1
**Future Dream**
**The novel I wrote for my daughter became a massive hit.**
There are three kinds of people in this world.
Those who achieve their dreams.
Those who fail and give up.
And those who fail... but never stop chasing them.
I was the third kind.
Until, eventually, I became the second.
Truthfully, ever since I was little, I wanted to become a writer.
A novelist.
But not anymore.
Why?
"I'm home!"
"Welcome back, Siwoo. How was school?"
Because I have a daughter to support.
---
I still remember where that dream began.
It was during Korean class.
I can't remember my teacher's face anymore, but I remember every word they said.
"The point of view in prose refers to the narrator's position. Depending on whose perspective the story is told from, the amount of information and even the emotions conveyed can change completely."
Then they listed the four major perspectives.
First-person protagonist.
First-person observer.
Third-person observer.
And...
Omniscient author.
The moment I heard those words, my heart raced.
"An omniscient author is like a god within the story. They know everything. Every character's name, age, height, habits, where they live, why they act the way they do—even the thoughts and emotions they never reveal."
I still don't know why those words captivated me so much.
Maybe they simply sounded cool.
Kids that age obsess over things like magic, darkness, absolute beings, destruction, and chaos.
Perhaps my own adolescent fantasy began the moment I heard the words "omniscient author."
"The advantage of this perspective is that readers receive rich information, even hidden feelings. But because of that, too much explanation can overwhelm the story itself."
Within that world of words...
I could become omnipotent.
Every character moved because I wished it.
Every decision existed because I wrote it.
The daydreams I had during class became stories once I put them into words.
Vague images gained shape.
Loose ideas became worlds.
Just like molding clay with my own hands.
That was probably when it happened.
For the first time in my ordinary life...
I found something I truly wanted.
"I want to become a novelist."
---
"...Yoon Seongjun."
It was my third-year middle school career counseling session.
My homeroom teacher scratched his balding head with the back of his pen before looking at me.
"You want to become a novelist?"
"Yes."
"Suddenly? According to your records, you wanted to be an office worker or a civil servant before."
"I found my dream this year."
He let out a quiet sigh.
"So you want to attend an arts high school? One with a creative writing department?"
"Yes. I want to learn writing properly."
I answered confidently.
Saying those words aloud made my dream feel real.
As if simply speaking it would bring it within reach.
Instead...
"Now?"
His response was disappointingly flat.
I understood why.
He'd expected me to attend a regular high school nearby.
Not suddenly declare I wanted to pursue literature.
"You've only won one award... an Honorable Mention in the school's Nature Writing Contest."
That had been my first writing competition.
I'd mistakenly thought prose meant I could submit a novel.
Finding out it was supposed to be an essay had left me speechless.
Still...
Winning an award gave me confidence.
Embarrassing as it is now, I actually wondered if I was some kind of writing genius.
After all, I'd won with nonfiction despite wanting to write fiction.
Then the teacher shattered that fantasy.
"Do you really think that's enough to get into an arts high school?"
Strangely...
I can't remember my Korean teacher's face.
But I still remember this bald homeroom teacher perfectly.
Maybe bad memories simply last longer.
"Have you talked to your parents?"
"Yes."
"What did they say?"
"They said they'd look into it."
"Arts schools are expensive. Wouldn't that be a burden on your family?"
"...Writing itself doesn't cost money. Why is tuition so expensive?"
"They all are. And there are practical training fees. Professional novelists and poets teach there. Those classes cost a fortune."
I couldn't understand it.
Writing only required paper and a pen.
Or a laptop if you had one.
Why did learning it cost so much?
"Besides, students who've been writing since childhood all apply there. There are only three arts high schools in the country with creative writing departments. The competition is fierce. Kids who've dominated national writing contests gather there."
I had no response.
The dream I'd spoken aloud...
Suddenly felt like nothing more than a fantasy.
"You can always write in college later. Or attend a regular high school and enter writing contests. Join a literature club. I'm not forcing you. Just discuss it with your parents."
Looking back...
He never actually gave me an answer.
Just vague possibilities.
Maybe.
Perhaps.
I'm not forcing you.
Empty words.
"...Yes."
As I stood to leave—
"Yoon Seongjun."
He stopped me one last time.
"I'm saying this because I'm thinking about your future."
I still remember the sigh that followed.
"Keep writing as a hobby."
"How can anyone make a living writing these days? You should start earning money and help your parents. Instead of writing... learn to work with numbers. People who understand numbers are respected everywhere."
As my homeroom teacher...
He knew my family's financial situation.
That was his way of telling me.
"Thank you for the advice, sir."
I meant it.
---
The following year...
I didn't attend a regular academic high school.
But I didn't go to an arts school either.
Instead...
I enrolled in a finance high school.
There wasn't any grand reason.
