Became an American Retro Novelist - Chapter 145
Only Noblemtl
145.
“Fuck, that’s why······.”
Who is that guy who starts swearing all of a sudden?
I clearly heard the name earlier, but I couldn’t quite remember it.
I tilted my head, but I didn’t think I needed to worry about it, so I just poured all the canned beer I was holding into my mouth.
1984, vintage Budweiser for me.
“Ugh.”
It was a killer taste.
The moment it entered my mouth, the bitter taste of hops spread out, and I felt a natural carbonation that I could never feel in artificial drinks like cola. All of these things came together in harmony, and the liquid that gave off a deep golden color was enough to completely drain my soul and reason.
‘I wish it were a little cooler.’
How many years have I forgotten about this?
In my previous life, I didn’t enjoy drinking as a child, but as I got older, I became more of a drinker. I mostly drank beer with Samantha and Jack, but after we left, I often went home and sipped whiskey alone.
After I returned, I couldn’t even drink a sip of alcohol, which made me so sad. When I was a freshman, the uncle inside me cried every night.
‘This is so delicious······.’
At first, I was a bit flustered by the upperclassmen suddenly pouring beer on me, and so were my other classmates, but that only lasted for a short time.
Once we started drinking beer, everyone was amazed and sipped it.
The first party held in the hallway was ridiculously shabby, but it felt like literature in itself.
‘Yeah, that was really sloppy back then.’
Is it because it’s 1984?
It feels like young guys who are just 18 or 19 years old are just saying “yes, yes” and moving on when they drink beer.
In fact, there was a strong atmosphere in college that allowed people to drink beer as if they were blind.
‘I’m glad I came to college.’
I thought as I opened my seventh can of beer.
Yeah, I was a bit of a heavy drinker.
Until then, the nameless senior was still acting drunk.
In fact, most of the people here were drunk like that.
The first day of school, and the first day of semester.
Everyone gulped down beer after beer, as if trying to blow away their regrets about things they hadn’t done while they were resting as the alcohol evaporated.
Since it was our first time meeting, we were all a bit awkward at first, but things changed once we started drinking.
Next to me, three men and women were drinking and talking about various things in the book.
“Hey, I read that over the holidays and it was killer. ‘Foundation’s End.’”
“That’s crazy. Isaac Asimov is a god. He didn’t win the Hugo Award for nothing.”
“Why do I feel like my writing becomes more mature as I get older?”
“······Isn’t that obvious?”
“No. The professor said that as you get older, your brain ages and you can’t write well.”
“Isaac seems to be an exception.”
“That could be true. Hey, rookie. What novel did you read?”
······He speaks as if he is asking a question to a new cellmate.
“I’ve been reading a really fun novel lately. It’s ‘Cathedral.’”
“Oh, I’ll kill that.”
“The cover is very neat.”
Those who laugh and giggle.
At first glance, it seemed like a nice place where literary lovers could drink together and casually share their own literary views, but as time went by, tongues started to twist and their true colors (?) began to be revealed.
Several seniors sat next to me and gave me feedback on the novel ‘SEEN’.
“I mean! I hate About Tea! It’s too sweet!”
“That’s right! God! I think Mother is the best! That novel that vividly depicts human emotions!”
“Hey, that’s nonsense! All novels written by God are interesting! Double Spy is a little childish though!”
Reviews were mixed.
I didn’t really care and just drank the beer.
‘It’s a common story, isn’t it?’
No matter how good a writer is, it is impossible to satisfy everyone. The writing that seems to satisfy everyone is actually closer to an illusion created by the media and the public. It just feels that way because the majority of people and those in authority gather and say, “This novel is good!”
In fact, students’ reactions to my writing were very mixed.
Of course, there were some people who said they liked all of my work, but since they were all literature lovers, they didn’t hesitate to criticize the parts they didn’t like.
After listening to them quietly, I finished organizing my thoughts in my head and slowly opened my mouth.
“Aren’t there any other writers who are active in the school?”
“Huh? Me.”
A black female student raised her hand.
“It’s a novel called ‘Mild Lost.’ Have you read it?”
