Independent Magazine
32.
Independent magazine.
And the mainstream publishers and quarterly journals that were also called the literary establishment. The relationship between the two was, in a word, parallel lines. The point of an independent magazine was free creation untethered from the establishment.
It ran work by writers who had not yet debuted,
provocative, obscene pieces like Cooking, X, Murder,
and even columns that cursed out the literary establishment. What exactly were they cursing?
For example, the editorial meeting.
They claimed that editorial meetings judged and censored a writer’s free expression. For similar reasons, they criticized the debut system as well.
They said it was grotesque that judges assigned scores and, by doing so, made writers.
In truth, it was a matter of perspective.
Publishers used editorial meetings to manage the quality of their quarterly journals.
Those journals were products funded by the publisher’s money. And debuts were decided not by scores, but by consensus.
Many people devoted their lives to studying in order to earn that consensus. Still, leaving it at a difference in perspective would have been fine.
The problem was that they had no intention of narrowing that perspective. The literary establishment simply let independent magazines like that… be. If you wanted to put it more harshly, they ignored them.
They said they respected the diversity of literature,
but that was only an excuse.
In truth, they did not want to get involved. Independent magazines were published on passion alone.
The literary establishment, by contrast, had the investment funds and livelihoods of countless people riding on it.
Obviously the latter had more to lose. And naturally, the independent magazine side would find that kind of dismissal infuriating. In any case, I put the background aside.
If I started thinking about the chronic problem, it would only give me a headache.
I focused on the work in front of me. Cooking, X, Murder was unquestionably the kind of piece that stood out.
It would not pass through a conservative route like the Shinchun Moonye,
but it was far better than the writing of many an unskilled debut author. Tap, tap.
The words I wanted to write were already trying to jump out.
Still, I held back for the moment.
First I needed to assess the situation. If Cooking, X, Murder was already being properly evaluated,
there was no need for me to add my own voice. I searched for Cooking, X, Murder on my phone.
Only three posts came up. [Cooking, X, Murder. I thought it was going to be erotic from the title, but I got baited. Downvote.] [The pathway for young literary people who criticize the debut system, ZZ—the piece Cooking, X, Murder inside it is fucking insane. And yes, it’s actually about cooking and X and murder lololololololol. I guess I can’t help wondering whether this is even literature, but then again ZZ’s whole appeal is that it publishes exactly the stuff that makes you wonder whether this is even literature, right?] [I happened upon a novel called Cooking, X, Murder and threw up. Shouldn’t literature be written beautifully by looking at beautiful things? A book like this ought to be burned.]
Unfortunately, the situation was not very good. Some people were completely indifferent,
some were enjoying it as mere entertainment,
and some were judging it with a crotchety set of standards. On top of that, this magazine had been published in the middle of last year.
In other words, Cooking, X, Murder was a buried work.
If it was left alone like this, it would probably stay buried forever.
After thinking it through,
I took the magazine to the cafe owner. “Boss, I’d like to buy this.”
There was no real need to buy it, strictly speaking.
I had already memorized the piece.
Still, as a reader, I wanted to pay for the value of the writing.
“Ah, ZZ? Hmm, you can just take it.”
“Pardon? Why?”
“We hardly ever sell independent magazines, so we just leave them out for display in the shop. Even the publisher is satisfied if customers just flip through them.”
“Then how does this get sold at all?”
“Online. The readership is, what should I say, MZ? They don’t really buy things offline. Anyway, just take it. If I leave it here, all I can do is throw it out.” It would have been nice to get it for free, but
wasn’t that a problem for ZZ’s promotion? When I tilted my head, the owner said, “Really, it’s fine. They said ZZ is releasing a new magazine soon. Just leave that out instead.”
“A new magazine?”
“I’m not sure, but… I heard ZZ wasn’t selling as well as they’d hoped, so they’re putting out a slightly different concept. I think they said it would focus more on fiction. I don’t really know.” A fiction-centered ZZ.
Anyway, this one was free. “Then I’ll take it. Thank you, sir.”
“Sure, come again.” And so I left the cafe holding ZZ.
After I got home.
I sat at my desk and looked over ZZ again.
As expected, the only worthwhile novel was Cooking, X, Murder. Then it was time to, “drag it out, I guess.” Ever since I’d been in the cafe, it had been like this.
The language was surging so violently my head felt heavy.
Even these words….
“They smell.”
Blood. Meat. The smell of murder.
And the smell of…
delicious food, made from all of it together.
It was indeed a powerful novel.
It made the reader sympathize with murder.
It cast aside every scrap of ethics and morality.
Like the intoxicating thrill of a carnival of revenge.
That, in language as vivid as this, was enough, enough.
Enough. I should write it.
As vividly alive in language as the novel itself. I made the first sentence delicious. [If murder had a taste, wouldn’t it be similar to the pleasure of sex?]
I knew it. Provocative.
But criticism had its own grain to it. Some novels suited lofty concepts,
while others needed dopamine to work.
And who had the final say?
Ultimately, the critic did.
Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter…. My fingers moved without pause.
Just as the heroine in Cooking, X, Murder had sliced through a man without hesitation,
my language sliced the white page black.
It was sizzling meaning and symbolism instead of blood.
Let’s keep it rough.
There was no need to pretend to be refined.
This piece was an interpretation of murder, sex, and food.
It used the most bodily, the most sensual words.
I was entering the most interesting part of this criticism. [(…) How could Cooking, X, Murder run so gloriously wild?]
“There’s only one answer.”
[The rhythm of the sentences.]
That rhythm was what had seized me.
I did not know who the author was, but I wanted to tell them this.
That they were born with it.
