Great Novelist

I wonder how long I've been standing in front of a mental hospital. In the meantime, the signal has changed several times. He thought about where he was going. It's probably inside a giant mental health center in front of you. Or it could have gone through the windmill and down to the subway station. Not that either.

She could have gone far across that traffic light.

You stand still for a moment, and the car passes by and a person passes by. The windmills turned and the bikers pedaled. After that, the child who was chasing ran hard.

He followed their example. I stood in front of the traffic light. Now it was the car's turn to pass. However, no car was seen. The road is empty. A moment of intense urge rises from your mind. I wanted to cross quickly. I wanted to cross the road that no one else uses. Wait a minute.

You check the sides. There is no car within reach of the snow. You take a step forward. I crossed the yellow floor a little. I see a fire. It's still red.

“Phew.”

Let's lose strength. I still had hoped for a different death than before, but I didn't want accidents caused by signal violations. I trembled and waited for the signal. It was still a red light. It seemed like a long time. I wanted it to change quickly. I wanted it to change color a little faster.

When I got home, I had a glass of water. I went into the room trying not to get too excited. He was able to return to the day he met him at any time. Writing is free. There is no time, no space.

The room is dirty. High stacks of crates and paper occupy the space. I stood in front of my desk and took out my chair. The wheel rolls with a slight sound. I sat on a cushioned seat and pulled up the chair again. On the wooden desk were rolling pens and paper. I opened a new notebook.

I feel better when I open a new note. I closed my eyes with a pen.

Made slowly. Past and present. Brown bricks and gray walls. From a closed mental hospital to a peaceful mental health center. Six benches, three windmills, two boys who looked like elementary school students, one girl, two bicycles, a boy

was running behind. Thirty there, no. About 35 steps away, there is a house on fire. Streetlamps stand evenly spaced and there are alleys between houses. In the alley next to the ruined house, a persimmon tree reached out over the gate, and a car below it was parked.

It is. The wind blows. The branches falter. The leaves fall. Land on the car. The man reveals himself.

“Phew.”

We meet again. It was a good impression. His hands hold a stubborn beard and a non-combustible cigarette. There's a black house in front of him.

“Are you a hero? ”

The man did not answer.

“or the perpetrator? ”

The man did not answer. I threw the cigarette in my hand on the floor instead. The small movement caused room to rumble. The air changes. The windmill stops moving. You feel the heat. The house is on fire. He didn't move.

He thought about what to ask. The fire grew stronger. Heat becomes stronger. The ominous smoke rises above the sky. The traffic light flashes across the street. A single digit counts seconds.

“Fuck.”

I heard swearing again. There was an unknown emotion in it. He saw him. He was melting. The flame melts away. The man started walking. I felt like I was getting closer to home and farther away. The shrapnel fell down.

C. He catches up to him. His mouth was still intact. There's no time. What should I ask? He was concerned.

The man grows smaller. His weak body, like clay, cannot overcome the weight of his head and leans back. My eyes blink. I see ash on my lashes. The sky he sees is covered in black smoke. I've been thinking. What should I ask?

“I know nothing about you. ”

You don't know anything about him. The man's mouth opened. My throat is throbbing. I feel like I'm swallowing something. No, I was spitting it out. You hear a sound of wind. At that moment, information came in. I knew something. It's been a long time since I laughed. I thought, that's enough.

Wouldn't that be enough information about him? I was convinced that everything was irresponsible in the burning space.

He looked down at him. He's a piece of doughnut. I could create any shape. That tickled my hand. I felt good about not knowing anything about him. I was grateful that I missed him. The clay did not shut up. Still

It was spread out toward the sky. He stomps on it. The fire continues to burn.

The traffic light flashes. The number stops at 1. The building collapses. The room collapses. He opened his eyes. I checked the time. It was 0: 00 a.m.

“I'm writing. ”

I told Nam-Kyung that I had met him for a long time. He slowly placed the sandwich and the teapot on his desk. He was looking at his laptop.

“What?"

“I'm writing. ”

“Oh, at the gate? ”

“No, it's probably going to be published in the world. ”

“· · · · · · · · What? ”

He raised his glasses. Even though he asked meaningless questions, he answered diligently.

“I'm writing. ”

Nam-Kyung got up from his seat and rushed towards the laptop. My laptop just had a search box floating around.

“What a coincidence, Writer. You have to write it.Please bring up the manuscript. ”

“I don't want to show you the manuscript before it's finished. ”

“Ah.”

