After successfully concluding the contract, Simon and I discussed the schedule going forward. We talked about the manuscript volume I needed to accumulate before the serial started and how the work would proceed before the serial launch. The meeting ended in the early evening.
I walked Simon to the nearby bus stop and then strolled leisurely through Koreatown as the sun began to set. "Not bad," I thought.
Considering the historical context, Simon Carver was a pretty good person. I was surprised that he treated me as a 'person.' He hadn't made any racially nuanced jokes, and when I pointed out a prejudice a contemporary white man might have, he sincerely apologized. Though, his bowing his head was a bit of a minus.
"Well, can't help that part."
At least I felt he was trying to respect me. Though he might actually be respecting the work titled 'Mother' rather than me, it didn't matter. After all, a white man in the 1980s treating an Asian student this decently was exceedingly rare.
I felt good as it seemed I had taken the first step towards achieving my goal of earning recognition through my writing. Back in 1980s America, I had been a boy struggling to fit into the small community of Korean society. With little else I could do at a young age, I focused solely on my studies to avoid worrying my mother. But as I grew older, I realized that wasn't enough. No matter how much I endured and tolerated, discrimination didn't disappear. I had to overcome and defeat it myself.
At this point, still just an Asian boy with nothing, I chose to write 'Mother' as a two-part series. "I guess you could call it a kind of insurance."
Proving my worth with the first work and securing a 'proper' contract with the second was my chosen plan. "I'll make it a success no matter what."
With a firm resolve, I returned to the store, contract in hand. My mother, standing behind the counter, immediately started talking to me.
"Did Shin come?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Can we talk for a moment?"
"Oh, yes, of course."
I entered the counter area with a smile. I expected this.
As a young man in Koreatown, I had a conversation with a well-dressed white man in a coffee shop. People who knew me would have soon informed my mother.
I had no intention of hiding my involvement in the novel, and as a minor, I wanted to ask her to write a consent form to send to the newspaper, so I willingly went inside and sat down facing my mother.
In my past life, I was a son who never caused trouble and focused on his studies.
But this time, I was planning to go a bit further.
"I've signed a contract with a newspaper."
"A contract? What kind of contract?"
"To serialize a novel."
My mother's eyes widened.
Yes, naturally she'd react like this. I understand. Any mother would momentarily freeze if her only son suddenly told her he was going to serialize a novel with a newspaper.
The problem came next.
"Have you written a novel before?"
I had overlooked this part.
'I had never given any indication to my mother that I wrote novels.'
"Is that paper the contract? Can I read it?"
"Yes, here it is."
I handed over the contract.
My mother unfolded it and soon smiled awkwardly.
"Is it a bit difficult because of the small print?"
Having spent her life as a homemaker and in the Korean community, she wasn't good at English.
"I'll read it for you."
I meticulously read out the contents of the contract.
Though it was just the two of us facing life's challenges after my father passed away, we didn't live in a gloomy spirit. Instead, we tried even harder to stay cheerful together. My mother, thinking of me, read many books related to child education.
After my explanation, my mother tilted her head, puzzled.
"I understand everything, but did Shin write the novel?"
"I wrote it secretly. You know I'm locked in that closet, right?"
"Yes. Mom thought you were into masturbation."
"Holy mother."
"What did you just say?"
"Oh, no. Sorry. It's nothing."
I answered, flustered.
Yes, the book my mother used for education during this era was somewhat direct in its content.
"Shin. Did you feel like your mom was invading your privacy too much? But it's completely natural for you to focus on masturbation. Teenager? You know?"
"No! That's not it!"
"Mom understands and respects that, and I hope you don't feel embarrassed."
"Yes, yes, I know. Uhhh."
"In the future, when you masturbate, shall we set a signal for each other?"
"Mom, please."
I desperately tried to steer the conversation back to its original course.
"Anyway, that's what happened. So, please sign this consent form."
"What kind of consent form is it?"
"It's a consent form because I'm a minor."
My mother looked at me with utmost seriousness in her eyes.
"So, you've been writing novels all this time."
"Yes. I was too embarrassed to tell you. I'm sorry."
"That's okay. There's something I've been wanting to say."
"What is it?"
"If it's something you truly enjoy doing and you've achieved something through it, that's really great. I've been so busy working that I haven't been able to give you the attention you deserve, but when did you grow up so much on your own?"
My mother slowly reached out her hand.
I flinched and trembled momentarily.
"Well done. Good job."
With a bright smile, she stroked my head.
At that moment, I initially felt a bit of rejection, but it was fleeting.
I felt much more at ease.
In my past life, I didn't start writing seriously until after my mother had passed away due to an illness.
So, this was the first time I had actually told my mother that I write novels.
The fact that my mother acknowledged the work I love, and that it belongs to a genre of novels often rejected in this era, made everything feel profoundly new.
'I never imagined it would feel like this.'
I felt overwhelmingly proud to be my mother's son once again.
But soon after, cold sweat began to run down my back when my mother asked, "So, what kind of novel is it?"
"Uh, well,"
It's about a zealot mother who tries to kill her child.
Should I be honest about it or keep it hidden?
