Blue Blazes and Attempting to Tame the Imposter

This essay contains spoilers for the Japanese live-action series Blue Blazes.

I’d wager that most of you reading only know me for my writing here and perhaps from my occasional self-inflicted speaking engagements at local Minnesota conventions. Part of my day job involves providing specialized onboarding and ongoing training in a professional setting. It’s a job I sort of fell into after a while, but I enjoy being able to help people along in their learning processes, and it’s also nice to be the person with all (or at least most) of the answers.

One thing I’ve learned over the years as I’ve tried to independently become a better trainer, is that adult learners tend to operate on a fairly predictable continuum when it comes to learning a new task or process. Before they start hands-on training, most folks are eager and willing to learn a new task. It’s kind of an “ignorance is bliss” state of being, because whether or not they’ve done any pre-reading or observation before embarking on their learning process, they still don’t always have a full picture of what the upcoming task entails. Once they’re actually starting to perform the task is when vulnerability and self-doubt creeps in – they’re confronted by portions of the task that they didn’t expect or don’t understand right away, and their confidence dips. This is natural and expected; most folks go on to build their skills and become proficient in time. However, the time period while they’re still learning can be a struggle, especially for those of us who are prone to self-doubt. It’s the feeling of being a sort of imposter, fooling everyone around you into believing that you’re good enough to do something that you’re still unsure of.

I started really writing about anime in earnest some time in 2007, and spent kind of an embarrassingly long time in that “ignorance is bliss” stage. I’d had an interest in anime since at least late elementary school when I first learned that it existed as a specific form of animation, but my access to resources for both watching more anime or learning about the medium was limited. We didn’t have cable TV at home for a long time and I missed out on a lot of the golden age Toonami material that punctuated the fandom lives of many of my contemporaries. The pre-Google internet was tough to navigate and I didn’t know where to find what I wanted. VHS and then DVD releases were expensive and once I got a job I knew I had to save most of my money for college tuition rather than spend it on building a collection. And I had very few friends (at least until I got to college and joined the anime club) who had anything near the same amount of interest that I did in anime and manga. This is all to say that, while my enthusiasm to write about anime was there, my knowledge base and thus my perspective had many gaps.

I spent a lot of those early years spouting off like an absolute fool. One particularly cringe-y thing I recall doing is essentially calling famed director Osamu Dezaki a hack because I didn’t like or really comprehend his 2009 adaptation of The Tale of Genji. I’ve since gone on to understand and appreciate Dezaki’s contributions to anime’s visual canon, but at the time I grasped very little about anime production or the history of the medium, leading me to, as they say, show my entire ass. I got rightfully lectured a few times in those early days, but because I also received plenty of bad-faith internet “criticism” at the time I tended to lump the negative feedback all together and disregard most of it. I wasn’t using that time in my life to actively learn and grow; I thought I already knew everything that I needed to know.

I’d always had higher aspirations for my writing. I had some “friend-of-a-friend” connections at various fandom outlets, and thought my writing was good enough that things would just somehow fall into place for me eventually. When a certain anime podcast put out a call for folks with experience discussing feminism as it relates to anime, I thought my time had come. A friend with connections to this podcast told me they’d put in a good word for me. I emailed my interest and “credentials” off to those in charge. I got Skype set up on my computer and waited to get contacted about the details. I even told several people how excited I was about it (UGH…). Even just writing this out, I can feel my stomach beginning to knot. I was SO SURE that this was something that was 100% happening, that when the podcast released its next episode without having so much as emailed me back, I was in absolute disbelief. I spent a brief moment in shock, then I couple of days indulging in my anger. As that seething rage cooled and I listened to the actual episode (which I’m not sure was the right decision at that very moment, but probably ultimately the correct choice), I was suddenly faced with the truth – I wasn’t quite so knowledgeable or talented as I’d lead myself to believe. It’s not exaggeration for me to say that this incident really influenced how I felt about my writing for a long time.

I don’t typically watch a lot of live-action Japanese entertainment. Even though live-action dramas adapt interesting manga properties from time-to-time, access to them is so much more limited as compared to the overwhelming amount of streaming anime there is to consume. But by some chance a few years ago I happened upon a Reddit post in which folks were discussing which live-action Japanese series might have some appeal to anime fans, and Blue Blazes (Aoi Honoo) was mentioned more than once. While I think it was available for a time streaming on some official outlet, then and now the only way you can find it is through the unofficial channels. In any case, if you don’t have qualms about going that route, I highly recommend checking it out.

