Chapter 15
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: The Man Who Hits You With Hard Truths
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Scene 15. The Man Who Hits You With Hard Truths.
The characters, incidents, and places featured in this story are fictional and may differ from reality.
Scene 15. The Man Who Hits You With Hard Truths.
“Son. It just... happened.”
“Yes.”
“Is that it?”
“It’s not like she’s staying in the main house. It’s just the staff quarters. In any case, running the pension is your prerogative, Father. I have nothing to say about it.”
“You gutless brat. Is it so hard for you to call me Dad?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just awkward. I’m twenty-eight. ‘Dad’ just doesn’t feel right.”
“Even if you live to be a hundred, what’s going to change? I’m your dad, and you’re my son. That’s all.”
“I have a reputation to maintain as a professor. Please, think of my image. It's not 'Father,' it's 'Papa.' The farmhands laugh behind my back whenever they hear it.”
“Who cares what other people think? If I want to hear it, that’s what matters.”
“You’d think you’d have given up by now, but you’re so persistent.”
“Enough nonsense. Go and check on the writer’s room. We made it for staff quarters, but since it hasn't been used, it’s probably full of dust.”
“Running the pension is your prerogative, so cleaning and maintenance should also be…”
“Just! Do it when I tell you to!”
“You’re being really strange. She’s just a TV writer, a guest. Why are you so concerned about her?”
“Just because.”
“I knew it, you’re interested…”
“Are you asking for a death wish? Why do you keep trying to pair me with some kid?”
“That’s what I mean. It’s even weirder… Yikes. I’m going. I’m on my way.”
*
“Thank you.”
She’d finally gotten permission and secured a place to stay, but when she actually went inside, it was no better than a storage shed.
Just as she was wondering how she’d ever clean it, Yu-hyeon suddenly appeared and, in an instant, transformed it into a livable space.
“I don’t know how you got permission, but living in the staff quarters won’t be as comfortable as staying in the pension.”
“No, I’m more than grateful just to have this.”
“He said you’ll have your meals in the main house. Breakfast is usually at six. I don’t know if you’ll be awake at that hour, though.”
“I’ll try.”
“Lunch is at noon. Dinner is at seven.”
“Okay.”
Yu-hyeon looked at Kim Seong-hui, as if asking if she had any other questions.
“Um…”
“Yes.”
“I heard you’re a professor.”
“Yes.”
“And a writer.”
“Yes.”
“The original author of the Urus Club…”
“Did you go into the study?”
His gaze seemed to ask whose permission she had to enter. Seong-hui quickly spoke up.
“The owner…”
For some reason, Yu-hyeon let out a long sigh.
“And?”
“Pardon?”
“You must have a reason for bringing it up.”
‘Prickly. So prickly. But I have to endure it. Beggars can’t be choosers. He’s the one I need help from.’
Yu-hyeon’s curt, interrogative tone made her temper flare, but she maintained a cowed expression.
She was afraid that if she spoke her mind like she had that morning, she’d get on his bad side again, and he’d tell her to pack her bags and leave the staff quarters she had worked so hard to get.
“It’s about what you said earlier, while we were having coffee.”
“You mean about repetition?”
“.....Yes. Why you said that.”
“I haven’t seen all of your dramas, but I looked at the broadcast station’s introduction page. The plot summaries and character charts were there.”
Yu-hyeon casually crossed his arms and continued.
“A secret birth. A heroine from a difficult background. A rich chaebol who helps her. The characters from your debut work, ‘Autumn Romance.’ They’re tropes that have been wrung dry by everyone.”
‘You think I don’t know that? But that’s what everyone likes, so what am I supposed to do!’
Dramas weren’t indie films or art-house movies; they were made to satisfy the masses.
“Your next work seemed to be a slight improvement on the last, but I think your success became a poison.”
“A poison?”
“The ‘Kim Seong-hui Brand’ of romance. It’s practically been burned into your identity. You don’t even need to watch all the episodes to understand the entire drama.”
“That’s not just me. In that genre, everyone…”
Finding it hard to listen, Seong-hui opened her mouth to argue, but Yu-hyeon cut her off.
“Are you trying to say it’s a proven system that the market demands?”
“...”
“How interesting.”
“What? What is…”
“It’s not just your problem. In the Korean romance genre, you could swap out the writers’ names, and the setups would still be nearly identical. I told you that you were repeating yourself, but frankly, the way I see it.”
“...?”
“It looks like a market of mass-produced goods, where everyone is squabbling, insisting they’re the original. It feels less like you’re trying to create a masterpiece that people will want to watch again and again, and more like you’re just trying to churn them out as fast as possible to make a quick buck.”
Perhaps because Yu-hyeon’s critique was so brutally honest, Seong-hui’s mind went blank.
‘My work… is just another run-of-the-mill, mass-produced product to be bought and sold?’
“So. My work is…”
“That’s why you can’t write.”
“What?”
