What does it mean to write a novel?
It was a question often asked by any writer.
I wanted to offer this answer:
"Assign whatever meaning you want, just write."
Writing was merely the act of transferring thoughts onto paper or a monitor.
There could be no grand meaning attributed to it.
That was what I most guarded against. I never tried to tense up or strive for perfection when it came to creative work.
Doing so would make writing novels impossible. I had seen many writers who fell into this trap, and that's why I always tried to relax.
Writing 'words' in the most comfortable state possible.
Only when a novel was completely finished could it truly have meaning.
But it was inevitable for writers to fall into this 'trap of creation'. Occasionally, I too felt that the act of writing a novel was an exceedingly noble one.
One such moment was when I managed to fully express my limited perspective through my novels. At that moment of completion, I felt a tremendous sense of pride.
And another was when I wrote in a killer setup, in a killer atmosphere, just like now.
Tap, tap tap tap.
"Ughhh"
Right now, I was in what you might call a 'high' state.
Late at night.
The incandescent bulb hanging over my desk shone brightly.
Outside the window was engulfed in darkness.
Surrounding my desk were all sorts of collectables I had gathered since childhood, from a Star Wars poster to the Dungeons & Dragons rulebook, Guns and Swords magazine, bobblehead dolls of my favourite anime, and even AC/DC albums. Among them were many gifts from my father.
And here I was, plotting part two of 'Mother' on my hard-boiled Ninety Hundred typewriter.
"I can understand how a drug addict feels."
Continuing to write such thoughts that, in real life, would land me in handcuffs.
Two weeks into its serialization, 'Mother' was going smoothly.
According to Simon, who told me over the phone, my novel was receiving an unusually strong response. There were fan letters, and even fans calling the newspaper directly, so much so that we had to politely refuse calls that weren't about the serialization.
"Just as I expected."
I smiled and took a break from plotting.
Lost in thought.
Simon praised the success of 'Mother' greatly, but I wasn't particularly relieved or happy about it. I knew all too well that the main reason for this success was the unusually high sales of Torrance New Media, spurred by Reagan's presidential election.
The morning of November 6th, I first bought a newspaper titled 'WIN' out of curiosity.
There, just the first episode of a new novel was published.
It was only natural that many people read it.
'Of course, I don't think it's all thanks to Torrance New Media.'
My skills surely played a significant part in the novel's success.
However, I was well aware of how cruel the genre novel industry could be.
George Gissing's novel, New Grub Street, contains a passage:
In these modern times, literary activity is a business.
Except for a few genius writers who can succeed with immense talent alone, those who have succeeded in writing in this era are skilled merchants.
They always keep the market in mind first and foremost.
If a product starts to sell poorly, they are immediately ready to provide something new and attractive.
They keenly understand all the sources from which they can derive income.
I felt that this was very relevant to me now.
In my past life as a teacher, I wrote when my family's situation had somewhat improved, but now it was different.
Our house was burdened with all sorts of debts, and I wanted to escape from that.
"For that, I need to use whatever I can."
Not just in writing novels, but in the industry as a whole.
In the 1980s, the maturity level of the business itself was very low, there were no standards, and trends changed quickly.
As a result, countless writers emerged and disappeared.
In a way, like manufacturing standardized products, we had to continue evolving through various methods to survive.
The easiest thing was to analyze oneself and the market to find a way to write.
An editor I know said, "Writing genre novels is like walking a tightrope."
It involves satisfying the readers' needs while expressing one's own unique style.
If you cater too much to the needs, you end up as just another common novel that doesn't sell, and if you assert only your own style, no one finds the novel interesting to read.
So what is one's own style?
Ultimately, to understand one's own style, one must experience the world, read many novels, and write them.
That's why the phrase 'input, output, feedback' came about.
That cheeky editor expressed it as 'putting in, taking out, and getting scolded,' which really made me want to break the contract at the time.
"No, no. Input, output, feedback."
I generated input while experiencing the 1980s, based on my thoughts of my future.
And thereby created 'Mother.'
It was the output.
"Now, for the feedback."
How this work is being received by people.
It was time to verify my own style and walk the tightrope.
I felt a bit nervous.
"Sigh."
After completing today's writing goal and taking a light deep breath, I took out a fan letter from Simon from my bag.
The thoughts of editors, and of course, readers, were very important to a writer.
Although those who sent fan letters were surely my fans and would have only good things to say, I thought it necessary to find out what aspects of the 1980s people were drawn to and became fans of 'Mother.'
I took out the first letter.
A plain white envelope.
From Miss A. Baker in Colorado.
[Hello, author? I am a reader who found 'Mother' really interesting because it precisely matches my life. Every morning, my mother tells me to milk the cows. After that hard labour, she prepares a breakfast filled with broccoli, which I hate. Every time I see Suzy, it feels like she is looking at me, and it really breaks my heart.
So, I have a request. If it's okay with you, could you consider hiring me as your assistant? Despite my appearance, I'm a sixteen-year-old who works well and listens well, a truly good kid. If you would just tell me…]
I cracked a smile.
"Right off the bat, here comes the 'Psycho bitch'."
Psycho bitch.
I had heard that such cases were not entirely uncommon.