“Please bear with me until the transcript is completed. ”

I shared a terrible manuscript with him in the process of his retirement, but I didn't want to show him any articles that were still not in the form of transcripts. Nam-Kyung sat on the road again, relying on the hardened attitude of the writer. And then I thought about it for a second, and I said, "Be careful."

Opened.

“Are you in a hurry because of the pressure? ”

“What burden? ”

When he asked, he became even more embarrassed. I was wondering if I could mention it in person. He opened his mouth first.

“The river? ”

“Yes, that's it. ”

Nam-Kyung gave a big nod. The existence of a fragment that is judged as a counterpart of a coincidence's timeline. A little over nine thousand characters of writing exceeded the writings of contemporary writers, and even his writings were rated and recognized beyond. People were passionate about the word "river."

I was amazed. It was the same for South Korea. After reading the river, he wondered if this was the best that the writer could show. And that doubt still lingered deep in my heart. It's not just Nam-Kyung. A lot of people think so.

I've been working on it. The young writer won't be able to overcome this. The bitterness of the world at last. It's not bad to be frustrated by your first failure.

That sensitive writer couldn't have known. At Nam-Kyung's gaze, he said with a calm face.

“I'm not rushing it. ”

“Really?"

“I'm writing because I want to write. ”

He closed his laptop.

“I've come a long way to use me. That question.”

“· · · · · · Did you find a good topic? ”

“Yes.”

“What kind of writing? ”

“I told you, the manuscript is not finished. ”

“But there's got to be a plot. Just give me a rough idea of the direction. ”

He thought for a moment. Then I opened my mouth.

“It's a necessity for writing. ”

Neither hero nor perpetrator has been determined. I don't even know the author. In that state, the case alone is clear. You may not be able to write to the end. He is embracing danger because of the fire.

“I don't know. There's the shooter, there's the hero. The feeling of multiple people looking at one centre. ”

In the abstract explanation, he asked.

“Are you writing a thriller novel? ”

“I know it's a tense atmosphere, but I don't know. ”

“Or is it an abstract novel? ”

“But there's no trick. like a locker room or a weapon. ”

“Romance?”

“There may be a lover in a novel, but it's not enough to call it romance. ”

Nam-Kyung took a break and asked.

“Are you sure you're writing this? ”

“Whew.”

With a small sigh, your strength comes out. I leaned against the backrest. He was writing. A story that begins with the blazing fire. Due to the nature of the story, I felt strongly that I wanted to continue the atmosphere of being nervous all the time.

I remembered the river water. I was comfortable writing it. You can give yourself over to impulse. Feel free to paint on the skeleton of experience. Of course, the withdrawal process was difficult on the ship.

I reached out and grabbed the cup. It was light when I lifted it. I noticed it was empty, but I took it to my mouth. It was dry, too. I could only see the coffee stains. He examined the data. In the meantime, the photos and descriptions were all over the paper. Active office with the help of the publisher

I was able to cover the bystander. The three of them visited him, Nam-Kyung, and the blind editors, because they needed someone to cover for them. While the blind editor posed as a writer, he played a unique role as a new editor. It was easy to convince me to behave as usual.

Their hierarchy, the fire control system of my country, dates back to the Joseon Dynasty. Firefighting has become more important in a reformed society. to the interior of the fire truck or the direction of closing the valve. I've seen a variety of things happening in the field. Fire was cruel and scary.

I was.

In this novel, the firefighter was not the main character. They are heroes to the end. You don't have to worry about whether he's a hero or not. There was no room to play in a novel filled with conflict and events. However, where there was always fire, there was always a need for coverage.

He took a break and looked for a knight. This is an article about a wildfire a few days ago. After the evening workout, the news was on in the soup kitchen. Kangwon also reported that there was a forest fire in Yang Yang. On the screen were the red mountainous surfaces and helicopters carrying water.

Several people heard the news and had a variety of reactions. There were people who were anxious and there were people who were excited. The voice grows louder. Some people bring out memories of past fires. People who decide once again to realize how frightening fire is.

It rises. Some feel relieved, but unnatural, to hear that the fire was caught and that there were no casualties. Some people hoped that this conversation would continue to get bigger and bigger.

I've gained a little knowledge about wildfires. Wildfires are frequent in even years, and spring fires are harder to catch and bigger. A self-proclaimed firefighter there once told me that when he was a kid, there was a local mountain fire, and it was an even year, around April.

The size of the wildfire reflected his arrogance at such a young age.

I came back to the mental hospital just in case. I felt like I didn't want to meet him, and I sat on the bench half the time, wanting to meet him one more time. He didn't show.

Burn (1) End

lim Han-baek