[
I don't know how to describe my mother.
I always dreamed of tasting meat since I was young, especially in the morning.
However, not only did my mother never provide meat, but there came a time when she didn't even give us proper dog food. Consequently, I had no choice but to catch and eat the small mice scurrying around our house.
The mice squeaked as they ran all over the house and stole mouldy bread. I am a very smart child. I did not eat the mouldy bread, but waited to pounce on the mice and ate them.
After eating my breakfast, I would blankly stare out of the window.
From a window that looked up from the bottom, light entered. I stood tall and looked out of the window. The window is barred with iron, and a yellow bus starts its journey. Now I have to wait. Watching it, I would open my eyes wide in wonder, and then, finally, Mother came out of the room.
She kicked me.
It hurts. It hurts. Unable to hold back, I screamed and rolled on the floor.
Mother, ignoring my pain, slowly walked to the refrigerator and took out delicious food to eat. But I never even got a chance to taste such food. Whenever I approached the tempting smell, she would kick me again.
I rolled on the floor again, and she went out.
I desperately called for my mother.
Mother, mother, where did you go? Everyone has left me.
But Mother had already left. The house without the mother was too scary. I kept crying. Then, when Mother returned, I approached her with a sorrowful heart and clung to her desperately.
Where did you go?! Why did you come back now?!
Then Mother said,
"|?!"
I was kicked again. I rolled on the floor. Mother, still not appeased, screamed. I trembled in fear, not understanding what she was saying. Was there something bad happening outside?
I don't know.
It's scary.
Mother went to where the food was.
And she brought something sharp and shiny.
A burning pain swept through me. I screamed. Mother inflicted the burning pain on me several times. I gasped for breath, and then the big door opened.
"Tommy?!"
Startled, my owner rushed in. Even as I gasped for breath, I nestled into their embrace.
My golden fur, which the owner always loved, had turned red. I'm sorry. But the smell of my owner was so delightful. I licked my owner's face.
*
When I returned from school, I found that my pet dog had died.
Mother, with a blood-stained knife in hand, smiled at me.
"Welcome back, Suzy."
I smiled awkwardly at Mother.
"I'm home, mother."
This house that dreamed of heaven, was hell.
"What the..."
To be continued in Mother Episode 2. ]
After reading the manuscript up to Episode 5 and then returning to Episode 1, Simon Carver was at a loss for words. It was well past the time to leave work, but he had continued reading the manuscript that had arrived today. It was his casual curiosity that led him to open it, and he found himself drawn to the neat handwriting. Before he knew it, he had read Episodes 2, 3, 4, and 5 several times over, and here he was, lost in time.
The conclusion Simon drew from reading the novel repeatedly from various perspectives was simple: 'It's killer.' He then took one last look at the proposal. It was a tip from a senior journalist in the culture section who had since left the company.
The senior had said, "Read the novel first. If you read the proposal first, you won't be able to see the novel properly because of expectations or disappointments. Simon, try to read it completely from the reader's perspective."
Following the advice of the senior who had long cared for him, Simon made an effort to view the writing from as many angles as possible, especially if the novel intrigued him. Essentially, the novel he had stumbled upon today had hit the mark in terms of Simon's tastes. The title was 'Mother.'
The main character, "Suzy," lived under a mother who was fanatically obsessed with some mysterious religion, and the novel was a horror story dealing with occult incidents that began when she suddenly started having hallucinations.
After meticulously reviewing the detailed plot written in the proposal, Simon nodded his approval.
'This one has to go.'
It was a very well-written horror story. He felt like contacting the author tomorrow to propose a contract.
Smiling at having encountered a good piece of work after a long time, Simon was watched from a distance by Miss Brown, who approached with a crystal ashtray. Simon took out a Marlboro cigarette and put it in his mouth, and Miss Brown pulled out a Lucky Strike, lighting each other's cigarettes. Their quiet conversation continued.
"Did you receive a letter from a lover?"
"Heh, better than a lover."
"What is it then?"
"It's a novel. A very good novel has come in."
"It's better than a lover?"
"Absolutely. It's because of novels like this that I can't quit this job."
"Didn't you say something similar when you started 'Golden Quest,' after arguing over the phone with the author?"
"Uh, that's…"
"Oh, right. You said authors are naturally a bit sensitive."
"Well, they tend to be."
"Are you okay with it? It seems exhausting to work with them."
"It's my job."
Simon laughed lightly. In front of him, Miss Brown shrugged her shoulders, stubbed out the cigarette she was holding with her red lips in the ashtray, and turned away.
"Hang in there, Simon."
The smoke lingered long in the air.
With his half-smoked Marlboro still in his mouth, Simon revisited 'Mother.'
'Sensitive.'
It wasn't wrong.
Authors were individuals with their own worlds. Simon thought that because authors had such strong egos, they needed writing as a space to unravel and show themselves. Perhaps the reason they were shaken by minor things was because of too many clashes between their own world and the outside.
Simon was someone who understood authors as a breed.
He had always loved novels from a young age to the point of considering writing them himself, which stemmed from his inherently limited and congenial personality.
Ultimately, he preferred reading over writing, which he did not pursue consistently.
Contrary to Miss Brown's concerns, Simon was not particularly stressed by such characteristics of authors.