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Blue Blazes is a semi-autobiographical (but embellished) tale of manga-ka Kazuhiko Shimamoto’s time at Osaka University of the Arts in 1983. Self-insert character Moyuru Honoo believes himself to have the most refined taste when it comes to anime and manga, and assumes that this discerning eye of his will directly translate into becoming a successful animator. Unfortunately for him, his classmates happen to be none other than Hideaki Anno and other founders of Gainax (and Studio Bones, though that’s less relevant). Anno’s directorial skill and grasp of animation puts Honoo’s efforts to shame. Honoo immediately starts to think of Anno as his direct rival (even though Anno and company barely register his existence) and puts all his efforts toward proving his own superior storytelling sense. Eventually Honoo enters into this cycle of passionately attempting to one-up his “rival” and almost immediately encountering some sort of hardship that causes him to have to face reality – he has a lot of improving to do before he can go up against Anno’s seemingly demonic innate skill.

Obviously the appeal of the series is two fold. Firstly it’s essentially fanservice for anime and manga fans, especially ones who are familiar with the various players and events being fictionalized in the story. But Honoo is also an appealing character for multiple reasons, not the least of which is that his hard-headed stubbornness becomes a sort of battering ram against his many momentary, emotional feelings of inadequacy.

I purposely like to surround myself with people who inspire me. Most of the time I find myself very happy to celebrate the achievements of other people I care about, even if the feelings I’m expressing are nothing more than the one-way admiration I have toward people who don’t really know that I exist. But there are also times where I find myself in a less constructive state of mind and I begin to question my own aspirations. It’s not really “fame” that I want to gain as a result of people reading my writing, but my goal is to achieve some level of respect among people who are interested in the same things that I am.

In my work life, I’m considered something of a subject-matter expert, which is primarily how I found myself drawn toward training others. Continual learning and sharing information has served me well over the years, and I’ve become a go-to person when unusual things happen. It’s a position I’m happy to be in; knowing things and having other people readily acknowledge that I know things feels good and it gives me a sense of purpose. What I’ve been struggling with is being able to capture a similar feeling of expertise in my hobby life. It’s something that I really want to have and yet can’t readily define and have no idea how to achieve.

A friend of mine whom I respect dressed me down a bit about this when I was feeling sorry for myself and whining about it on Twitter several weeks back. “Expertise” is such an ill-defined concept and also a very gatekeep-y one; for someone like me who has a fulfilling day job and who isn’t really interested in going back into academia to deep-dive into anime and fandom, it’s honestly a very strange thing to desire so strongly because it has very little direct bearing on my life. What even is an anime “expert,” anyway? Is it someone who knows a lot of things (I’d say I probably do, at least compared to many)? Or is it someone who’s managed to become well-known as a high-profile fan? I honestly don’t know.

I think the issue is that my life is a very muddled mess of so-called “unfulfilled potential” and failures to meet others’ expectations of me, and try as I might I can’t shed the baggage of being labeled “gifted” and then being left to fend for myself once I inevitably started to flounder. I was never allowed the gift of learning how to fail (and wasn’t allowed to do so, until it just started happening again and again and I suffered punishment each and every time) and I never really grasped how to study and assimilate information properly. My brain is this mish-mash of weird “fun facts” that I can never quite seem to assemble into anything very useful. I can’t see a clear path forward toward what I want, because I’m expending more than enough energy just staying afloat and don’t have much left over to identify just what it is that I actually desire.

There are times, now and again, where I feel like Honoo seething in his frustration at his own lack of success, throwing blame around while avoiding looking into the mirror at the person who actually has the power to make changes. I construct one-sided rivalries in my mind with the people whose work I admire. They’re little competitions where the only possible result is my own failure, because I’m measuring myself against the wrong goalposts. It’s tough to ganbaru when your own standards are so unattainable that failure is the only end result you’ve constructed for yourself.