******
Having received my mother's approval, I had nothing more to worry about. I faxed the consent form to Torrance New Media and started dedicating my time to writing 'Mother.'
Simon Carver said to me, "Before we start the series, we need ten episodes' worth of manuscripts."
Translated, this meant, "I'm not sure how fast you can write, so could we test that?"
Publishing is a race against time. In my early days, I too serialized my works in magazines. What I learned was that many writers struggle to meet deadlines. The pace at which different authors write varies greatly, and managing this was the editor's job. For writers who are slow or often hit snags, it was best to have a good stock of serialized content before beginning. Now, Simon was trying to gauge what kind of writer I was by making such a request, and at the same time, secure some backup content.
All I had to do was show my skills here, though the conditions were indeed different.
I looked down at my hand holding the pen and thought to myself. In this era, writers commonly used typewriters. However, such an expensive item was not something we had at home, so I simply wrote by hand and sent my manuscripts to the publisher. Nonetheless, I didn't feel that my writing speed was significantly slower.
"Everything is already planned out in my head."
Except for the occasional breaks when my hand cramped up from holding the pen, the progress was smooth. I believed it was because I was finally writing the novel I truly wanted to write. 'Mother' was undoubtedly a story about me and about living as an Asian in this era.
******
In the office of Torrance New Media, Simon Carver's day started no differently than usual.
He arrived early in the morning, pulled an espresso from the coffee machine, and sat down at his desk. After finishing the morning briefing, he wrapped up a draft report he had sketched out the day before. It was about a new book contract, and he suggested placing an announcement in the newspaper if permitted, offering to restructure the culture section accordingly.
Once his morning tasks were completed, the meetings began. Today, as usual, the boss vented his vehement anger about Jimmy Carter, putting pressure on the journalists. Watching this as if it were a neighbour's house on fire, Simon, unlike the other exhausted journalists, leisurely made himself a second cup of coffee. He sat proofreading tomorrow's publication and checking the editorial cartoon manuscripts.
In the afternoon, he started calling writers who had probably just woken up.
"Ah, hello? This is Simon."
"I'm sorry," came the immediate apology from the writer.
It was a common scenario. Simon seriously listened to the writer's troubles about struggling with the manuscript, reassured him, and then, with a gentle tone, nudged him for the next submission before ending the call.
After several such calls, once he felt that he had managed his writers adequately, he wrote an article. By then, Hugo Irving, the editor-in-chief of Torrance New Media, would come by and suggest they go out for some fresh air.
'Here we go.'
The most unnecessary and awkward time of the day. Despite this, Simon, with a sociably pleasant smile, followed him.
They took the elevator up to the rooftop. Hugo lit a cigarette and began to speak.
"I heard you landed a new contract?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Is it a good piece?"
"It's a very good piece."
"And that's being serialized in our newspaper?"
Simon had no retort to that.
"If it were really that good, it would've gone to Rotam. They print in newspaper color and even add fancy illustrations, plus they have ties with publishers who later release it as a book. Besides, you'd get the prestige of being serialized by one of the top five newspapers, and if you had the choice, you'd pick Rotam over Torrance, right?"
"That's correct."
"Serializing here is just a way to earn some pocket money, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's right."
"If it was really a great piece, why didn't you send it to that magazine company you know?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Don't play dumb, I know all about it."
Hugo chuckled and patted Simon on the shoulder.
"You can make some pocket money too. But, take this as a hint to be wise."
The editor clearly misunderstood the reason Simon sent works to the magazine company.
"Put Torrance New Media first, then consider others. Got it?"
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good, good. I really like how compliant you are, Simon."
The editor, with a slight smile, said he would go back down first, took a puff of his cigarette, and left.
Watching his back, Simon let out a long sigh.
'Compliant, indeed.'
It was true. Simon Carver was not particularly interested in office politics, nor was he fervently dedicated to journalistic integrity. All he wanted was a peaceful day and a steady paycheck. Meeting a good writer and satisfying his personal interests were all he considered necessary.
The editor's light remark about sending works to the magazine was due to Simon's nature. Handing off pieces to the magazine was a side job anyone handling the cultural section did, and easy-going, unambitious Simon was just the right journalist for it. His personality's advantage was not holding onto others' words unnecessarily.
'Maybe I should call the new writer.'
Freed from Hugo Irving's nagging, Simon returned to his desk and immediately called Los Angeles. Two days had passed since the contract, and he was curious how much manuscript the writer had accumulated.
As the ringing sound continued, he felt a mix of worry and anticipation.
At the beginning of their careers, writers usually managed to stack up between five and ten episodes in two days. However, the person on the other end was a debut writer with no experience. Determined not to show any surprise at the outcome, Simon cheerily introduced himself as soon as the call was answered.
"Hello, this is Simon Carver from Torrance New Media."
[Ah, hello, how have you been?]
"Hello! How have you been?"
[Just fine, and you, Mr. Simon?]
"I've been well too! I called to talk about work, is now a good time?"
[Sure, what about?]
"I can't help but start with the manuscript! How many episodes have you written?"
[I've finished them all.]
"Excuse me?"
His resolve not to be surprised crumbled in an instant.