“You’re exhausted. Every time, it seems different, but it’s the same story, the same plot, the same characters. Predictable conflicts and predictable endings. You’ve already realized it yourself. That this isn’t working.”
“!!!”
“‘Kim Seong-hui is the queen of romance. So I must write the queen’s romance again. I will prove that I am the queen of romance, no matter what!’ This is what we call a compulsion. It’s something successful writers often experience. It can even lead to a dilemma where they’re unable to finish their work. This leads to mannerism, and the moment you can’t break free from it, the vicious cycle repeats.”
“...”
“I understand that you’re stressed about your rival writer and the articles disparaging you. But in a competitive society, people trying to attack and bring others down is unavoidable. And besides, if you had created a masterpiece, if you had challenged yourself instead of repeating the same story, no one would have listened to them.”
“...”
“You can resent your rival writer and the articles that slander you. Human nature is much the same everywhere. But if that’s the reason you can’t write, then it’s just an excuse. No, not an excuse. Perhaps having that pretext is what allows you to endure not writing at all.”
“...!”
“That’s why I asked you. The patience to endure criticism, or the courage to face a challenge. Which of the two do you lack?”
Seong-hui couldn’t say a word; she just stood there. Her mind was reeling, as if she’d been struck in the head with an axe.
“That is all I wanted to say.”
With that, Yu-hyeon left the staff quarters.
Struggling to process the words Yu-hyeon had thrown at her, unable to find her footing, Seong-hui hurriedly chased after him.
“W-wait! Professor. Wait a moment!”
Yu-hyeon, who was walking along the small path next to the farm toward the main house, stopped at the sound of her shouting.
“Just a moment, *pant, pant*. Please wait.”
Seong-hui, having run over, bent down with her hands on her knees to catch her breath.
“I have a question.”
“Ask away.”
“Professor… no, as a writer, have you never experienced that?”
The feeling of repeating oneself, just like her. He’d said every writer goes through it, so perhaps Yu-hyeon had experienced it too?
If so, how did he overcome it? Seong-hui wanted to know.
“I have. As I said, it’s something every writer struggles with at some point.”
“Then. How did you overcome it?”
“I just.”
“Yes.”
“Did.”
“Pardon?”
“I overcame it.”
“...”
At Yu-hyeon’s answer, Seong-hui was once again left with a dumbfounded expression.
‘What? I just… did? This guy, seriously!’
I know it’s not his problem, but I’m so desperate!
“You’re really too much…”
“When a story won’t come together, it’s not a bad idea to try writing your own story. It can be an opportunity for self-reflection.”
“My… my story?”
“For example.”
“For example…?”
“Why not try writing the story of how you came to be here? That journey alone seems like it would provide plenty of material.”
“Here, you mean the story of how I came to Camu?”
“It doesn’t have to be about Camu. Confusion, fear, alienation. Try to recall the precise emotional factors that made you leave Korea.”
“...”
“Just because it’s the romance genre doesn’t mean it has to be a Cinderella story, does it?”
Yu-hyeon took Seong-hui by the shoulders and turned her toward the farm.
“Oh… uh.”
Seong-hui looked slightly flustered by Yu-hyeon’s sudden action.
“Look.”
“What? What am I…”
“When you first came here, what did you feel when you saw this scenery?”
“It was beautiful… peaceful…”
“If you were to express it in one word, it would be ‘healing’.”
“Ah!”
“Try to relax a little. When you’re feeling chased and frustrated, your impatience only grows, and things that should work out won’t.”
Seong-hui nodded at Yu-hyeon’s gentle advice.
After only ever experiencing his prickliness, this feeling was new. The shoulder he held felt strangely tingly.
“Do you really think that will work?”
“Who knows. Even the same medicine has different effects on different people.”
In his past life, Yu-hyeon had also lived as if he were being chased, just like Seong-hui. The feeling that he had to succeed at all costs had dominated everything.
Perhaps because of that, he had gotten closer to his goals, but his life had been just as arduous, a continuous cycle of exhaustion.
Then he found this place, and it was as if he were bewitched, unable to look away.
You could say it was the sole pillar of support in his barren life.
If not for this place, he would never have known what leisure and comfort were. That was how much this Maltese vineyard meant to Yu-hyeon; it was his sanctuary.
*
The sprawling vineyard and, beyond its borders, the even vaster sea came into view.
Was it because of what Yu-hyeon had said?
It was a view she had seen every day since arriving, but by changing her perspective, a new emotion she had never felt before welled up inside her.
My story.
Healing.
Romance.
In Seong-hui’s mind, which had only ever written flashy dialogue as if to say ‘this is what romance should be,’ a completely different story began to bubble up.
‘I thought he only specialized in hitting people with hard truths.’
Seong-hui turned her head to thank him.
“Professor. Thank…”
He had been holding her shoulder just a moment ago, but now he was nowhere to be seen.
“What the. He just left me here alone without a word?”
This guy, seriously!
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