I simply decided I needed to earn money.
They said vocational schools made it easier to find work without going to college.
So I followed that path.
A poor kid dreaming of attending an arts school...
Looking back, it really had been a selfish dream.
Funny enough...
I barely remember anything I learned during those three years.
Yet I still remember the lesson about the omniscient author from middle school.
I studied because I was told to.
Took exams because I had to.
But I did learn one thing.
The world of numbers had certainty.
Writing didn't.
Stories dealt with emotions that couldn't be measured.
With uncertainty.
Numbers didn't.
Just as expected, I graduated, struggled through certification exams, and finally found a job.
"Instead of writing... learn numbers."
Maybe my teacher had been right.
It's not like I became someone important.
But I never thought I'd lived a lacking life.
I found work early.
Helped support my parents.
Met the woman I loved.
Got married.
And eventually...
Our adorable daughter, Siwoo, was born.
"What should we name her?"
"I've been thinking... how about Siwoo?"
"Siwoo?"
"Yes. The characters mean 'a friend who writes poetry together.' You used to love writing, didn't you?"
"Used to."
"Even without that meaning, I want her to grow into someone who shares the things she loves... and becomes our friend too. Besides, who knows? Maybe she'll be a literary genius."
If I'd continued chasing writing...
My life probably would've been far less stable.
But I had my wife.
I had Siwoo.
I wanted nothing more.
"How can anyone make a living writing these days?"
Writing didn't make money.
Numbers did.
Still...
The longer I lived...
The more I realized life resembled literature far more than mathematics.
"I'm sorry... the cancer has already spread to other organs."
"...She has about three months left."
Life wasn't predictable.
It overwhelmed you with emotions beyond words.
That's what life really was.
---
"Dad! Dad!"
Siwoo's voice pulled me back to reality.
"Ah... right."
"What's wrong? I've been calling you forever."
"Sorry. I was thinking about something."
"We were talking."
"I know. I won't do it again."
She puffed out her cheeks.
I had been reminiscing while talking to my daughter.
Naturally, she thought I was ignoring her.
"Want me to make candied sweet potatoes?"
"Do you think I'm a little kid?"
She's already in her third year of middle school.
There was a time when candied sweet potatoes solved everything.
Losing baby teeth.
Getting vaccinations.
Anything.
"...Really?"
Thankfully...
They still worked.
"Of course."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Okay! I'll forgive you this once! I'm generous!"
She puffed out her chest proudly.
Having such an affectionate daughter really was a blessing.
Candied sweet potatoes had always been Siwoo's favorite.
Kids these days obsessed over tanghulu.
Sometimes I wondered if Siwoo was unusually old-fashioned.
Then again...
Candied sweet potatoes weren't all that different.
"Sweet potatoes... sweet, sweet..."
She hummed happily.
"Oh, right. We were talking about this."
She held out a school form.
The blank space labeled **Future Dream**.
That was why I'd drifted into my memories.
Because of that one question.
It reminded me of the only time I'd ever written "Novelist" in that box.
Back when I was in middle school.
"Let me guess. You're going to say, 'Do whatever you want, Siwoo.'"
She even imitated my voice.
I couldn't help smiling.
"You know me well. Live the life you want."
"I knew you'd say that. What about Mom? What would she want me to become?"
She looked up at the framed photograph of my late wife hanging in the living room.
Despite losing her mother so young...
Siwoo had grown into a kind and cheerful girl.
Even her rebellious middle school years had passed peacefully.
I was grateful every day.
"So... what do you want to become?"
"I don't know."
She rested her chin in her hand.
Ever since she was little, she'd never had a particular dream.
Sometimes I wondered if that was because she hadn't experienced enough after losing her mother.
Whenever those thoughts came...
I felt guilty for not being a better father.
"I wish I could just read novels every day. Imagine getting paid just to read stories."
Maybe she'd inherited that from me.
She'd always loved stories.
When she was little...
She couldn't fall asleep unless I told her one.
Now she read endlessly on her smartphone.
I worried about her eyesight.
But seeing how happy stories made her...
I could never bring myself to stop her.
"Oh! Dad! Hurry and send me the next chapter!"
She tugged excitedly at my sleeve.
I smiled.
"All right. I'll send it now."
"Seriously! Who ends a chapter like that? I thought I was going to die from curiosity!"
Like I said before...
I had wanted to become a novelist ever since I was young.
But there are three kinds of people.
Those who achieve their dreams.
Those who fail and give up.
And those who fail...
But never stop chasing them.
I became the third.
Then eventually the second.
Yes.
I gave up becoming a novelist.
But...
I never gave up writing.
What do I mean by that?
"Let's see... today's chapter should be Chapter 152."
Because I'd already written more than five novels...
For one reader alone.
My daughter.