Editorial Meeting (1)

ZZ: NOVEL had been published.

It was the revamped independent magazine Jang Hee-soo had put together. I went back to the bookstore café where I had first discovered ZZ.

Sure enough, the display stand was piled high with ZZ: NOVEL. I picked up the one on top and went to the counter.

“An Americano, please. And I’ll take this too.”

“Of course. Would you like it wrapped?”

“No. I’ll read it here. Does this magazine sell well? You’ve got a lot of copies out.”

“It’s been selling a lot better than the previous version. And independent magazines are kind of hot these days, right? So I went ahead and stocked up. I even sold three copies yesterday.”

I’d heard that thanks to Soop, ZZ: NOVEL had become quite a bit more popular.

That was probably what they called the trickle-down effect. Still, it didn’t seem to be at the level of an opening-day rush or a sold-out run.

That was mostly because the independent magazine market was small to begin with. I sat down and flipped through ZZ: NOVEL.

“Huh?” This wasn’t the table of contents I knew. Cooking, Sex, Murder and the other works that Soop had covered were missing.

Instead, leading the issue was writer Yomo’s new piece, Sound of Glass.

“Hmm.” I quickly read through all five works.

They each had their own charm, but...

Unfortunately, they didn’t quite measure up to the previous three. Why had Jang Hee-soo taken them out?

Hadn’t she already solved the overlap problem with Soop?

It would have been a great chance to use that overlap as marketing, too. The answer was at the very end of the magazine.

It was the editor-in-chief’s note. It began with a long reflection: “[ZZ] has been revamped into [ZZ: NOVEL]. Would this be what it feels like when your own child comes back from plastic surgery looking absolutely gorgeous?”

So that was it.

She had decided to find ZZ: NOVEL its own identity.

It was pride, plain and simple, the pride of an editor. A consistent woman.

Much better than all those idle critics who only knew how to complain behind people’s backs.

“Finally, I thought I had done everything on my own. I was proud of that, too. But this time, I feel I have to say thank you. To the readers who bought this book, and to soop, who helped breathe life back ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into independent magazines. Thank you, sincerely.”

“Uh... oh.” It ended like that?

That’s a problem.

I hadn’t meant for her to be that grateful.

When Soop’s identity was eventually revealed later on...

I couldn’t even begin to imagine how Jang Hee-soo would react.

Still, there was nothing for it.

It wasn’t as though I had lied.

The strange feeling that I was somehow deceiving her... I decided to pretend I hadn’t noticed it.

Meanwhile, a few days earlier, I had finished the review of Saekdong.

I had naturally shared it with the editorial committee as well.

Now only the editorial meeting remained. And I’d decided to quietly apply the Soop review method to it.

After finishing the Sensory Empire series, I’d resumed independent magazine reviews under the theme of fantasy. I picked works that stirred up all kinds of reader fantasy, then left one-line reactions and full reviews on the feed.

The response was... pretty good so far.

I went into Enstagram and checked today’s comments.

Praise in the comments was familiar by now.

Instead, I paid attention to the shape of the conversation.

There weren’t any comments trying to pick a fight or throw cold water on things.

There had actually been quite a few of those in the beginning.

That meant two things.

First, Soop had firmly established itself in the independent magazine scene.

Second, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in that scene, Soop’s growth had probably reached its limit.

In other words, I had gathered every issue I could and every person I could. It was about time I started thinking about the next step.

Finding another genre that suited Soop.

Soop was a free-review account, so anything written down on a page was fair game.

He sent the files over right away.

Want to see what everyone had written about Cult?

I opened the files and started skimming.

Then, at a certain point, I stopped.

“Huh?” ...This was a little much.

I tilted my head.

“Hmm.”

Team Leader Lee’s message came back to me.

He wanted me to participate actively in the meeting?

Then...

This meeting was probably going to be pretty interesting.

The editorial meeting room on the fifth floor of Gyeongseong Publishing’s headquarters was washed in the bright sunlight of late spring. The trees outside were pushing out new leaves, turning the world green, but the meeting room itself was, as always, cold enough to make the air feel metallic.

Professor Park Geun-woo asked Team Leader Lee, “Didn’t you notify the writers? That even though the theme was Cult, they could still submit works that had nothing to do with it if they weren’t confident? We said we’d allow that much freedom.”

“Ah, yes. I did send the notice. But it seems most people submitted works related to Cult anyway.”

Professor Yeo Song-yeon gave a short laugh. “Did they hate the idea of looking like they were running away because they lacked confidence? They all wrote with a vengeance. Especially the poets.”

“Who can beat a poet’s pride?”

“Still, there are quite a few poems that capture that cult feeling well.”

“That’s true. Let’s place those poems up front, and... this one, this one, and this one should be taken out. They just don’t feel right.”

Poet Im Seon-mi pointed to several pages with her fingertips.

Everyone nodded.

Team Leader Lee quickly took those three pages away and set them aside.

As Editor-in-Chief Im flipped through the fiction submissions, she said, “The novels are definitely better.”