I attended an online convention in the recent past, and all the presenters seemed so self-assured and comfortable and specialized in their knowledge. They sourced their research and put effort into their presentations. I started to feel self-conscious about my surface-level knowledge and off-the-cuff presentation style. I suddenly felt like an imposter in a world of professionals. Like… I’d spent probably over a decade using convention presentations as a way of overcoming my stage fright, and thought I’d gotten pretty good at it. I’m ashamed to admit that I’d even privately rolled my eyes at other panelists who seemed ill-prepared or like they weren’t taking seriously the hour they’d been given to speak about something. But I was suddenly faced with the realization that being able to speak in front of people and having a PowerPoint slide deck with talking points were only very basic pieces of the overall puzzle, and that I was still missing a lot of what impressed me about the other speakers – deep knowledge of their subjects, solid sourcing and crediting, and unique voices that allowed them to express their knowledge in ways that were easy to respect.

That last one – the point about uniqueness – hit me like a truck, when during a Q&A session I asked a prominent online anime journalist and editor what they looked for when sifting through the many pitches they must receive. “A unique perspective I’ve never heard before,” to paraphrase. But I have no idea what that is in my case. I’m an anime fan who came to be serious about it starting in the early 2000’s. I grew up in the US with the same anime-viewing opportunities as everyone else in my age group. I don’t know what possible viewpoint I might have that isn’t reiterated a thousand times by other writers and panelists just like me. I’ve found myself deeply struggling with this question of “what’s my angle?” when I’m more like a Final Fantasy red mage – okay at a lot of things but a master of none.

In Blue Blazes, Honoo often waxes poetic about the manga-ka of the time that he admires. Both Mitsuru Adachi and Leiji Matsumoto exist in Honoo’s personal pantheon of greats, but the one that he seems to hold in the highest regard (and whose visual influence on his own work is the most immediately obvious) is Shotaro Ishinomori. Honoo not only enjoys reading these artists’ works, when he switches gears from animation study to manga production after being laid low by Anno’s skill, he starts to draw wholesale from what he’s already read. His idea of what the manga world looks like and the possibilities of the stories that might be told in the medium are limited by the very broad strokes of what he sees. Science fiction, sports drama, school stories… they’re compartmentalized in Honoo’s mind and so distinct, that when he gets the idea to combine already-existing genres it’s like a revelation to him.

It’s often said that there’s no truly unique story to be told, because all storytellers are influenced by the stories they’ve already heard. That said, the “uniqueness” is something that manifests in the voices of the storytellers, the best of whom can draw from their own lives and personalities to inject a special flair into even the most formulaic tales. Honoo is only doing what storytellers have been doing since the beginning of time – aping the things that he knows as he makes tentative steps towards developing his own voice. We laugh, because his emotional acrobatics are over-the-top for the purposes of our own entertainment. We also laugh, more knowingly and with a sense of bittersweet camaraderie, because his is the struggle of many artists and creative people. He’s grasping and flailing to find his own story, and the feelings of inadequacy that are simply inherent to that process can be difficult to watch unfold.

Even though Honoo has his own small fan club of supporters, he’s so hung up on his lack of ability as compared to both literal industry professionals and rare creative geniuses that he sabotages his own efforts. He’s confronted by the imposter inside, the inner voice that tells us all that we’re no good and that everyone else is better. That we don’t have the right to stand beside other creatives because our own output will never be as accomplished. It’s the shit-flinging monkey on our collective backs that sabotages our progress and our will to improve.

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Near the end of Blue Blazes, Shimamoto himself makes a cameo. Within the context of the series it’s amusing on its own (his characterization is as cartoonish as Honoo’s), but there’s also a certain poignancy to it. It speaks to the fact that Shimamoto, in real life, was able to achieve a measure of success despite having felt less-than in comparison to Anno in the moment. In the 1990s, Shimamoto was approached by none other than Shotaro Ishinomori himself to create a re-make of Ishinomori’s Skull Man manga. The series doesn’t go so far as to cover this; it’s simply one of those “fun facts” that’s emotionally satisfying to know about. To be able to work alongside someone you admire and who’s so greatly influenced you has to be quite the experience.

