Surviving as a Writer in the British Empire - Surviving as a Writer in the British Empire chapter 41

Hero(4)

The torn paper fluttered like fallen leaves, but rather than recalling the prize, he felt his senses dying.

tenth already.

Despite the fact that I’ve been receiving texts, I can’t believe I’ve been able to write this far.

“Turn it off.”

If you think about it, it makes sense.

‘The Mongol Empire, which once ruled the entire Old Continent, but fell under the mace of the god of the Black Death’.

It seems like it would be a good material in itself, but the problem was that he knew very little about the Mongol Empire.

Whether they live in tents or buildings, the basic class system, and even whether they drink mayuju or wine.

You need to have basic knowledge to be able to draw a picture in your head, and you have to turn the picture you drew into a sentence, and arrange the sentence according to the rules of literature to create a novel.

‘How could I have forgotten even such a basic thing?’

Arthur Conan Doyle thought while looking at the blank paper, like a white hell.

The space was small enough to cover with both hands, but at the same time it looked like the widest maze in the world.

It was strange.

Wasn’t he the one who boasted of his speedy penmanship enough to write about 3,000 words a day as usual when writing the ＜Sherlock Holmes＞ he hated?

But now? 3,000 words or something, it was difficult to write even three letters properly.

The ink of the fountain pen, which fell like a waterfall, was as dry as the drought in mythology, and the wrist that ran gracefully was just as heavy as if it was pressed down by a stone… Truly, it was fortunate if even one letter was properly advanced.

“Whoa, whoa…”

How on earth does this happen… he is writing a historical novel that he really loves and loves. Why can’t even one step forward.

“…”

No, let’s correct it. Arthur Conan Doyle already knew why.

Because I’m afraid.

‘Just because I use this, will I be able to surpass myself?’

Arthur Conan Doyle as a mystery writer.

For Arthur Conan Doyle as a writer of historical fiction, it was the most powerful enemy and most hated opponent.

Not to mention, I’ve already lost four times.

Falling down and getting up again is called a challenge.

Falling down twice and getting up again is courage.

If it is perseverance to fall down three times and get up again.

Even if you fall down four times, what does it happen again?

Arthur Conan Doyle couldn’t help but agonize.

Calling it an unbreakable heart…isn’t it just your own delusion? Even though he knows that the answer is egotism, isn’t he merely averting his eyes from that fact?

“after······! I can’t help it.”

Arthur Conan Doyle sighed once and decided to cool his head for a moment.

When it doesn’t, it won’t.

It was the same when I was studying as a doctor. In this case, get away as much as possible and start again from the beginning.

I had to get my focus back.

“Well, it’s already time like this.”

The time I had written on the note I had given to the young Korean man was approaching.

I don’t know if the young man will come or not, but I’ll have to wait in advance.

Okay, it wouldn’t be bad to meet a young man and put the refreshing oriental wind into his hair again.

Thinking that, he stood up and suddenly saw something in front of the locked door for writing.

“huh? That’s…”

it was a magazine.

A magazine with a very familiar title and format.

＜Strand Magazine＞.

Even though the serialization contract was cut off and there was no need to send it, Niels continued to send copies one by one as if provoking.

“Hmm.”

It is now a subject of love and hatred, but Arthur Conan Doyle could not give up even himself as an avid reader.

In addition, looking at the cover this time is completely different from the previous ones, it seems that a new work is being serialized.

It’s also quite promising.

From noble mtl dot com

‘In the last issue, there was no hint of that at all…’

For some reason, the peculiar smell of a conspiracy stimulated his unique curiosity.

That moment when I was so interested in flipping through the magazine.

“······Hanslo Jin?”

Arthur Conan Doyle had no choice but to be puzzled by the unexpected pen name.

Of course, there was no concept of a magazine exclusive contract at this time.

Arthur Conan Doyle himself occasionally sent one or two short stories to Temple Bar that were not part of Sherlock Holmes.

But now, this work is clearly out of that trap. It’s because it’s showing major changes, such as changing the cover and catching the eye with dark yet atmospheric illustrations.

That’s right, it’s like trying to change a signboard work…

With such doubts, I started reading ＜Dawnbringer＞.

“This······!”

Arthur Conan Doyle couldn’t help but be amazed.