"However, I can't be too accommodating; I have to draw the line somewhere."
Meeting an author, a creator of a unique world and the stories within it, was always an interesting experience.
He was looking forward to this time too.
***
It was about a week after sending the manuscript that Simon Carver called.
I was at home when I took the call and he expressed his desire to proceed with a contract.
I asked him to first send the contract by mail, and then we scheduled a meeting.
Whether it was still customary between authors and editors in this era or not, he said he would come in person, so we decided on a coffee shop in Koreatown.
I didn't particularly want to hide who I was.
"If I were in a situation where I had to hide, then I'd have to refuse."
I thought that if the other party treated me in a discriminatory way, I might need to reconsider serializing my work with Torrance New Media.
With such plans in mind, I reviewed the contract that arrived three days later.
For an author, a 'contract' was always an essential part.
"Especially now more than ever."
In the future, these aspects would be well established, and there would hardly be any deceit, and even if there were, it would be possible to annul the contract.
However, that was not the case currently.
As the industry was still in its infancy, many aspects were not clearly established, and there were indeed people who blatantly deceived authors.
"Being a relatively large newspaper, they probably wouldn't do that openly."
Still, I thought it was necessary to check everything.
The most important aspect, the payment, was first on my list.
Ten dollars per episode.
Torrance New Media would publish eight pieces of work every other day, about $150 a month.
If things went as planned without any hitches, 'Mother' was expected to conclude at 25 episodes, totaling $250.
"Considering that coffee costs around $3 nowadays."
It wasn't a bad amount for a student's allowance.
However, as an author, the amount was ridiculously insufficient for achieving what I wanted.
"I guess I can't ask for a raise." The higher-ups wouldn't like that.
Moreover, other terms of the contract were also unappealing.
I would own the copyright to my work, but the newspaper also had rights. If I later published the work as a book, I would have to share the profits with the publisher and the newspaper. The royalties I would receive for a printed book were 8%, but the newspaper took 3% of that.
"Should I be glad it's not 4%?" I laughed in disbelief.
In this era, paper books made from pulp sold for about $4 each. That meant, for each book published, I would get $0.32. But out of that, $0.12 went to the newspaper. Damn them. They might as well be fleecing fleas.
Ultimately, I would receive $0.20 per book. If 2,000 copies were printed, I would make $400.
"Holy mother...." I frowned at the contract that aggressively asserted its upper hand.
But it was unavoidable. In a capitalist society, the 'upper hand' belongs to the capitalists. It was natural for publishers and newspapers that print and distribute books to take a greater share of the profits since they bore the risk of unsold books…
…Bullshit. It was blatant exploitation.
"It really was a crappy era."
This left authors with only two choices:
Either juggle another job or sell not just 2,000 but 20,000 copies. But even that wasn't enough because the greedy taxman, keenly sniffing out money, would come calling, and one would need to sell even more to make a living solely as an author.
Anyway, there seemed to be no room for negotiation.
"I didn't really intend to negotiate anyway."
It was my debut work. As an unproven author, it was difficult to make demands.
"There doesn't seem to be any other issues besides that."
It seemed right to just go with it.
A step back for two steps forward.
That's how I reconciled my feelings.
***
Friday, late afternoon.
After school, I went to Koreatown, left my bag at a store, and headed to the coffee shop I had arranged to meet at.
I told my mother I was meeting a friend, but since it was inside Koreatown, she would probably find out who I had met by that evening.
"It probably doesn't matter."
It's not like I was doing anything wrong.
With that thought, I arrived at the coffee shop… a place known as 'dabang' within the Korean community, and approached the only Caucasian man there.
The man was neatly dressed in brown pants, a checkered shirt, and a jacket. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, and his blond hair was slicked back neatly with pomade.
"Mr. Carver?"
"…? Yes, that's me."
Carver's eyes widened for a moment when he saw my face.
Just when I thought his next words would determine how our future contract would unfold, he rose from his seat and offered me a handshake.
"Are you Mr. Han, the author?"
"Yes, my name is Shin Han."
"Ah, I see. I'm Simon Carver."
We shook hands.
Fortunately, he didn't make any 'jokes' like he hadn't expected a real Asian to show up or how someone with small eyes could write.
'Well, nowadays, probably only a veteran who fought the Japanese in World War II would use such a joke as an icebreaker.'
"Please have a seat. Oh, about the coffee—"
"I haven't ordered yet."
"I'll buy it. It can be expensed."
"Thank you, I'll gladly accept."
"No problem at all. It's only natural."
Initially, the first impression wasn't bad.
However, I couldn't shake off the impression that he was somewhat flustered.
And sitting down, it was not hard to figure out why, as I observed Simon looking bewildered.
"Are you surprised because I'm young?"
"Ah, um, yes. To be honest, yes. Are you still a student?"
"Yes, I go to the high school over there…?"
"Senior year?"
"I just started this year."
"My goodness, oh, I, sorry."
He was very surprised.
"Does my being a student pose a problem?"
"Not at all! Not at all. I was just surprised. The work was so good, that I naturally expected someone more mature. So, it was just my own prejudice being shattered."
"Thank you for seeing it in a good light."
Smiling, I realized I had indeed met a decent person.
He hadn't even brought up race in our initial small talk.
Now, it was time to move on to the 'contract.'