Seo Joong made a high pitched, slightly nasally sound, “That’s harsh. Are you saying that your readers are reading your lies? Mr. Woo, I’m hurt. I feel lonely.”
Dong Gil’s expression grew darker, but Juho added as stared at Seo Joong, who claimed to be a reader who had been hurt by him, “You have to let me finish. There’s always truth in a book. Don’t be sad.”
“Please, explain,” Seo Joong asked as he kept acting. Only, he was looking at Juho with eyes sparkling with interest.
“Let’s say an artisan potter makes some pottery,” Juho said slowly. “It doesn’t matter what he makes. When people see it, they won’t think of it as a lie.”
They probably wouldn’t even doubt it. The same went for the potter. He didn’t doubt whether what he had made was real or not. However, authors were different.
“An author writes a novel about an artisan potter. He, too, is a potter, no matter what he makes.”
“It’s all pottery,” Dong Gil murmured, and Juho nodded.
“That’s right. It’s all created by a person, but they’re treated differently. One is made up while the other actually exists.”
‘Meow,’ a faint cry came from outside. The black cat was looking in their direction with its squinted eyes.
“On the outside, yes,” Juho added.
“On the outside,” Seo Joong echoed his words.
“Yes. The pottery made by the real artisan is for practical use. You could use it as containers for drinks, or rice. You could see it with your eyes, and you can touch it with your hands.”
“Yes, an artisan’s pottery has a definite shape.”
“But not so with novels. In other words, they’re made up. At the end of the day, they’re just letters written a page. You can’t use them as containers.”
‘A novel was a lie. Did that mean that authors were liars?’ There had been a time when Juho had been stuck on that question. What he had written couldn’t be the truth. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t change the fact that it had been made up. He had felt guilty. He had felt like he had been no different from a con artist. He hadn’t been able to look at novels the same way. His head and mind had been chaotic. The calm waters in his mind had started shaking out of control and become murky. He hadn’t been able to do anything.
“Then, what’s in it?”
However, as long as the author was still around, the dirt eventually sunk down to the bottom.
“Emotions.”
“Emotions…” Seo Joong echoed his words again. There were emotions in novels, which couldn’t be seen or touched. Yet, they definitely existed. Everyone felt them.
“There’s no truth or lie in emotions. They’re just feelings. They’re in the heart.”
Juho understood now. He had been able to stand confidently and answer without hesitation.
“I’m not writing because I want to deceive people,” he said as his head dropped slightly. There were moments of realization in life. Like a thunderstorm, they came without warning. Then, what followed was time. Juho had to spend years and years living in order to understand the difference between what was true and what was false. It had been long enough for the dirt to sink back down to the bottom so the waters were no longer murky. Though it had been a long time, it didn’t feel like a big deal in hindsight.
When Juho looked ahead, he saw a white mug filled with coffee.
“An author writes the potter, not the pots themselves. A person is much larger and more complex than pottery. If he’s distracted with what’s true or false, he loses his shape and becomes unrecognizable. We often feel uneasy at heart when he decide that all novels are lies. That’s the evidence.”
“Incredible.”
‘Clap. Clap. Clap.’ The room was filled with that sound. Dong Gil was slowly clapping with a straight posture.
“That’s Yun Woo for ya. You look like an idiot next to him.”
Seo Joong smiled bitterly.
“It’s embarrassing, but I gotta admit. It took me five years to reach that conclusion, but you’ve already figured that out.”
That wasn’t true. Juho hadn’t figured out the answer as quickly as Seo Joong had said. He thought as he swallowed words that he couldn’t let out, ‘Five years, that was the amount of time he took to write his most recent book. Was that the reason?’
“That was the reason,” Seo Joong answered as if he read Juho’s mind. He chugged his coffee and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“One day, I felt sick as I was writing. I broke into cold sweats like I’d eaten something bad. After that, I couldn’t write.”
Juho knew what that felt like.
“I couldn’t answer any questions about myself. My brain had stopped working. I didn’t dare to go outside, even if I’ve always been a homebody,” he added. “The first year was bearable. I thought to myself: ‘let’s treat this as a vacation. I’ll feel better in no time.’ But after a year, and the year after, nothing changed. I started growing anxious.”
Juho observed him. He saw his casual attire and his spiky hair. Writing a book had the power to make its writer anxious, even a free-spirited person like Seo Joong.