It’s been seen before, but it’s because Hanslo Jin brought a work of a completely different style this time.

“This time… is it a gothic novel?”

No, isn’t it a bit gloomy for a gothic novel?

How should I say it feels like a gothic novel mixed with a detective novel and 12th-century knightly literature?

It was not a fairy tale like ＜Peter Perry＞, nor a book containing lessons or social criticism like ＜Vincent Villiers＞.

“You’re so good at making different things over and over again.”

I don’t know if there is something overlapping, but each genre is unconventional. Even tossing it out with its own color melted into something else like that…

“In a way, I’m envious.”

He struggled to suppress the dark mind that had been bothering him until recently, and he began to check the contents.

“Hmm…”

It didn’t take long for him to fall into the sea of type.

It had an easy-to-understand charm like ＜Peter Perry＞, had a structure that was good for Londoners to immerse in like ＜Vincent Villiers＞, and I could feel a new sense of refreshment as a full-fledged action play that the two did not have.

“…is the reasoning at an ambiguous level?”

Of course, the progress and process of the case were too short and monotonous to be called reasoning.

‘You knew that Mrs. Canis was a werewolf because she had a London pigeon feather on her collar? The process wasn’t bad, but here, while accompanying my wife for a while, adding meaning and tricks to the feathers…’

It does not give the reader a chance to guess the culprit of the case, and by the time the curiosity soars, the answer is immediately informed.

If this is the case, the taste of reasoning to find the culprit has no choice but to die.

Hanslo Jin, are you someone who has never seen a detective story?

‘No, it’s not like that. The basic stages of reasoning and tension are firmly grasped. I didn’t miss using the double line. This is a difficult part to do without an understanding of this genre.’

At the same time, the sentences in his notes are rewritten.

─Hanslo Jin is probably a person who has read a lot of mystery novels.

But if so, the question remains.

“Why did you write like this?”

This work naturally breaks the taboo of mystery novels.

Fundamentally, it is the fact that they are using supernatural means to solve the case, but they are focusing on the reason (Why done it) rather than the means (How done it).

As if, from the beginning, reasoning was only thought of as a ‘tool’ to appeal to this worldview or induce tension in readers.

“If so, that’s what I thought from the beginning… The approach is bizarre, the frame is completely broken. It’s similar to that of a madman.”

It is not easy for a Bondi person to break the existing frame. That’s the case no matter how great a person is.

Of course. Because people look at and think about the world based on their own experiences.

Can humans understand how the feathers on the tips of their wings or how they move their tails?

that’s impossible

If that was possible, it would probably be a madman whose frame was broken, or a human who ‘experienced’ a completely different frame.

Except for the impossible, what remains is the truth, no matter how unbelievable it may be… Then, is Jin Hanslo a madman?

‘No, that’s not it either.’

That being said, the writings he wrote had clear rules. Sometimes, it proceeds as if solving a kind of answer that must be like this.

It is said that writing is not simply based on inspiration or the flash of a moment.

There is also no distorted balance unique to insane people.

like. Like someone who really came from another world.

“······Right. It wasn’t impossible.”

In his mind, a man who gave a similar but different refreshing feeling comes to mind.

That Korean young man.

Although he conversed fluently in English, the fundamental values underlying his thoughts were vastly different from those of his European counterpart.

then.

One more sentence from the notebook in his head is filled.

─Hanslo Jin was born and raised in a culture other than Europe?

can’t be sure But maybe, I didn’t grow up in Europe. Because it is extremely heterogeneous.

Then he lowered his sight and checked the words written on one side of the cover.

a hero of London.

This seems to be the identity of this work.

Hero, because it’s a hero······ To be honest, he wasn’t the type of person he liked.

He was childish, pretended to be unnecessarily serious, and was full of superficiality.

The same goes for the transformation scene. Posing needlessly, consuming energy, only changing right before battle. Why didn’t you wear it beforehand?

And why the hell doesn’t the enemy attack when he’s so defenseless?

And lastly, what about that odd stance you take before finishing off the enemy?

It was the height of inefficiency that could not find even the smallest amount of utility.

but.

‘It’s cool… there is!’

It didn’t matter that this was a clumsy reasoning that was close to failing as a mystery novel.

