Natalie Jacobsen has always been drawn to stories—especially those that echo across time. Raised in rural Oregon and now based in Washington, D.C., she’s a writer, activist, and former journalist whose debut novel, Ghost Train, blends Japanese folklore with historical fiction set in 19th-century Kyoto. In this conversation, she shares how her years living in Japan, her early start in activism, and her investigative background all shaped the novel she calls her “heart book.”
Natalie, Ghost Train sounds like such a rich blend of history, folklore, and ghost story. What was the first spark that led you to set your debut in 19th century Kyoto—and what kept you coming back to that world as you wrote?
Thank you! Ghost Train is my “heart book” that was a true labor of love. I first heard about the concept of “ghost trains” in college when I was studying Japanese history, with a particular focus in the Meiji Era. That time period of the 1860s – 1910s marked huge growth and westernization in Japan, but also shook up their traditions and folklore. It is one of the most-studied time periods in Japanese history, yet, it’s quite overlooked in American history classes, despite the time period being ushered in by Americans.
“Ghost trains” are a metaphor I wanted to center my story on. Steam locomotives were introduced to Japan during the 1870s, and conductors often did long hauls across the country alone. They’d grow weary, and hallucinate their greatest fear: another train appearing on their tracks, which would crash into theirs. To me, that symbolized the cost of progressiveness in a country that had been isolated and hellbent on clinging to their traditions for centuries, only to overall everything in a single generation.
When I first stepped into Kyoto, my whole body tingled. My eyes couldn’t feast enough on the sights, smells, and sounds of the ancient city. We are fortunate that much of Kyoto has been preserved; the same roads today can be overlayed on maps from hundreds of years ago. Temples and the Palace bear the same walls. The same rituals are still witnessed on particular holidays. Family businesses are still open, a thousand years on.
I tried to then imagine what it would’ve been like to live in a city during a time of transformation. What would’ve been the fears and the doubts? Who would’ve been excited or investing in the future? Who would’ve wanted to resist? And what happens to folklore — especially folklore told orally?
Once I started asking those questions, I took to the library, academies, and historians to start putting together a thesis, which inturn became Ghost Train.
You’ve worn many hats—journalist, activist, storyteller, marketer. How has your background in investigative journalism shaped the way you approach fiction writing, especially historical fiction?
The thread that connects all of those hats is ‘sharing a voice.’ Sometimes that voice is my own, but many times it is someone else’s whom I’m working to uplift and call attention to. In journalism, writers are constantly sharing news and introducing the public to someone important or a topic that will help readers make critical decisions, or teach them a new way to look at a situation. As a marketer, I strive to create a narrative as to why someone needs to pay attention. As an activist, I work to demand their attention in support of someone, or a cause. All of that is storytelling in its own fashion — and it’s so important to convey truthfulness and transparency in each story told, otherwise, the writer loses credibility.
Early on it became imperative to me to stay true to history and the characters’ voices, even though Ghost Train is fiction. No, I couldn’t interview someone who was alive in 1877, but through intense research — I read roughly 3,000 documents from the era, across different writers and historians — I was able to piece together an image of what people in 1877 Kyoto may have experienced. I didn’t want readers to walk away with any wrong impressions of the culture, country, or history. I wanted them to learn something, and remain curious about the time period, and, I hope, seek out more information from other authors.
Despite the intense research and dedication to fact, I allowed myself to have some fun with the fiction side. It was difficult, but the historians and subject matter experts, friends in Japan and mentors all offered me so many ideas and voices that helped me breathe life into these historical fiction characters. It was a true joy to explore possibilities in challenges, hope, grief, pain, and victories they may have been part of back then.
You’ve spent years living and working in Japan, from Hokkaido to Okinawa. How did that time influence your creative process and your deep connection to Japanese folklore?
People can’t help it: they stereotype and see cultures, countries, and communities as monoliths. Most people, I believe, don’t intend to be malicious in their stereotyping, but rather, it’s just over simplification and easier to think of groups of people rather than the individual. It’s quite literally overwhelming to think of 8 billion lives. I wish I could have a book of everyone’s life and immerse myself into each culture like I did Japan, which opened my eyes to so much more than I could’ve learned from a textbook or a classroom on another continent.
Japan is a small country — compared to many — and yet, its southern point and northern point span the distance between New Orleans, Louisiana (US), and Portland, Maine (US). Do people in New Orleans and Portland have the same culture, outlooks, history, and folklore? Heck no! And they’re residents of the same country!
The same concept applies to Japan. People who live in Okinawa, the “Hawaiian Islands of Japan,” vastly differ from those who were indigenous to Hokkaido, where it snows over 75% of the year. Therefore, their folklore, history, and habits will be different, too.
Experiencing life in the north, south, and everywhere in between gave me a window into each of these lives. They have different priorities, outlooks on politics, needs from their neighbors, and stories to tell each other about survival. Their collective stories fed into Ghost Train in a way that really fleshed out my characters to give them dimension, and keep them from being one-note.
Each one comes from a different region and carries with them differing ambitions and knowledge that are reflective of their upbringing. Yet, they all cared about many things that give them common ground: family health, personal rights, work protections, and knowing where their next meal will come from. Yes, they will use different medicines, have a different set of jobs, and harvest different crops at different times — but they all strive for similar goals.
My wish is for everyone to step back before they make generalizations, even if they don’t mean harm. It’s so important that we look to find smaller connections on individual levels, which will reveal the similarities amongst the difference in appearance.
Your “Folklore Friday” series is such a fascinating project. What draws you to folklore as a storytelling tool, and how do you decide which stories or themes to explore each week?