“Novels are more flexible when it comes to bringing out the material. Poetry is the genre of inspiration, but fiction is the genre of imagination. Even if the subject doesn’t move you, a capable novelist ought to be able to pull out at least a decent story.”

“In that sense, the commission worked out very well. In a situation like this, one or two novels usually end up being cut.”

“All right, then. Let’s take a look at the Editorial Section Critique.”

It was finally time to judge Mok Hyunsun’s piece.

They had already shared it with everyone, but as if by prior agreement, they all read it again and savored it slowly.

Professor Yoo Seung-beom adjusted his glasses and asked, “How on earth did you come up with the idea of covering Saekdong? It’s a film almost nobody knows.”

“I was digging through cult films, and the so-called masterpieces among them felt less attractive precisely because they were already regarded as masterpieces. So I looked for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cult films that hadn’t been properly evaluated yet. The answer turned out to be closer than I expected.”

“That’s ironic, really. Come to think of it, a cult masterpiece doesn’t really exist. ‘Masterpiece’ and ‘cult’ are contradictory terms.”

He was only amazed that this young critic had seen through that contradiction.

“To be honest,” Professor Yeo Song-yeon said as she set the piece down, “I think this is an excellent article. It cuts to the very core of cult with astonishing precision, and, well... it reinterprets it through Critic Mok’s own perspective. If fantasy is the essence, then he found it in the word brightly patterned from Saekdong.”

“Brightly patterned—that’s wonderful,” Professor Im Seon-mi said. “This part, for example: When the Saekdong screenplay chose the word ‘brightly patterned,’ it symbolically transformed this black-and-white film into a color film. And if color film was the hidden fantasy of the public of the time, then Saekdong had already been cult from the screenplay stage. The idea is solid, and the development is wonderfully brisk.”

“Whatever else you say, the piece is fun to read. I tore through it.”

“Then,” Editor-in-Chief Im concluded, “I don’t think there’s anything else to add.”

It meant it had passed.

For Mok Hyunsun, this was the first time a piece had sailed through the meeting like that.

Professor Yoo Seung-beom asked, “Do you by any chance know Director Kim Gi-woon?”

It was a sudden, personal question.

“No. Not at all.”

“Hmm. Actually, Director Kim Gi-woon was friends with my father.”

Professor Yoo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Seung-beom was an emeritus professor approaching eighty.

If he was talking about his father, then yes, he would have been about the same age as Kim Gi-woon.

“My father once dreamed of becoming a film director himself. Well, later he met my mother, settled down, and lived peacefully running the shutter on a shop. But anyway, he was quite close with Director Kim Gi-woon, and when they were making this film, he apparently said something like this: if just one person, just one person understood my film properly, that would be all I could ever wish for.”

Speaking in that low, gravelly voice of his, Professor Yoo recounted the story with a calm, almost detached nostalgia.

“And for some reason, I suddenly thought that if Director Kim Gi-woon were still alive... whether he’d kept making films or quit long ago, he would have been delighted to see this piece.”

He tapped Mok Hyunsun’s article with his wrinkled hand.

As though he were handling something precious and deeply appreciated.

At that moment, I thought I’d done well to choose Saekdong.

Not because I’d been praised. Honestly, a well-written piece was something I could always produce.

But a piece that made someone remember a time or a person.

A piece that made you regret not being able to show it to someone.

Those kinds of pieces... weren’t something you came across every day.

“Thank you.” I made sure to offer my thanks as well.

And Team Leader Lee, watching the whole thing, smiled with obvious satisfaction.

Warm... So this is what it feels like when a young person joins the room.

If things kept going like this, maybe he’d have it a little easier, too.

He must have been under how much pressure in this cold room, always reading the atmosphere and treading carefully.

As long as the final critique goes smoothly, we’re done. And Hyunsun over there was told to participate more actively, but he’s staying quiet. Still, keeping your mouth shut usually gets you halfway there.

But he didn’t know.

It was too early to feel safe.

Mok Hyunsun’s expression, as he thought something over carefully, was anything but ordinary.

Editor-in-Chief Im said, “Now let’s look at the commissioned critique. Critic Park Yu wrote it, right?”

A commissioned critique.

Exactly as it sounded: a critique the editors had commissioned from a critic.

Park Yu was a fairly successful young critic.

The title of his piece was The Intellectual History of Cult. It was a sweeping survey of cult from A to Z.

Which meant the content was expansive, too,

and written in a rather stiff, literary style.

“It’s plain enough.”

“There aren’t any wrong facts. He’s been meticulous, too.”

“Professor Yeo, what do you think?”

“It’s hard to say. Hmm... what’s lacking is his own perspective, but since the theme was given to him, I think explaining that theme well is enough to get him into the middle range.”

“Then there’s no reason to cut it, is there? Not every critique can be captivating.”

“I think...” Mok Hyunsun spoke up for the first time in the meeting. “This critique should not be included in this issue of Gyeongseong Geul.”

!

It was a blunt, forceful statement.

While the editors exchanged glances, Professor Park Geun-woo asked, “And why is that?”

Mok Hyunsun looked at Park Yu’s critique.

Then he critiqued the critique, like this.