The Great Storyteller

Translated by: ShawnSuh

Edited by: SootyOwl

“Did you call my name?”

Writing several masterpieces of her own, Yun Seo Baek had been the teacher of many authors, including Joon Soo Bong, and Geun Woo Yoo, who Juho had met recently.

Juho became flustered. He had met someone he hadn’t expected to meet in a completely unexpected place. ‘Why was she there?’

She opened her mouth before he had a chance to ask and said, “I live nearby. I heard about the contest, so I thought I’d come out for a walk.”

“With paper in your hand?”

“I was itching to see the future authors,” she said, smiling like a girl. Even the wrinkles around her eyes couldn’t take away from her innocent smile.

“Seeing you’re not planning on submitting that for the contest, I’m sure it won’t matter what kind of paper you use.”

“… You got me.”

“I couldn’t have missed it. You were writing quite fiercely there,” she answered as she spun the parasol in her hand. Now, you should get back to writing.”

Juho approached her slowly. After taking the paper from her hand, he went back to his seat. As he sat, Yun Seo too sat by the trail, spinning her parasol in her hand.

Juho kept on writing. Somehow, it felt like the paper was smoother to the touch. Perhaps the paper took after its owner in some way. He felt more at ease.

At that moment, an announcement came from the speakers. It was time. Everyone got up from their seats and headed toward the headquarters to submit their work.

While everyone moved busily, Juho didn’t move a muscle. Yun Seo was the same way.

By the time all of the contestants had left the park, Juho finally stopped writing. He had a satisfied smile on his face.

“You must have finished.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The park had been quiet now. He had finally finished his next book and felt overwhelmed by a sudden urge to shout with joy and sprint until his heart was about to explode. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Haha!” he leaned back as he laughed happily, lying on the grass while at it. The sky came into view. It felt high and open. The clouds calmly floated by, creating quite a beautiful sight.

There was silence. No one would be able to understand the joy he was feeling at that moment. It belonged solely to him. Then, he felt something move in the dirt.

As he indulged himself in his satisfaction, a voice came from above, “You must be Yun Woo,” said Yun Seo. She had his composition in her hand. To be precise, they were the pages that had been written on her sheets of paper.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered calmly. It was probably obvious to her. Though it was the first draft, and it still needed trimming in places, the pages embodied Yun Woo’s distinct style. For a seasoned author like Yun Seo Baek, she would’ve recognized it with a glance.

“I’d love to read more of it, but I’ll give it back to you for now,” she said with a smile as she set the pages down next to Juho’ face.

He sat up slowly to face her and said, “You can read it.”

“No,” she said sternly. “I’d like to take my time savoring it when it comes out.”

It was quite a compliment, and at the same time, her words provoked joy. Writing another book had always come with a stench of failure. Her warm words masked that stench, and although his second book hadn’t done well in the past, Juho gained confidence with Yun Seo’s affirmation.

“Do you think I’ll be able to become an author?” he asked.

“You already are, kiddo.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant…” He didn’t want to be a mere author. Deep inside, he wanted much more, so he added with a smile to hide his excitement, “I want to be a great storyteller.”

“How lofty.”

The great storyteller, not many authors were referred as such – not even Yun Seo, or her friend, Hyun Do Lim. It was an honor that couldn’t be earned even by the greatest of authors.

Juho wanted just that. It was heavy and eternal and it was inherently different from who he was at that moment.

That’s how he wanted to be remembered. He wanted to reach something that many people had worked towards and failed.

“I long for that title.”

Her eyes sparkled as they fixated on him. They were slightly murky, but they didn’t waver. He looked back at her.

“If that’s what your heart desires, than so be it. That’s what the creatures so-called authors do, right?”

‘Creatures so-called authors.’

“We don’t believe anything until we see, hear, and touch it. We have to write if we want to, even if it means giving something up. I’ve seen countless authors like that,” she added as she folded her parasol. Then, she said, smiling in the sunlight, “But I’ve yet to meet anyone as young as you.”

“Come visit me sometime. I’d prefer it now, but I’m sure you’re dying to finish what you started, am I right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then, come visit me when you’re finished. I’ll cook. What do you like?”

“I’m not picky,” he answered after a quick thought.

From then on, Juho skipped school from time to time in order to work on his book. After seeing the piles of paper in his room, his mother gave him permission immediately. Before he knew it, he had already developed a reputation for being sickly, but he paid no attention to that.

He had been sitting in front of his computer, editing and changing things according to the developments and characters he had created. Whenever something wasn’t to his liking, he didn’t hesitate to rewrite it several times, but it hadn’t been all that physically demanding. It would have been much more difficult before computers, but thankfully, that was no longer an issue.