But despite the comfort it brings to see Shimamoto in the flesh enjoying the fruits of his life’s creative labor, it’s Anno, at least as he’s depicted in this series, who ends up making the larger impression when he asks Honoo to sign his copy of the weekly manga magazine containing Honoo’s debut. Anno speaks to Honoo’s feelings of apprehension at this, because Honoo isn’t feeling as excited about it as he thought he would. Truthfully, becoming a pro means bearing the expectations of others regarding your potential, and that’s a heavy burden indeed. Having just gone through his own creative story arc – putting together a team to create the famous Daicon opening animation – what he says certainly holds weight. When I think of the arc of Anno’s career, especially as it relates to Evangelion, which has been in the forefront of fan chatter again due to the release of the final Eva film, it’s easy to see this line of thinking in action. Telling a popular, iconic story, especially one that’s said to be so thoroughly connected to the emotions of its creator, can become an exercise in allowing oneself to be emotionally-damaged by an unappreciative audience. And yet, the cost of not creating anything is often still higher.

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A few weeks ago, I watched the 2 episode Blazing Transfer Student OVA, which was based on Shimamoto’s debut manga and produced by none other than Studio Gainax (though, to be clear, with no involvement by Anno). There’s no way for me to know all the details surrounding the studio’s choice to take it on as a project, but having been presented with the somewhat-embellished history of the relationship between all the major players it’s fairly easy to fill in the blanks with poignant speculation. Even just on the surface, the feeling of contemporaries meeting to bring forth something entertaining and ridiculous is the stuff of fandom fantasies. But it speaks to the larger fantasy of having your work appreciated by those whose talents you admire.

While I don’t think anyone would complain about receiving compliments from friends or family, those people’s connection with you implies a sort of support that, in the healthiest relationships, is unconditional. But the acceptance by one’s peers and influences is a different sort of respect that’s not only difficult to obtain, but difficult to describe. It’s easy to say “why worry about what other people think?” if you’re a self-assured sort of person and don’t care that much about how what you create is received. But if you’re not, and if the fruits of your labor aren’t monetary, then by what measure can you say “I deserve to be recognized for my work” other than the respect of others in your community?

The little voice inside me constantly reminds me that “senpai” (whoever or whatever that might be) hasn’t noticed me. Never mind the fact that I 1.) never pitch my writing anywhere or 2.) perform any nominal amount of self-advertisement to try to fool people into reading my writing. There’s also a sinister self-flagellating pleasure in failure, I’ve found; I wasn’t allowed to do it as a child, so now it’s a naughty treat I wrap myself in so I can continue to mope rather than face any real kind of change. I’m no Moyuru Honoo – I’ve got the same tendency toward mental gymnastics, for sure, but thought processes aren’t even funny, they’re simply self-defeating.

It’s so easy, so tempting to listen when your brain reminds you that “you don’t belong here.” Lacking success and recognition, even if such things are to a self-created standard that’s completely unrealistic, only fuels the dark thoughts that cause us to define ourselves as imposters in our own lives. We fool ourselves into believing that our knowledge or skills aren’t good enough, and in doing so we begin to believe that working to be better isn’t worthwhile. This brain poison turns molehills into mountains – I was with some friends recently who I met through anime club, and they got on a bender of criticizing some of the old anime we’d watched in the club, all of which were my personal nominations. It made me fall into a spiral of feeling that my taste was bad and therefore I was bad; I wanted to share those anime because I wanted to share something I thought people would enjoy and that I’d enjoyed, and if they didn’t enjoy them (or even felt like outright ridiculing them) it meant that I’d done something wrong – wasted their time, at the very least. For someone who reviews anime, the thought that your opinions of it might be just bad, actually… well, it’s a tough idea to wrestle with. What right do I have to say “this is great” when I can’t even manage to convince people close to me?

I don’t yet know how to tame the beast that convinces me that I’m an imposter in my own hobbyist circles; I’m sorry to those of you who might have been looking for an inspirational, instructional post rather than simply me feeling my feelings. I do know that, as ill-advised as it might be, it’s often media that gets me thinking hard about my own life, and Blue Blazes is one of those shows I found by chance, enjoyed, and then began to consider more thoroughly much later. I’m going to be honest – I spend a lot of time being unkind to myself. But I’m also beginning to accept that this tendency to do so is the product of many things, and not necessarily a reflection of reality. I’m beginning to have some pride, if not in my writing itself, at least in the fact that in the face of many mental obstacles, I haven’t stopped doing it. And maybe someday I might even start to believe that it’s good enough.