How many times have I written a Sherlock Holmes story, but I couldn’t come up with the subject matter, so I made a reasoning that didn’t fit realistically, and every time I thought of it, how much I wanted to kick the blanket.

The point is, it doesn’t matter if it’s really realistic or not.

It was how the reasoning made the detective look ‘existent’ and ‘natural’.

And when Arthur Conan Doyle covered the short, he had to admit that he had already accepted the title of ‘Baron Edmund Earhart’ himself.

“・・・・・Whoa.”

Arthur let out a deep sigh.

I had no choice but to admit it. He fully enjoyed Hanslo Jin’s new novel.

And it was confusing.

himself obviously. I must have been fed up with a work where ‘someone’ with superhuman abilities who was childish and unnecessarily superficial was active.

It was the exact opposite of what he had been showing so far.

In an instant, he realized.

“Ha, was that so?”

‘Baron Edmund Earhart’ from ＜Dawnbringer＞. Looking at the person, he realized why he had a strange feeling.

He resembled the creature he created… Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, the behavior, the tone. A frivolous aristocrat who wraps himself in lust and extravagance. His outward behavior is completely different from Sherlock’s.

But…the roots were the same.

Still, Sherlock hated him to the point of wanting to kill him, but he had a crush on ‘Baron Edmund Earhart’ and found it interesting. Where would such a contradiction be?

So did he really hate Sherlock Holmes?

no, before that.

‘Why did I write Sherlock Holmes?’

Bored, the answer is the wrong answer.

Of course, there weren’t enough customers for even the vicious tax collector to go away shaking his head. It’s true that I couldn’t control my free time.

However, if that was the case, I would have refined the original historical novel, and I would not have committed an ‘infidelity’ called a mystery novel.

Nonetheless, he committed adultery.

The reason is that.

‘okay. It was only one.’

Because it was fun.

This is because among the novels that soothe his boring time, the most interesting novel genre was the mystery novel.

Fun is contagious.

He wanted to become a carrier of the contagion himself, so he had a desire to entertain people.

Stuffy London. A crime that explodes on a fictional day. I wanted to give hope to people living in that gloomy reality.

In a world that lives in hardship, is there no salvation? Does God Really Exist? Beyond those fogs and dark clouds, the blue sky you can’t even see properly?

There may not be. no, it should be

That’s why he created God’s spokesman, a young torture detective who uncovers crimes on God’s behalf and lives as a close neighbor to the citizens of London.

I can’t stand injustice, but I can’t be honest, so I have to wrap it up as ‘fun’.

You can do anything for your friend, but you have to pretend to be cool to sharpen your own intellect.

A man with a hooked nose who loves art and is loyal to his emotions, but is actually more rational than anyone else.

It could have been Arthur Conan Doyle himself, or perhaps the esteemed teacher Joseph Bell.

A novel that I wrote with a pounding heart at first, but when did that heart start to change…

I mechanically think of the plot, mechanically roll my brain to create a device, and mechanically write.

So he lost interest.

“Hero.”

Arthur Conan Doyle ruminated on himself and focused on a word he came across by chance.

hero.

okay. He wanted to make a hero.

It’s like a doctor treating a wounded body, or like a whaling ship aiming for a whale in the sea.

A hero who preys on ordinary people hiding behind the fog like the sea of London, glaring at and punishing criminals.

On the one hand, you will be a star of hope to people, and on the other hand, you whisper to people that they can still be on your side.

I wanted to make a hero like that.

“ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha!!”

For a moment, Arthur Conan Doyle’s head was filled with joy.

okay. Come to think of it, both the historical novel ＜Ivanhoe＞ and the great knight novel ＜Don Quixote＞ are ultimately just different in form, aren’t they stories about heroes?

“Funny. It was really dark under the lamp.”

The scales covering my eyes seem to fall off. It seems that the bug that was messing with my hair is gone. It was as if he had broken a stone that was pressed against his stomach.

The body is light. Just holding a pen makes me feel better.

From noble mtl dot com

“Now, I am not afraid of anything.”

***

“It’s late…”

The courtesy pub where I first met Arthur Conan Doyle.

I still grumbled at the door where only the wrong people came and went.

Who asked to meet first, why is it so late?