Chapter 0 - Prologue. A 2.4-Billion-Won Know-How
◈ How to Become a Star Writer ◈
Chapter 0: Prologue. A 2.4-Billion-Won Know-How
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About a year ago, I saw a video on YouTube with this title:
『Anyone Can Earn a Billion Won a Year? Special Compilation: How to Write Web Novels Easily!』
In the studio, a casually dressed author and a host appeared.
Why had I clicked on that video?
Looking back, there were plenty of reasons.
First, an editor at the literary magazine that had been commissioning my work told me, “Writer, I’m afraid publishing a collection of your stories will be difficult.”
...I forgot to mention that, at this point, I was a literary fiction writer.
Or, to put it more elegantly, a writer of serious literature. Anyway, that is not important.
Second, a newly posted short story of mine received scathing reviews from several critics, who called it “a shoddy structure fit only for a web novel.”
In other words... yes.
Simply put, I watched that video out of resentment toward literary fiction. Maybe it was youthful defiance saying, “Fuck it. If that’s how you feel, I’ll write web novels too.”
Of course, that was not the only reason I clicked on it.
The third reason was spelled out in the caption of the video you are watching now, just as I watched it back then.
<Web novelist Yoo Chan-young, annual income: 1 billion won>
No, even if it was web fiction, an author earned a billion won?
That was more money than even the tiny handful of writers in Korea who sold at least 500,000 copies could make.
This was not Britain, where that Rowling lady lived. Could something like that really happen in Hell Joseon?
As if speaking for me, the host opened their mouth.
“Many viewers sent in questions for you. Oh, this is a pretty provocative question right from the start. It comes from user ID TrustingFool. ‘Author Yoo Chan-young! Is it true that you earn a billion won a year?’”
“No.”
A direct answer.
Just as I thought.
There was no way an author made a billion won!
Just as I was about to turn off the video, half disappointed and half relieved, Yoo Chan-young continued.
“To be exact, it’s 2.4 billion won. I thought people might not believe me if I gave them the real figure.”
I stared blankly for a moment, then rewound the video.
“To be exact, it’s 2.4 billion won...”
...2.4 billion?!
My eyes stayed on the video, but my hands moved even more busily across the keyboard.
Google. Web novelist annual income. Search... Fuck, was this real?
Once I learned the truth, the author on the monitor looked different.
At the same time, petty feelings came bubbling up.
Envy for what I did not have, jealousy that made me want to belittle what Yoo Chan-young did have.
The self-consolation that I was not in this situation because I could not write something like that.
“What kind of literature is that...?”
“Those are supposed to be sentences?”
“He makes a billion won writing that crap? No, 2.4 billion?”
I listened to the interview, picking apart every single thing Yoo Chan-young said.
It is embarrassing to think about now... but everyone has a shameful past.
Anyway, the interview was quickly nearing its end.
“This is our last question. It comes from user ID AspiringWebNovelist. ‘Do you have any special know-how when writing a story?’ I’m a little curious about that too.”
“Know-how... I suppose there is something like that.”
“Oh, could you tell us?”
“It’s a trade secret, so that might be difficult.”
“Haha, is it a 2.4-billion-won secret? Could you let me in on it, just a little?”
The editor smiled slyly.
I knew it was all a staged routine, but they had built up the mood so much that I was curious anyway.
A 2.4-billion-won secret.
What could Yoo Chan-young possibly be about to say?
At last, Yoo Chan-young gave a strange smile and spoke.
“Become the protagonist.”
...What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Apparently, the host had the same thought.
“Ah... so... you mean that an author should immerse themselves in the protagonist while writing, something like that?”
“No. You have to become the protagonist. Literally.”
Just as I was about to ask what kind of bullshit that was...
A chill ran over my entire body, and I dropped my mouse.
Yoo Chan-young, beyond the monitor, was staring at me.
I knew Yoo Chan-young was looking at the camera, not me. I knew this was not a live broadcast.
Yet the moment our eyes met, I could not breathe.
Become the protagonist.
That is the only way you will survive.
I came to my senses only after the host delivered their line a beat late.
“Become the protagonist yourself! Haha, what a novelist-like metaphor.”
“Hehe. Did it sound convincing?”
“Hahaha!”
...What?
After that came a string of pointless chatter.
I hurriedly turned off the video.
I was ashamed that I had been overwhelmed by someone on the other side of a monitor, and by nothing more than a web novelist.
“Putting on airs. It was just some trite line.”
A trite line...
If I could go back one year now, I would want to smack the back of my own head as hard as I could.
Tell myself to wake up.
And to prepare.
Because I did not know then.
That Yoo Chan-young had been telling the truth.
That the author’s words had never been a metaphor.
Footnotes:
Hell Joseon is a disparaging Korean nickname for modern South Korea, used to criticize its harsh social and economic conditions.
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