I was jealous.
No, to be precise—I had been.
─Teacher, are you writing another book?
─Hmm? Oh, haha. Yes, but I'm not sure if it'll work out this time.
─It wasn't fun, though.
─Yeah. Peter Perry was more fun.
─R-right…
Peter Perry. How could I not know?
As a schoolteacher, it was even worse.
Just hearing that name made my stomach churn and nausea rise.
'How could something like that sell so well, even if it's a children's book?'
'Is the publisher insane? They rejected my work but are publishing such absurd nonsense in their magazine?'
'If it were me, I'd write something much... much more educational and with higher literary value!'
And when that jealousy ate away at me until it consumed me entirely—
My manuscript had already vanished somewhere.
─Isabel! Have you seen the manuscript I was working on?
─What are you talking about? You already took it to the post office.
─W-what!? What are you saying!?
That day, my cousin and his wife, newly married for just a year, nearly faced their first major marital crisis.
Luckily, Isabel understood that I was truly in shock, and we made up.
Anyway, all of this—everything—was because of Hanslow Jin and Peter Perry. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could get my manuscript back.
─… Excuse me? I've been accepted?
─Yes, didn't you submit to our publishing house?
─O-of course! Yes! Thank you, thank you so much!!
It was a stroke of luck.
A story I didn't even remember submitting had been accepted.
Perhaps it was divine favor for living a good life, or maybe the publishing house that had been obsessed with children's books like Peter Perry finally recognized real literature.
─Keep up the good work. Hanslow Jin, one of our top authors, has high hopes for you.
─… I'm sorry? Hanslow Jin…?
─Oh, right. It wasn't me or any of our editors who picked your work—it was Hanslow Jin.
Good heavens.
That was the moment I realized just how petty my jealousy had been. Hanslow Jin, such a revered and blessed figure, and I had harbored such foolish envy!
I wanted to crawl into a hole out of shame.
In fact, I left the school, where many knew I had once spoken ill of Hanslow Jin, without a second thought.
It was something I had to do if I wanted to focus on writing in London, anyway.
Three years passed.
Following in the footsteps of the great Hanslow Jin, I began serializing my novels. Steadily writing and introducing a unique world, I gained a modest following.
Though now I could call myself a respectable mid-tier author, my heart was still full of unease, or perhaps dissatisfaction.
─Is it still impossible to meet Hanslow Jin?
─Yes, that's correct.
Why, why couldn't I meet the benefactor who had saved me? What could I possibly be lacking?
─If you don't mind me asking, sir, do you still hold the same views on race?
─What? Of course. People of color are inferior. They should be killed before they contaminate the whites.
─Ah… I see. Understood.
─And by the way, I saw an Asian scurrying around the publishing house the other day. We should isolate them before something happens…
─Please go home for now. We'll contact you later.
─Ah, understood.
I had no idea why I even had that pointless conversation.
Perhaps, because this was the publisher that had first discovered the esteemed Hanslow Jin, they needed some sort of special qualification.
That's what I thought as I tried everything I could to finally meet the mentor I so admired (in my way).
"Ahhh!!"
"You deceived me, Hanslow Jin! You deceived me!"
"Hey, rookies. If you're done with that, take a look at these submissions too."
"My eyes!! My eyes are burning!"
There were three new employees I hadn't seen before.
Considering Bentley & Sons' recent expansion, it wasn't all that surprising.
But the identity of those new employees…
"Excuse me? They're victims of the recent pulp magazine incident?"
"Yeah, that's what I heard. They're just university students—well, one's already working, but still. It was a huge deal."
"No, no, no… more importantly, their entry…"
"Yeah, they were recommended by Hanslow Jin himself. He specifically asked for them to be placed in the submissions department, so they'll be working there for now."
"No way!"
Oh, Hanslow Jin... just what on earth is he...
"Once again, you've saved young literary talents like me, haven't you?"
"Uh, yes... something like that, I suppose."
"Oh, dear God."
Maybe the reason I couldn't meet him was because he was divine? Present, yet unseen...
And so, the anguish of Herbert George Wells only deepened.
Of course.
"Argh!!"
"Damn it, even the stuff I wrote in that dump is better than this!"
"Hanslow Jin, I curse you!!"
The three struggling assistants who had been forced into a literary hell could only writhe in pain.
"Oh, this one's actually a bit fun."
"Give it here, you bastard!"
"Why should you get to hog it?!"
Anyway.
The young talents were growing steadily.
***
"So, the contest you mentioned... you're referring to a regular, open contest?"
"Yes, I think it's about time for something like that."
As the representative of the Authors' Alliance, I was presenting to Arthur Conan Doyle, Richard Bentley Jr., the head of Bentley Publishing, and last but not least, the reliable magazine mogul, George Newnes, president of George Newnes Ltd.
