Chapter 71

Naturally, the only reaction I could muster was a sigh. Though irritation welled up within me, I didn’t voice it.

Fortunately, I had the privilege of reading Seo Eun-a’s work at this moment. There was no need for me to indulge in her nonsense. Until just now, I had been pondering how to convey my evaluation, but thanks to her, I no longer had to worry about it.

“About this novel you’ve written, to be honest, your story is—”

Before I could finish my sentence, Seo Eun-a cut me off.

“Terrible, right?”

“Uh… ambiguous… What did you say?”

Seo Eun-a herself uttered words far harsher than what I had intended to express.

“Ambiguous, huh? That’s not entirely wrong either. Depending on perspective, it’s an even stronger critique than ‘terrible.’ Ambiguity, mediocrity, lack of character, absence of personality—these are the most devastating criticisms for a creator. A poorly-written piece of trash is better than something mediocre. Poor writing can have character, but ambiguity is just garbage. It’s not like trash—it *is* garbage.”

Her self-deprecating expression and her interpretation of my words as if they were some grave insult left me momentarily speechless. Of course, I had thought similar things, but I hadn’t expressed them so brutally.

Seo Eun-a clearly recognized what her writing lacked, acknowledging it before I even finished speaking. Simultaneously, she reduced me to nothing more than a useless person with her rhetorical skill—something that couldn’t simply be dismissed as rudeness.

“That… isn’t exactly how I feel,” I began.

“The degree may differ, but the direction seems the same, doesn’t it?”

It wasn’t easy to come up with a retort. It suddenly occurred to me that Seo Eun-a was smarter than the dimwits I’d met in college—at least when it came to intelligence. Her writing might have been worse, though.

Seo Eun-a seized the brief pause while I closed my mouth to continue speaking. Her words were both cold and self-deprecating.

“I think the same thing. This novel is terrible—no, ambiguous. That term feels more appropriate. With enough revisions, it might suffice to get by in some university creative writing program. But that’s where it ends. Writing like this can achieve nothing, create nothing, give birth to nothing. A text incapable of producing value has no value itself. This isn’t even a mule; mules can’t reproduce, but they do good work. This is more like a useless donkey.”

The unreservedness of her expression made me wonder if she had truly read many books. Her current spoken sentences held more value than the novel she had written. Still, her overly self-critical narrative made it hard for me to agree outright.

Contrary to my original intention of giving harsh criticism, I found myself, overwhelmed by her energy, beginning to highlight the strengths of Seo Eun-a’s work.

“…It’s not that bad. The sentences are good. Better than the ones I saw during my university days.”

“So does that mean they’re exceptional? Not really, right?”

“The structure of the narrative is textbook-level…”

“You know that’s not a compliment, right?”

“…And the philosophy and themes contained within…”

“Do you really think those are mine, or that I put them there intentionally? They’re just regurgitated vomit from other books I haven’t even fully digested. You might as well call it plagiarism. Though such a terrible piece hardly deserves that label.”

I tried to point out nonexistent strengths, but Seo Eun-a refuted every single one. I felt somewhat aggrieved. It was as if our roles had reversed. Why should I have to praise Seo Eun-a’s writing only to be contradicted?

“There are writers in the world who produce works like this. Being ordinary isn’t necessarily a flaw. Mediocrity can become a strength, and lack of personality can itself become a form of individuality.”

“Your expression shows you don’t even believe that yourself.”

“…”

“If you lack individuality, you must die.”

There was no despair in Seo Eun-a’s face as she said this. Only a familiar resignation and boredom remained. She had no passion left. It wasn’t that her fire had burned out—it had never ignited in the first place. Because there was no kindling to burn.

“…Then why are you still trying to take the creative writing entrance exam?”

“It’s a practical issue. Simple. My sister became a nurse, and Jae-Ah will never write anything that pleases her father. In such a situation, I can’t afford to quit too.”

For me, this was a reason neither understandable nor desirable. Was this why Professor Seo had called Seo Eun-a cute?

Though I didn’t agree with it, Seo Eun-a was undoubtedly a filial daughter.

“So, there’s no need for you to keep reading my work. Fixing it won’t improve anything. You don’t want it, and I don’t either. Just waste some time and leave.”

But perhaps because of this, a bit of stubbornness arose within me.

“Having taken responsibility, I can’t do that.”

“What do you think you can fix from here? Fixing that text won’t change me.”

“You don’t need fixing.”

What was needed was merely kindling.

Kindling had to be found.

If there was even a spark, there would be something.

But it wasn’t easy. Each of Seo Eun-a’s novels lacked individuality and character. Exactly as described. Efforts to attempt something special were evident, but all that resulted was something between mediocrity and talentlessness.

A spark had to be found.

I continued reading the five novels Seo Eun-a showed me.

The data was insufficient. These couldn’t possibly be all the novels Seo Eun-a had written. There must be something she was hiding from me.

The primal spark.

The spark that had once secretly lit Seo Eun-a’s world, only to quickly extinguish.

While I was still reading, Seo Eun-a suddenly stood up.

“I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t touch anything.”

Turning my head to look up, I saw Seo Eun-a hesitate for a moment before continuing.

“A friend called me out. It’ll probably take about thirty minutes.”

“…Ah, okay.”

I didn’t understand why she felt the need to explain, but somehow, I had gained more time.

Even after finishing the fourth novel Seo Eun-a had shown me, I found nothing. All the novels she had revealed so far belonged to different genres but were fundamentally rooted in literary fiction. They each had different themes and backgrounds, showing that Seo Eun-a had made various attempts on her own.

Still, none of these four novels possessed any identifiable individuality. What originality existed lacked character, and everything else seemed like a mishmash of other writings and her own works.

Now, only one option remained.

The novel Seo Eun-a hid from me would never be shown. Thus, I had to find the spark that hadn’t yet died among these characterless pieces.

The moment I read the first sentence of the fifth novel, I felt a strong sense of dissonance.

Something felt different.

As I read further, the dissonance grew stronger.

Certainly, it was written by the same person. The writing style confirmed it. It wasn’t particularly distinctive, nor was there any special difference compared to the previous novels.

Yet, something was different. This dissonance pointed to something. A sensation that could only arise because something else was present, something that had to exist.

Slowly…slowly, I scrolled down page by page.

I felt warmth.

Somewhere, a spark was awakening, pleading to be discovered. The remnants of the last flame’s warmth lingered somewhere.

Definitely, somewhere.

And then, I understood the nature of this dissonance, the identity of the flame, and what this warmth signified.

It was shocking and chilling.

Its identity was here.

It had been inside all along.

I realized it, finally confirming it,

in the sex scene between the male and female protagonists.

The fifth novel Seo Eun-a showed me was an erotica.

In other words,

pornographic literature.

Erotica.

That was the essence of what I had mistaken for the warmth of a flame.

The warmth wasn’t a flame.

It was the heat of ecstasy experienced as a man and woman intertwined.

The story of a high school boy who ran away after being abused by his parents and a high school girl who fled after killing hers ended with an obsessively detailed and elegant depiction of their sexual encounter.

Unconsciously fidgeting with my crotch, I heard the door open.

“I’m back.”

I turned my head. I wasn’t sure what expression I was wearing.

“Why is your face red?”

I didn’t respond.

Soon, Seo Eun-a approached and looked at the computer screen I had been viewing.

After a short while, a brief sigh escaped Seo Eun-a’s lips.

“Ah.”