In case my title hasn’t already convinced you, you should watch Whisper of the Heart.1  I don’t know how this Studio Ghibli masterpiece has managed to fly under the radar, but I can’t recommend it enough.  It’s a beautifully told coming-of-age story firmly rooted in reality, with story beats and pacing similar to that of an indie movie. 

In a bit of a departure for Studio Ghibli, Whisper of the Heart takes place in the mundane, ordinary world.  The film’s protagonist, the middle-school age Shizuku, lives in a gray city saturated with ads and billboards, stuffed with street and household clutter, and overrun by car and bus horns.  Her life centers around homework, school, and adolescent drama.  Naturally, Shizuku longs for more.  Books—and Japanese translations of “Country Roads”—are her only refuge from the real world.2  Shizuku, like all of us, has the monumental task of creating her own magic. 

The story walks the path of many a bildungsroman, as Shizuku forms an unexpected relationship with Seiji, a violin-maker/ tween heartthrob.  When Seiji travels to Italy to follow his dream, Shizuku is inspired by his talent and purpose, and decides to invest herself in her writing.  Using a debonaire statue of a cat named the Baron as her protagonist (I promise, not as weird as it sounds), Shizuku challenges herself to finish a novel before Seiji returns.

What Whisper of the Heart Gets Right about Writing

It’s almost a prerequisite that characters who pursue art are immediately—and unwaveringly—good at it.  What surprised me about Whisper of the Heart was that this wasn’t the case at all. The film is not about talent, but perseverance.  For one thing, Shizuku’s first drafts are refreshingly realistic.  She’s the first to admit that her hesitant translations of “Country Roads” are pretty unoriginal and could definitely be better. And after she explores how a story about winding roads in West Virginia relates to her life in a crowded Tokyo suburb, she creates something both beautiful and original.  Being vulnerable enough to write something real takes time, and Shizuku’s artistic maturation is both convincing and satisfying. 

Shizuku, like all of us, has the monumental task of creating her own magic.

Shizuku is a gifted writer, but, like a lot of us, she continually worries that she lacks an ineffable gift of talent.  She both admires and envies Seiji’s natural creativity and skill, and fears that she simply lacks whatever it is that he has.  But the film makes it clear that what really matters is the simple need to write, and the courage to fail.

These prove to be absolutely necessary as Shizuku embarks on her enormous, extremely taxing mission. One of the things that doesn’t get discussed nearly enough in regards to writing is just how exhausting it can be.  Shizuku isn’t getting any sleep in her race to finish her book, and it shows.  She spends hours in the library devoted to research, and days trying to push her way through her own mind.  She isolates herself, refuses to eat, and falls woefully behind in school. 

There’s a super short scene here that encapsulates all of this.  Shizuku sits at her desk before her empty notebook; she doesn’t write anything, but taps her pencil, thinking. She blows her nose absentmindedly.  There’s a beat. Then, she just buries her head in her arms.2 

I don’t think that I’ve ever seen a better representation of creative burnout, mainly because the film doesn’t encourage or valorize it.  Rather than have Shizuku pull an all-nighter and write the greatest story of all time, the pressure she puts on herself only compounds her frustration. 

Of course, there are also times when writing isn’t agonizing—I doubt anyone would write if that wasn’t the case.  There are often moments when the story just flows, and it feels like the easiest thing in the world.  Shizuku’s writer’s block is balanced out with these flashes of uninhibited creativity.  And the film doesn’t shortchange or undermine these moments; they’re what make writing worth it, after all.  Shizuku can practically run, even fly through her story, as the world she creates surrounds her.  What Whisper of the Heart does brilliantly is show all the nuances and different aspects of writing; it is a journey, after all, and one that must be traveled without a map. 

The Scene that Broke Me

So far, I’ve tried to not get into any major spoilers, and at this point, I’m going to fail.  Be warned!

I’m now going to write assuming we’ve all seen the movie, and a certain scene in it.  I’m referring to when Seiji’s grandfather reads Shizuku’s story for the first time.  She brings it to him immediately after she finishes, and lets him know that he has to read it now.  She can’t wait for the morning.

So she stays all night, and we wait with her.  Her hands shake as she stares across the city.  The distant rumble of traffic, and the turning of pages, are the only sounds.  The entire world seems to move at a snail’s pace. 

Hours later, Seiji’s grandfather gently lets her know that he has finished. She holds her breath, waiting to hear what he thought of it. He tells her, “It’s very good.”2

Of course, she denies it.  It can’t possibly be good; there are countless problems with the story that she has no idea how to solve. And he tells her that that’s okay.  It’s just a rough draft, and she’s poured everything she had into it.  She needs to rest.  And she needs to give herself credit for all that she’s accomplished. 

He tells her, “You’re wonderful.”2

It is at this point that both Shizuku and I burst into tears.

Because that was all she needed to hear.  Those two words, that unconditional encouragement and understanding, that confirmation that what she made meant something, make every single syllable worth it. 

Writing is not easy, and it certainly can’t fix everything wrong in our lives.  But at the same time, stories, and art in general, are everything. They’re what connects us to humanity, both within and outside of ourselves.  Writing is life-affirming, an assurance that we are not alone, that someone else, somewhere has felt what we are feeling.  Writing is an expression of our inner selves, of the voice inside, urging us to keep going, assuring us that what we think and say matters.  Writing is how we wade through struggle, joy, loss, and change, and come out on the other side.  Simply put, writing is a “whisper of the heart.”   

Notes

  1. I watched Whisper of the Heart in Japanese with English subtitles.  Any comments I make about the film are in reference to that version.
  2. Kondō, Yoshifumi. Whisper of the Heart. Toho, 1995.