“······Ah, I remember seeing it in passing.”
“Really?! I heard that it was just kicked out of the bookstore and was piled up as dead stock! It’s an honor!”
“What can I say that I am honored?”
I took another sip of beer.
Then, Jeffrey, a senior student who had come up to me without me noticing, opened his mouth.
“It’s not rare for kids at this school to be active in creative writing. But there’s no one who’s consistently successful like you. Well, most of them published books at small publishing companies to gain social experience.”
“Oh, shit! Aren’t they going to give us an award or something at the end of the year? Like the National Book Award!”
“Arthur, Arthur. What kind of National Book Award is that? It’s probably only chosen by people who know the truth, and unless it’s a famous work, it won’t even be considered.”
“No! I clearly said that I would select from books published in the United States!”
“Well, God, what do you think?”
I looked back and forth between the black girl who was excitedly gulping down beer after beer and Jeffrey next to her.
I never expected this story to come up.
There are a wide variety of literary awards in the United States.
Starting with the Pulitzer Prize, which is considered the most prestigious among them, the three major science fiction literary awards, the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, and the Locus Award, the National Book Award, the Arthur C. Clarke Award, etc.
And even within that, the recruitment guidelines and fields were divided.
We accepted submissions and also selected award winners from novels published in the same year.
I smiled appropriately in response to the sudden gazes directed at me.
“It’s difficult.”
Actually, I am currently interested in that ‘literary award’.
Recent events have made me realize this naturally.
Within California, ‘SEEN’ was a well-proven artist. So the next question to consider was ‘how to expand outward?’
The United States was a country that could be seen as a collection of 50 small countries under its name.
Moreover, it was the 1980s, and information was spreading slowly. No matter how famous I was as a writer here, my name was not known to the outside world because I gained popularity mainly through newspaper serials.
That’s why I thought of a literary award.
That too, is an award whose name is widely known nationwide.
Of course, as Jeffrey said earlier, there was a possibility that my work would be passed over in those literary awards, since I was a writer who was only known within California.
But I had already thought about that in advance. I was aiming for both the award for submission and the award for published novels.
‘I’m still thinking about it though.’
Seeing that even upperclassmen with publishing experience are aiming for the route of becoming famous overnight by winning a literary award, it seemed like my choice wasn’t such a far-fetched idea.
‘School life comes first, though.’
I was thinking of slowly thinking about it while living my life faithfully as I have been doing so far.
Next year, I will publish a new work that will aim to win a prestigious literary award.
***
Being a teacher was basically a very enjoyable job.
Generally, students have the perception of professors as ‘a somewhat unique person who teaches students at university’, but the reality is a little different.
Internally, professors were largely responsible for teaching, research, and administrative work, and the responsibilities and expectations that came with it were certainly enormous.
But most professors happily accepted that kind of life.
The reason was simple: being a professor was the best job that only those who loved their field of study so much and constantly delved into it could achieve.
Who wouldn’t want to get paid to delve deep into their favorite field of study?
That is why they spent almost all their time at school, studying their own specialties, teaching them to students, and trying to maintain and develop the dignity of the university institutions to which they belong.
Edward Macmillan was of course one of those people.
A veteran professor who has been working at Stanford University, one of the most prestigious universities, for over 20 years.
He has taught countless students and has directly and indirectly influenced the world they create. He enjoyed the process and the act itself, so he always took charge of the basics class whenever new students came in.
‘Writing 1’ is the most important major subject in the fall semester of the first year.
The writings of the pure students who had not yet been educated in the environment called Stanford always gave him fresh inspiration. Although Edward was the head of the creative writing department, he was one of those who always kept his eyes and ears open for his own development.
And this year, I couldn’t help but look forward to it even more.
It was because of a young man named Shin Han, who was active under the pen name ‘SEEN’.
Ever since he asked around to his students and read the book himself, Edward had been very curious to see what kind of novel Shin would write when he entered college. He knew that he shouldn’t treat each student as special, but he was naturally drawn to everything he had encountered in relation to him.
The ‘Writing 1’ class was conducted in three major steps.
One is a critique process that studies existing creative works.
