I am.

That’s why a shocking ten-year record of being a novelist continues to impress me, even if I did it in a roundabout way. I can’t help but be impressed that I’ve continued in a profession that’s actually permitted by society, at least in part. I’m a rather twisted person, so I don’t think I can praise my actions or entertain the idea of having lived an honest life, but I’d say that achievement in a vacuum is at least worth praising.

My persistently negative self-image has me convinced that I’ll inevitably stray from the straight and narrow at some point, so I’ve given my all to be a worthwhile member of society, working hard, buying things, influencing those in my circle, being helpful, and reading good books.

But there’s always a lingering feeling of guilt in the end.

And that’s because, despite making my living as a novelist, I’ve never once convinced myself that anything I’ve written could be called a novel. Well, okay, to say I’ve never felt that is perhaps an exaggeration.

It’d be a lie to say I’ve never felt conceited, or never thought that I had finished a masterpiece of a novel. And when I think back on the fact that the only times I’ve truly felt alive were when I finished writing a novel, I suppose I have made what the world would recognize as novels.

To deny that would be disrespectful to my publishers and to all the people that have enjoyed my books. I’m not the one who gets to decide the foundation of my work, what I do, and who I am. It’s the people around me. For better or for worse.

So, I could deny it as staunchly as I wanted, but if everyone around me accepted and agreed that what I write counts as a novel, then it’s a novel. Then, on the other hand, no matter how humbly or politely I presented what I called a novel, if it was dismissed as less than a drunken love letter written in the middle of the night, then it sadly wouldn’t be a novel.

I understand that well. I’m not a child that would deny reality. Quite to the contrary, I’m now a 30-year-old adult. Thirty years old. Maybe less adult and more middle-aged. It’s a little soul-crushing to admit that all for the writing I’ve done, my only accomplishment has been getting older.

Perhaps I haven’t lived a particularly good life if I’m so ashamed of getting older, but those are my honest feelings. Sometimes I wonder how I got here, and if there was anything I could’ve done to prevent it.

I’ve thought about ways that I could avoid turning 30. In the end, though, the only true prevention would be to take my own life.

I am fortunate in that I’ve never wanted to commit suicide. Sometimes I think about what would happen if I died, but not in the direction of suicidal ideation. Considering the world as it is today, that’s quite a blessing. Then again, one could argue that spending my twenties purely dedicated to working is its own form of suicide, and I can’t offer much of a counterargument.

Actually, I’m the kind of person that likes being told that kind of thing. The kind of person who appreciates being put down for not living a proper life, being told I act like a kindergartener, being told that elementary schoolers have more meaningful life experience than me. So it’s frustrating that it still hurts. No matter how much I may appreciate something, scars will always remain as scars. It’s stupid. I’m stupid.

I can get called a heretic for doing basically nothing, and feel some level of shame, but the sad truth is that such scoldings always lead to certain thoughts. “I’m different from the others around me; I’m special.” “People don’t understand me because of how special I am.” Those thoughts shaped my 20s.

Confession time: I’ve had my own bookshelf fall on me before.

Back when I was a self-conscious, aspiring author, I could never bring myself to toss out or sell books, so the natural end result was piles and piles of books. But, as a lazy person by nature, I just stuffed the books into my shelf all the way to the top, wherever I could, without a care for balance. As a result, my poor little plywood bookshelf toppled over onto me while I was working one day.

There I lay, books showering down from above, with dividers smacking into my head, thinking that I was such a special person for having that happen to me, and smiling through the intense pain that could have very well killed me. I wouldn’t blame you for calling that off-putting.

It’s a real miracle that someone who still acts like a kindergartener made it through 30 years of life, and 10 years of being a novelist. Perhaps nobody else would think of that as much of a miracle, but it is a miracle nonetheless.

At the same time, if this is really what could be called being a 30-year-old adult, then I think I really oversold the idea as a child, and let my expectations become unrealistic. I wondered about “them” all the time, why they couldn’t do certain things despite being adults, why 30-year-olds would have such personalities, things like that. Not only as a child, but even in my 20s, I would pity them. The idea that such pathetic adults are more or less just what I am now makes me lose confidence in life, but I’m not all that ashamed of that reality.

So here I am, a cynical person who tries to call out the value of acting immature as a 30-year-old.

Everyone might as well be proud. To be isolated, to be found a heretic. Regardless of the horrible suffering that might bring.

It’s true that living a life where you are understood and valued by others is a dream-like existence, but similarly, a life where nobody understands or places value on you has its own dream-like qualities. That could just be my own wishful thinking, but I think it’s true. As long as you don’t cause trouble for others, you should be allowed to be who you want to be. Now, I fully understand that being a heretic in the society around you causes trouble to others, but you’ll have to cut me some slack. All heretics know that pretending to get along and presuming to be a part of society only causes more problems than it solves.

It is true that I am the way I am as a factor of my own choices. But the reason why I, or if I may be so bold, we are the way we are, is for your own sake.

If I were a good person, opposite to reality, then we could all get along and understand each other, naturally. Because in that situation, doing so would be guaranteed to make not only me happy, but you as well. I, however, am not a good person, not to mention all too aware of the damage that trying to get along with you could cause.

So there we have my current self, the 30-year-old, incredibly cynical, stubborn person who is at the same time a straight-laced workaholic who doesn’t drink or smoke. That self may not be much, but I find it to be a precious asset that I spent all my teenage years, what I would call the most valuable time of my life, and my twenties, the second most valuable time, building up.

I wouldn’t say I like myself very much, but I do appreciate the fact that I put in effort and almost achieved what I had been aiming for. Yet another warped aspect about me, I suppose.

At the end of the day, I am still 30 years old.

Average life expectancy continues to shoot up, and shows no sign of slowing, so it’s probably too early to say I’m halfway through life, but the fact that I won’t be getting any taller makes me feel like I’m halfway through anyway.

I don’t think I can go back to a normal life any more.

I never did become what anyone would call a “proper adult”, or a “proper person”, and I never will. Definitely, definitely not. I’ll probably never have a family, or anyone I can share my true feelings with, and I don’t see myself joining any organizations.

Despite thinking all those things, and becoming rather jealous of “proper people”, I have no intention of abandoning who I’ve become, and zero plans to change, so there won’t be any chance of self-revolution for this man.

I don’t know how long I’ll be able to make a living as a novelist, but I see this person I am continuing on for at least another 50 years. I’m generally distrustful and suspicious, but if I’m certain of anything, it’s that.

That makes me sad, and happy, yet still a little sad. Especially the implication that I’ll be so shameless as to keep on living for another 50 years.