“It was no use, no matter how much I talked to him. It had been something he had to explore all along,” Dong Gil said quietly.
Juho nodded. When such doubt and anxiety bloomed from within, one had to find the answer himself.
“After three years, my health started to deteriorate. There were constant headaches and dizziness. On the fourth year, I found myself incredibly timid. My movements were becoming sluggish and awkward. I spent more and more time crouching in the corner. I was growing smaller,” Seo Joong said as he reminisced the last five years he had spent without writing a single word. The days were unbearable, and filled with self-loathing. He grew more and more lethargic by the day, and his brain no longer tried to distinguish between the days. Every day had been the same. His sense of time had grown dull. Time had flown past him.
“Time was just passing, and I couldn’t have been more afraid,” he said.
“How did you manage to get out of there?” Juho asked quietly.
“Funny story,” he said with a chuckle. “One day, my landlord told me to expect some noise because she was going to plant a big tree in the backyard. I couldn’t see the backyard from here, so as usual, I just went back to sleep.”
‘A tree and the landlord, it had been a sudden change of pace. How was he able to come out of his rut?’
“The place was kind of noisy for several months, and there were sounds of people moving building materials. Still, I stayed home quietly. One day, I noticed that the house was unusually quiet, so I’d opened the window to see what had changed. Then, I heard a faint chirping. That was when I realized where the tree had been planted.”
Juho imagined a tree, a tree that would have existed in a place that his eyes couldn’t reach.
“It was refreshing, several times more than usual. I couldn’t remember the last time I had breathed in the fresh air. From that day on, it became my daily routine to breathe in fresh air with my windows wide open. One day, I was sitting by the window, getting some air like usual, and my eyes met with my landlord’s in the yard. So, I said ‘hi,’ and we had a short conversation. Do you know what she said then?” Seo Joong asked with a smile.
“There had never been a tree. Once she started, she realized how complicated it was going to be, so she gave up. Things had felt so good since the tree had come, but it turned out that the noise had been made from some nearby construction. In hindsight, it was kind of odd that planting a tree would take so long. If I had used my brain just a little more, if I had come out and looked just for a moment, I would’ve known right away, but my sluggish brain had been thinking there was a tree the entire time. That whole day, I was rolling on the floor laughing. Although the “tree” wasn’t there anymore, I felt refreshed.”
“I had finally reached the truth,” he added.
“The “tree” reveals itself the moment I believe it exists. My job was to reinterpret that as a development in my writing.”
His eyes sparkled in the shade and he smiled brightly while looking untidy. One day, the anxiety would return. Times of confusion and chaos would always come back, and he always went on a quest in search for truth.
“I’m looking forward to your new book!”
“You should. It’s probably going to be nothing like my other books. It’ll be long.”
“Is that right? In what way?”
“Maybe… spiraling downward instead of growing?”
It was the polar opposite of what he had been writing so far. Most of his books had characters who grew more mature throughout the book. They experienced things for themselves as they grew and groaned in pain. Then, they learned.
“Let me tell you a secret,” Seo Joong whispered although there were only two other people in the room. “The protagonist is a corporate worker.”
“I’ve already read that in the synopsis.”
“Buy the book if you want to know the rest.”
Dong Gil didn’t even look surprised. The two cats were gone, and there was no kitten wailing. They had to have left to look for another place to stay, and Juho asked as he stared out the window at the empty front yard, “I guess you had an answer this whole time, Dong Gil.”
“There was no need to find an answer. My stories are based on my own experiences. In other words, they’re real,” he answered brusquely with his arms crossed.
“He might not look like it, but he’s the simplest person in here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Do you have something to say about my looks?”
“I’ve known you for years now. It’s kind of late for complaints.”
“I don’t think I like your tone.”
That was very Dong Gil-like, someone had told Juho that every author has their own unique personality. They each wrote with their own hearts. It was their hearts that defined their stories and writing styles. Juho looked at the clock on the wall. They had been talking for quite some time now.
“I’m hungry.”
Like Seo Joong had said, the pool table made the black bean noodles taste even better. As he was his way out after cleaning up, Seo Joong asked, “When are you planning on writing your next book?”
He had asked light-heartedly. Yet, there was substance in his question, and Juho felt Dong Gil looking back from the gate.
“I’m already working on it,” he answered as he quietly stepped out.
“Stop right there!”
That day, Juho had to stay even longer at Seo Joong’s place.