"The concept is simple. Every year, the publishing company would host a public contest for new works."
"Is there a need for that? It's not that difficult for magazines to find new writers as it is."
"Well, that's true."
We do receive plenty of submissions, after all.
But.
"Isn't it all just recycling the same pool?"
George Newnes, who had brought up the topic, licked his lips and looked away. He knew I wasn't wrong.
At this point in time... no, actually, until the modern internet era, there were only two ways for an aspiring writer to become a new author.
Connections, or submission.
Of course, there's also the option of self-publishing.
But think about it—even in the 21st century, with far more advanced printing technology, self-publishing is a tough route. In the late 19th century, when technology was still underdeveloped? Self-publishing?
Where would a fledgling businessperson get the money, and how would they break into distribution? Just dropping a book off at a local bookstore doesn't mean it'll get distributed.
In short, unless you're a noble or a wealthy patron doing it as a hobby, it's an impossible route.
Until recently, these methods were enough to supply writers.
Why? Because there weren't that many serialized magazines.
But as printing technology advanced and serialized magazines started popping up everywhere, things changed.
Sure, there were some shady, low-grade illegal publishers that Arthur Conan Doyle and I had to shut down, but even aside from that, there were plenty of second-rate magazines eager to jump into what seemed like a blue ocean.
So it was time to explore other ways to recruit writers.
"That's where the contest comes in."
"There's also the concept of a baek-il-jang (writing contest). You gather everyone during the day, announce a topic on the spot, and have them write to that theme. It was typically done with students."
"Oh, that sounds quite fun."
Arthur Conan Doyle's eyes sparkled as he spoke.
I nodded as well. I remembered how much fun I had with essay contests in elementary school.
Of course, as pure nature's beauty was forgotten, and shining talent was buried under the pressures of entrance exams, such things became trivial jokes no one cared about. In a time when even pure literature had become a cheap farce... well... they eventually became ghostwriting contests or nothing more than setups for cheating.
Even though the rule was to write on the spot, the topics would be leaked beforehand, and many participants would write their pieces at home, or worse, have their parents do it for them.
In any case.
"A contest or a writing challenge. Whichever route we choose, the standards and judging process must be rigorous."
"Hmm, like what?"
"Manuscripts should be strictly blind-judged. For a writing challenge, we'd require that participants use only the provided manuscript paper and fountain pens."
"That'll require a lot of staff, won't it, writer?"
"Of course."
I recalled a few times when I'd seen this in community forums. Even with a small contest that brought in maybe ten entries, it had been incredibly demanding.
Even with known participants and precautions against plagiarism, it had been tough.
"Which is why the four of us are here."
I grinned as I said this.
Given that we had gathered to clean up the aftermath of the recent incident, I figured it was only right that we join forces.
And so, this is the conclusion we reached.
The panel of judges would come from the Authors' Alliance.
The promotion and execution of the event would be handled by the two publishing houses.
In return, the publishers would provide a modest travel allowance to the committee members dispatched from the Alliance, and in turn, the publishers would filter and, well... sign contracts with the selected authors.
"So, what do you think? Quite a promising venture, isn't it?"
"Hmm. It certainly sounds plausible."
Arthur Conan Doyle nodded. His eyes sparkled, clearly intrigued by the idea.
Well, of course, despite being called the Authors' Alliance, it mostly just collected membership fees and hardly did anything while still being a financial burden.
Being a social club is fine, but its original goal was to replace the Royal Literary Society, so some public activity was necessary.
"Hmm! I agree as well. However, calling it just any contest might not be enough. How about establishing an official prize name to give it more prestige?"
"As expected from Mr. Newnes. That's an excellent idea."
In reality, not all contests are created equal.
Money is a factor, sure, but prestige matters just as much. That's why the Ministry of Culture's contest, with its minister's award, holds so much honor.
"So, what should we call the first contest?"
"Hmm. Given the person who brought it up, shouldn't it be the Hanslow Jin Prize?"
"Be reasonable."
Ugh, what a creepy suggestion.
Naming a prize after someone who's still active ties the winner and the awarder together, which is a huge burden for both.
Why would I do that? Who knows who will end up winning the contest?
Seeing my genuinely horrified expression, George Newnes chuckled. Ugh, still annoying.
"Well, if that's not possible, is there another option?"
"Hmm, let's see..."
Should I invite Prince George and create the Duke of York Prize? No, that might get me summoned for royal defamation.
"In this case, isn't there only one option?"
"And what would that be?"
"The Charles Dickens Prize for Literature."
Approved.
It was a name that perfectly honored the pioneer of popular literature, without a hint of inadequacy.
George Newnes and Arthur Conan Doyle could only nod in agreement.
Thus, the grand era of genres began.