One is a theoretical course to learn novel theory.
The last step is a practical course where you write a novel using what you have learned.
These three courses were organically linked together to provide students with a path to identify their capabilities and advance to the next level.
Edward MacMillan finally felt a sense of calm as he walked into his first class.
Small circular lecture room.
The twenty first-year students gathered there each showed different reactions. Some were nervous, while others looked at them with anticipation.
He double-checked that they were all faces he had seen at the interview, and Edward slowly opened his mouth, deliberately trying not to look at Shin several times.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Edward Macmillan.”
He is well into his fifties, but he speaks his mind without hesitation in a straightforward tone that does not show his age. His story, which is a mixture of the place called Stanford, the power of being a professor, and the values that have matured with age, clearly gave those gathered here dreams and hopes, but at the same time, anxiety and despair.
Everything was as he intended.
“‘Writing’ is ambiguous. It has various forms. It is difficult. But it is equally enjoyable. I don’t think I have the right answer. However, I feel that the experiences I have accumulated so far have allowed me to move forward with confidence. I hope you can also spend time here with that kind of confidence.”
And finally, he threw in a sly joke.
“I have a friend who coaches American football at a high school. Whenever he meets students for the first time, he always says this. ‘If there’s a guy who thinks he’s the strongest among you, come out and see me.’ It’s possible to say something like that because football is a sport where you can divide the superiority between strength and skill. But then I suddenly thought about it. What about people like us who study literature?”
A faint smile spread across his lips.
“Which of you think writes the best?”
Everyone just looked at what was going on around them.
And then his gaze soon reached a young man at the back of the classroom.
It was God. Without deliberately avoiding eye contact or being conscious of it, God noticed that Edward MacMillan’s gaze was also among those looking at him.
‘It seems like I met a really interesting professor.’
Is it because I’m a writer?
Yet his questions felt philosophical.
Every writer has his or her own philosophy that cannot be exchanged for anyone else’s.
God raised his hand secretly, wondering what it was.
“Oh, was it Shin Han?”
Edward pretends not to know and approaches me.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you think you are the best novelist?”
“No, that’s not it. I just want to change the premise.”
Edward couldn’t help but laugh when he heard that.
A freshman refutes the words of a full professor who has worked at a university for over 20 years in his first class?
It had never happened before. But that made Edward feel intrigued, and he asked back with a smile.
“What is it?”
“I think it would be difficult for freshmen like us to answer whether we are the best at writing novels. It is very difficult to have any kind of self-confidence, and if that self-confidence is borrowed from ‘the approval of others’… I think it would be a bit sad.”
Edward’s smile grew wider.
It was something he could say with confidence, as he was a writer who currently received more ‘recognition from others’ than anyone else.
God is always grateful for the recognition given to his novels, but he does not want his value as a writer to be overshadowed by them. Didn’t he already feel the consequences in his previous life?
More than anything, in Stanford’s classes, I wanted to be a ‘student Shin’ like them, not a ‘novelist SEEN’.
Even though they are not yet highly recognized, the students here will each have their own thoughts on novels that come from the flow of their lives. And from the perspective of learning, they will be on equal footing with them.
“Then how?”
“I don’t know about anything else, but I can write novels more enjoyably than anyone else. How about this question?”
“······.”
“······.”
Silence hung over the classroom.
Someone was holding back a snicker, so Edward asked the student a question.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“Yes! It’s John Smith!”
“Okay, John. Why did you just laugh?”
“I thought I couldn’t support that either!”
“Hoo.”
Edward stared blankly at the god who had suddenly changed the flow of the classroom.
To be honest, I was surprised in many ways.
“Is it like that for everyone?”
Answers came from here and there.
Yes! That’s me! Me too! I write the most fun! I don’t have to eat!
Amidst all the curious declarations of young men who had not yet escaped their teenage years, Edward burst out laughing.
‘Yes, this is Moon Chang-gwa.’
This attitude was necessary for those who walk in the field of creating something that has never existed before in the world.
So Edward smiled and spoke to the god and the students without hesitation.
“Then it is a task.”
It was less than 10 minutes after class started.
End
(145)