Without the restriction of the lack of technology, it was natural for authors to be more critical in their editing processes. Because they had the resource to do so, they pursued perfection.

Whenever Juho pressed a key on the keyboard, new characters appeared on the screen.

“Sigh.”

What hadn’t changed was that writing had remained mentally demanding, even with computers.

Repeating something was quite a daunting task. It was tedious and tiresome. On top of that, he was editing the story he had written himself. Secretly, the word ‘editing’ accrued a negative meaning. It denied what already existed. It involved making various changes, but there was no way to be certain of one being better than the other.

Because all words in a composition were interwoven with others, the overall feel was also prone to subtle changes. There was no situation that called for one, single edit. No matter how subtle, there was no end once changes occurred. If a person had told an author to edit his work for all eternity, it would have been possible.

However, in reality, there was only so much time.

Though authors might sought after a perfect sentence, there was no such a thing. An author’s job was to write out a person’s life, and there was no such a thing as a perfect life.

Juho read what he’d written. The mother smoked her cigarette while holding her baby. No one stopped her.

She wasn’t a perfect person in any way.

He took a deep breath. After calming his mind, he continued reading.

It was the last scene. She threw herself off the roof of her own volition. Her only surviving son watched everything unfold.

They had a conversation with one another for one last time. They made eye contact and listened to each other breathing for the last time.

“You’re going to regret your decision,” the son said.

“Probably,” the mother answered. A wind blew and revealed her stomach. Its hopelessly stretched out skin hung loosely.

Juho wanted them to regret.

Things weren’t as vivid as they once were. The mother had hid herself behind the sentences. Because of that, Juho had been able to imagine her end, which he couldn’t bear to see. They weren’t at the edge of a cliff.

She had thrown herself from the roof. Her lifeless body was probably sprawled across the floor, and her son could’ve seen his mother’s end if he just looked down.

Juho had portrayed the scene as explicitly as possible.

‘Broken joints, blood. She no longer made any sound. There was never beauty in a dead body. It was hideous and foolish. Everyone criticized her, but things could only be heard by those still living. At the sound of other people screaming and cursing heading to the rooftop, the son took out a cigarette.’

Then, Juho placed the last period.

He slowly stood up from his chair, very slowly.

Birds were chirping outside the window. His hands had become hideously veiny.

*

There was a quiet storm in Zelkova Publishing Company. Yun Woo, the author of his critically acclaimed debut title, had suddenly appeared with his new book. There had been no warning, and no one had expected him to write another book in such a short time.

The staff gathered in the meeting room. Each with a cup from the coffee machine, they were discussing something rather seriously. Everyone looked exhausted.

Nam Kyung was the same.

“OK. Next, Mr.Woo’s manuscript.”

“Yes, sir,” Nam Kyung answered the editor-in-chief.

“Have you all read it?”

“I couldn’t keep myself from reading it even when I was busy.”

“I was dying from anticipation.”

“Although, I had no idea that we’d be looking at his new book so soon.”

“Title: Mother. This is a working title, right?” An editor asked after hearing the opinions of their fellow editors.

Title: Mother, a working title at the moment.

Yun Woo, the youngest author to debut in the history of literature. Less than a year from the time he wrote the ‘The Trace of a Bird,’ which was selling at an incredible rate, Yun Woo had written a new book.

“Yes. How was it?” Nam Kyung asked. It was a way to get others to agree in some way.

“It was great,” for example.

Nam Kyung had also read the manuscript. After all, he’d been the first to receive it. It was about eight hundred pages, yet he read it in a burst.

He had read it as he delayed his other work. He had read even on his subway ride home and as he’d gotten off the subway. It hadn’t been intentional. He had had a feeling that his day would’ve been ruined from the potency of the emotions embodied in the manuscript and he’d longed for a beautiful conclusion.

Unfortunately, he had had to swim in the sea of depression for an entire week after reading through the manuscript.

The destructive life portrayed by Yun Woo’s colorful, yet pure style had been rather immersive.

It had been almost like a swamp. Slowly, Nam Kyung had felt himself sinking from his own weight.

“It was fantastic,” the editor-in-chief emphasized.

‘I knew it,’ Nam Kyung thought. It really had been fantastic. Despite the damp, depressing tone, the story had been pure, and colorful. The contrast between the two contradicting characteristics had given it shape. Readers were bound to get sucked in.

“Except,”

Except.

“It’s a tad bit too dark.”

“Right.”

It was a rather dark story. Although it wouldn’t have been an issue for an ordinary author, there was no telling how it would reflect on Yun Woo when he was known to be a teenager.

“Nothing happened to Mr. Woo, right?” the editor-in-chief asked. Nam Kyung shook his head.

The last time they’d met, Juho had been like a textbook example of calmness.