Although its fervour has somewhat died down, in rural areas, remnants of hippie and groupie cultures still influence some, causing them to project their selves onto a work so much that they immerse themselves completely in the author. One author actually brought such a girl home and ended up in federal prison.
"Of course, I have no such intentions."
Ignoring the latter part, I read the girl's fan letter and speculated how she might be 'immersed' in the novel.
I checked several letters to see what aspects of my novel people were enthusiastic about.
"Not everything they say may be right, but I thought I could find some commonality and reach some answers."
There were about twenty fan letters arriving at my house every day.
From the handwriting and the contents of the letters, I inferred the age and gender of the writers.
[Author! The novel is really fun! What is Han-ja?!]
[I've heard that such coercion really exists in the East Asian cultural sphere. It was really scary.]
[It was so horrifying, it seemed like child abuse. I hope Suzy becomes happy.]
[The description was so vivid, and yet, I was amazed at how vividly the unfamiliar aspects of East Asian culture came to life.]
[The plot is groundbreaking.]
[Please don't torment Suzy too much.]
[Suzy is so pitiful.]
I extracted key points and wrote them down with a pen for clarity.
Then I thought deeply.
Oriental horror, child abuse, groundbreaking development, sympathy for Suzy, immersion.
Why did they offer such responses?
"Obviously, because I intended it when I wrote this work."
When I planned and wrote 'Mother,' I focused on two major elements.
One was the unknown terror represented by 'Mother.' The mother and religious figures around her who monitored and controlled every move Suzy made, not hesitating to engage in actions that could be considered blasphemous due to their twisted faith.
The other was 'Suzy,' who was an utterly ordinary character gradually breaking down within that society.
By juxtaposing these two elements, I aimed to maximize the horror experienced by the readers.
And at the same time, it was a device to make the ending of the work feel more shocking to the readers.
After returning to the year 1980, I had been deeply contemplating one thing.
"What happens when my unique style and the needs of this era merge?"
Editors I met in my previous life described my novels as solid, weighty, and nearly raw in flavour. They said I conveyed messages to readers by verifying harsh realities, rather than fantasies. I agreed with them. I never wrote stories filled with dreams and hopes.
Rather, I am closer to a writer who writes about hope blooming in despair.'
So, I am better at expressing 'despair.'
That's also why I chose a horror novel as my debut work. The horror genre is fundamentally based on gloomy emotions. I thought that even if I strongly expressed my own colours within the grammar of this genre, readers wouldn't feel a strong aversion to reading it.
And indeed, after summarizing the responses, I came to a conclusion.
"Maybe I should push Suzy harder in Part 2?"
I found myself wanting to write something that would torment the readers a bit more.
**************
Juan, who works as a night guard at a glass factory owned by Felix Fischer, who is of German descent, seems to be programmed not to understand jokes. More than that, his always stern expression and his facial structure, which seemed overly angular, made him someone people found difficult to approach. He was also someone who immersed himself in his work.
As usual, he was one of the first to arrive at the factory.
Today was no different.
In the early morning, Felix arrived at the factory in his old car and, scratching his stark white hair, looked around the entire facility to make sure there had been no incidents or problems overnight. He always had to see it with his own two eyes to be satisfied.
Finally, he checked the guardhouse.
His subordinate was still sleeping.
"Juan."
"Juan!"
"Huh?!"
Juan startled awake.
"Sleeping on the job again today?"
"I'm sorry, boss. I apologize."
"If that's the case, why don't you just get fired and sleep at home?"
"Boss, if I get fired, I'll be homeless. I'd have to sleep on the streets."
"Hmm."
Grumbling, Felix stepped into the guardhouse and noticed a pile of papers in the corner. He suddenly picked it up—it was a newspaper.
"What is this?"
"Uh, that…"
"What if it catches fire and causes a big fire?"
"That won't happen. I don't smoke."
"My comrades who died in the trenches also said they wouldn't catch fire until they left the trench and were riddled with bullets."
"That's a pretty dark story."
"Tsk, ah."
Juan's good-natured laugh drew a sigh from Felix, who decided to handle the newspaper himself and took it outside. Heading towards the incinerator, Felix happened to unfold a page that Juan had folded and tilted his head in confusion.
"Mother...?"
"Don't curse my mother, boss."
"What? When did you follow me?"
"Ah, you mean the novel. It's really interesting. Please give back that newspaper."
"Ahem."
Unlike his excessively developed supraorbital ridges, Felix was not of a harsh nature. He paused, hand midway to the incinerator, and turned back to Juan.
"Juan, do you want this newspaper back?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then don't fall asleep during your shifts. If you work diligently for a week, I'll return it."
"That's harsh, sir."
"Should I just let you sleep on the streets instead?"
Unable to bear the threat, Juan sighed and slumped his shoulders as he turned away.
"Tsk, ah."
Felix, clicking his tongue again, checked the newspaper that Juan had neatly folded.
Torrance New Media
Felix, who normally considered newspapers to be a collection of propaganda and never read them, was suddenly curious seeing Juan seriously claim that the novel was interesting.
Moreover, a comment his wife Masa had made flashed through his mind.
"Honey, you should read newspapers or books. It helps prevent dementia."
It was something he had heard recently as he was feeling his memory dim with age.
"Hmm."
No, work comes first.
Felix tucked the newspaper Juan had collected under his arm and headed to the office.
TL Note -
juxtapose = place