Thank you! It’s been such a fun project — what started as a way to promote Ghost Train turned into a passion project which I have greatly enjoyed putting together. At first, my focus was on famous Japanese folklore figures who may have inspired movies, anime, or even Pokemon that audiences might be familiar with. I touched on folklore that I pulled from and wove into my novel. But lately, I’ve taken a shift in my approach, and tied in folklore (still primarily from Japan) to current events.
People tend to think of folklore as ancient history, or the equivalent of old wives’ tales; but in reality, they have so much insight into humanity over history and so many lessons to impart. We are not going through anything unique as a whole today — and we can see that if we pay attention to voices of the past. Once we do, we may finally break generational patterns and progressively move forward together. I love bringing to light folklore that might inspire a lightbulb to illuminate in someone’s mind, so they can start to put the pieces together themselves.
You started speaking out at just eight years old. How has that early call to activism continued to shape your writing voice today—whether in fiction, journalism, or the work you do in communications?
When it comes to storytelling, I want to be cognizant not just of the facts of the situation, but being true to the voice at the heart of the story. Slight misinformation or a small misstep in the way I communicate a concept can lose trust between a reader and writer. Same goes for an activist: the moment someone shows their intentions are not genuine, or they show they haven’t done their homework, they lose their audience. Activism and writing are not meant to be places to promote the self, but rather, devote the self to another cause or voice.
In my writing, I am constantly thinking about who may read my work, and what I hope their takeaway will be. Am I promoting good in the world? Is this going to inspire something positive? What kind of decisions will be made or information derived from my story?
I am cautious, too, not to get too embroiled by these self-imposed pressures and expectations for certain outcomes. But this serves as a glimmer into how seriously I take my work. I only ever want to be a stepping stone into making someone’s life a little better and leading them on a path to learning more about the world around them, themselves, their place in it, and what they can do.
My stories are not the complete picture, and my voice should not be the loudest in a call to action. We share a collective in standing up for our rights and sharing stories that connect us. Being together will make us stronger, and I truly believe that writers like myself have a responsibility to be honest and support one another, and introduce readers to new concepts that encourage them onward and on a path of discovery.
What does your writing routine look like these days? Do you have a favorite time or place to write, or any rituals that help you transition into a creative headspace?
I am actually a picky writer! It’s a huge detriment to my craft, as I wish I could write easily on an airplane, in a cafe, or any time of day. I’ve given joining the #5AMWritingClub a try, I’ve attempted to join writing sprints over Discord or YouTube with writing groups, and I’ve set timers and used noise-cancelling headphones, only to have little to no avail in output success.
Truly, my best writing happens usually around dusk, once the day has settled and I’ve finished up at work and the gym and I can get a cup of tea in hand. I prefer writing by candlelight to gentle music, whether it’s soundtracks (non-lyrical), or in another language (during Ghost Train, I took to listening to soft K-pop).
As a “summer child,” that season tends to inspire me the most. I love sitting outside to write, watching the sunset make way for stars. It’s comforting and being alone as the world goes to sleep makes me feel at my most productive. I have a tendency to be a night owl, which isn’t really conducive to my work schedule or everyday life, but I can’t fight my flow of creativity; I’ve learned to embrace and live with it. Everything else will be figured out and fall into place in other ways.
You’ve studied creative writing in Scotland, political science at Georgetown, and film in Kyoto—that’s an incredible mix of disciplines. How do all those experiences come together when you’re building a narrative like Ghost Train?
I have been extremely privileged to have these opportunities; I’m grateful to my family for supporting me and encouraging me to apply and go for them. In many ways, I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to do when I was younger, as I craved “doing it all.” But nobody can do or see or be everything in life; and that was a hard lesson to learn. However, in writing, I found a way to bring it all together.
What seems to be a series of disconnected experiences has become a well-rounded pot of knowledge and perspective I can pull from. Ghost Train is set during a politically tumultuous time; without my education and awareness in current politics and social issues at large, it would be inauthentic for me to write a novel that depicts characters struggling during these rapid changes in their own society and to their rule of law. Had I not studied poetry and ancient writing in Scotland, I may not have keenly known how to approach some writing techniques nor research. Practicing filmmaking in Kyoto developed my “third eye” which helped me see the small details all around that tell the story: placement of objects, color coordination, setting and atmosphere. It helped me visualize where my story was taking place, and transcribe the smells, sights, and sounds onto the page, in addition to plot and dialogue.
Nobody needs to be relegated to literature or creative writing degrees or education to be a writer. Everyone sees and experiences life a little differently, and has the power to impart something remarkable through their own voice. I encourage anyone of any background to consider what their voice may teach others!
In a world where so much competes for our attention, what makes storytelling still feel urgent and powerful to you?
When our history and folklore is in danger of being erased, it is urgent that we tell stories. It is not the responsibility of one government or one person to do so: it takes all of us. Each has a voice to lend. Each has lessons to share. Each has witnessed life a little differently.
But if that voice is silent, how will their story ever be known? If it is never told, then it is a loss to the world. A single book can open one’s eyes to another place, time, or way of life. The more we tell stories, the more empathy we can generate, and the better we can preserve our own histories, and our own folklore.
It is not so important to me that every person on this planet reads my book. That is an impossible expectation. My sincerest hope is that whoever does read this book, doesn’t stop there. There are so many more authors who write about folklore, Japanese history, and Kyoto — and the same goes for all other books and storytellers. We are telling our stories in hopes someone will listen, but then carry it onward and do something with what they learned. Don’t keep a story to yourself. Tell someone; a story only lives as long as it continues to be told.
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