[(…) She sings and raps as if she were an actress onstage. She never misses the refrain, either. Swoosh! Slice! Scream! Sssshhk ssshhk. That raw language rings clearly in the reader’s ears. This rhythm, this vividness, these living words. These are what make her a true “heroine.” Did I not say so? An actress onstage. She is a successful actress and the protagonist of a successful novel.]
Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter…. The blood-scent in my head peeled away like a bad smell.
I was beginning to reach the end.
And somehow that bloodiness was so fresh it was almost a shame to let it go.
Because it was a shame, I wrung it out to the last and wrote it down.
I would leave not a single character behind. I moved forward with confidence.
I knew it.
If language was useless,
it would never have been born in my head to begin with.
Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter…. Fingers moving without the slightest hesitation.
Words coming into being.
Logic and symbolism establishing themselves at speed.
There was nothing that could stop me.
That buoyant current sank all the way into my heart.
Thump, thump. I was enjoying myself. This moment.
So much that it was almost a shame to see the writing near its end.
By the time I reached the final stretch, there was no language left over.
Only the aftertaste of blood lingering in my head.
My body was tired, and my fingers hurt. But I was still thrilled.
I wrote the last sentence with my real feelings, not the language in my head. [Ah, what an outrageously shameless and exhilarating scene of murder.]
Thwack! I hit the final Enter with force.
“Good.”
The novel was exciting, so the criticism was exciting too.
I felt like one of those traveling troupes dancing in a Joseon-market square.
“At any rate, I wrote everything I wanted to write.”
The problem was how to publish it…. In truth, it would be a stretch for Gyeongseong Geul.
Right from the title, Cooking, X, Murder was a problem. If it were a quarterly journal farther from the mainstream, maybe it could work?
Or perhaps a webzine would be better.
Offers were coming in from all sorts of places already,
so all I had to do was choose an appropriate outlet and submit it there. But before that,
the first priority was confirming where the author wanted it to go.
Of course, that was something you never normally did for an author.
The literary establishment did allow for freedom of criticism, after all.
But since this was, after all, a writer outside the establishment,
I supposed I should show that much consideration.
On the very last page of ZZ, the author information was listed. “The writer’s name is… ‘Yomo’? Obviously a pen name… and the email address is [email protected].” What the hell.
The address looked exactly like an internal ZZ email address.
Surely they weren’t an employee.
Looking again, the other writers were in similar situations.
It seemed like ZZ had some sort of system for managing its authors. …Not great.
The magazine and the writers were too close for comfort.
That would make it far too easy for the magazine side to pull the writers around.
In any case, I wrote a mail to that address. I introduced myself as the critic Mok Hyunsun,
said that I had read Cooking, X, Murder well,
and asked whether it would be all right to publish a critique of it in an appropriate venue.
I did not reveal the contents of the critique.
That would be enough to show after I had permission.
And so I sent the email to the writer Yomo. The next day. I went to work breathing in the fresh morning air.
I felt grateful all over again for being able to walk to work.
And the moment I sat down and turned on the computer. [Three emails (1) have arrived.]
Yomo’s reply greeted me. “Oh, that’s fast.” A quick answer was an omen of approval. I opened the mail at once.
But then. [Re: I’m sorry......] Damn it.
Last night. “Aaaah!!!!”
When Lee Mo-yoon checked her email, she jumped so hard she nearly kicked the edge of her desk.
Drreeeek…. The jolt sent the wheeled chair sliding backward.
Lee Mo-yoon, still seated in it, clapped a hand over her mouth and stared with trembling eyes at the monitor drifting farther and farther away. “I-is it really true? The Mok Hyunsun?” If you were writing in Korea these days,
it was hard not to know Mok Hyunsun’s name.
The myth of debuting in seven newspapers at once.
No matter how much independent magazines criticized the conservative debut system,
there was no one who would not envy that record.
At least not if they were someone who wrote. In fact, Lee Mo-yoon did not even hate the debut system.
She had simply understood “where she stood” a long time ago.
Ah, my writing is too extreme to debut.
That was why she had turned toward independent magazines.
But she wanted Mok Hyunsun’s critique.
It wouldn’t just be good; if he were standing in front of her, she would have bowed.
The reason was simple.
She had read his criticism too.
There was the staggering command of language, the powers of observation, the ability to interpret everything.
By her account, those critiques were, “So fucking good. I thought he was insane.”
But Mok Hyunsun was a super rookie far too famous.
She had never even dared to imagine him reading her novel.
And now he was saying he had come to her first, offering to write a critique.
“…Holy shit. I have to catch this.”
It felt like a dream.
Her fingertips trembled.
She barely managed to click the reply button and start writing back.
Then, at that moment. Buzzz- Buzzz- Buzzz-.
[Editor-in-Chief Unnie]
It was Jang Hee-soo, the editor-in-chief of ZZ. “…Ah.”
Anxiety swept over her.
Why had she never thought about the fact that she was sharing an email address with ZZ?
…Should I ignore it?
But she could not do that.
The one who had discovered Lee Mo-yoon, who had been nothing more than an aspiring writer, was Jang Hee-soo.
She was also the one who had steadily read her work and found her strengths.
She was the one who had gotten her into ZZ more than once.
Without Jang Hee-soo, Lee Mo-yoon would not have had a career at all.
In the end, she answered the call. “…Yes, unnie.”
-You checked the mail, didn’t you?
“Ah… yes.”
Jang Hee-soo said nothing.
She had figured it out.
That Lee Mo-yoon had seen Mok Hyunsun’s email.
-Sigh… this isn’t something to talk about over the phone. Come to the publishing house right now.