Jong-un Transports Imsil Cheese

It was now high summer, just after the summer solstice.

In my studio-slash-business-place, I was agonizing over a major decision.

“I think I really need a water purifier.”

It had been a month since I started using Master Myeong-seung’s philosophy hall as my studio. The monthly revenue wasn’t bad—about 3.2 million won. Normally, in small business terms, a revenue like that would mean closing shop, but I only worked one or two hours a day for that money. The rest of my time was spent writing or lounging about.

Unlike the food industry, there were no material costs. Master Myeong-seung had already pre-paid the rent, and the utilities were handled by the lady living in the house upstairs as part of a package deal. In fact, the Master felt so bad about taking my money while he was away for wall-gazing meditation that he kept apologizing.

However, running a business required at least some investment. Especially a water purifier in summer. The studio had an old refrigerator and a fan. The fan was an ancient model with huge blades, so it was actually quite cool, but when a customer came, I had to point it toward them, leaving me sweltering.

“I can’t exactly take my shirt off while reading Saju like I do at home.”

Most of the customers were middle-aged ladies, but exposing armpit hair during a reading felt a bit… much. Investments in an air conditioner and a water purifier were becoming necessary.

Thanks to Mrs. Kim Soon-ok, word-of-mouth had spread. Kim Soon-ok and her eleven friends brought other women, and those women brought even more. I had read the Saju of about a hundred people so far. My total collection for Saju fortification experience had reached 2,900. I had intended for this to be a quiet writing space, but since it helped my “cultivation,” I didn’t refuse a single customer.

“I meant to use this as a studio, but it’s turned into a full-blown place of business.”

Still, compared to hiking mountains with a heavy fire pump as a forest fire guard, sitting in an office for 30–40 minutes listening to people talk and receiving a few ten-thousand-won bills was honestly a “honey job.” I was sweating less and suffering less than I did in April. So, I was debating whether I should start investing properly if business was going to keep growing.

“Wait, you don’t even give us a glass of water?”

“Oh, I-I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought of that yet.”

“Deduct the price of a bottle of water from the fee.”

“I’m very sorry. I don’t have exact change on me… Give me a moment, I’ll go break a bill.”

I’d actually encountered a cheeky, “jinsang” (difficult) customer who just left after deducting 10,000 won for “water costs.” Coming from the military where I read Saju for free while getting yelled at, someone paying even 20,000 won didn’t feel like a true villain. But even that difficult lady left a lesson: provide drinks.

“Providing at least water is only right.”

I tried keeping bottled water in the fridge and pouring it for them, but some ladies were suspicious.

“Is this water you were already drinking?”

I obviously kept my water and the customers’ water separate, but some picky ladies questioned everything. There were so many characters appearing that would be perfect as villains for a “small business” web novel.

“Fine. Since some people are suspicious, I’ll just order a bulk delivery of 500ml PET bottles and give them one each.”

It wasn’t like the place was swamped, so I started providing individual bottled water.

But then…

“It would be nice if you had at least a cup of coffee here.”

“Oh, coffee?”

A few days ago, for the first time, two customers arrived at once and had to wait. They demanded coffee.

“I could put out mix coffee and an electric kettle, but I’m worried they’ll doubt the hygiene of that, too.”

I was in a dilemma. I had to choose: turn it into a full professional office or keep it as a studio. After all, I only had three or four customers a day—was a renovation really worth it? Should I just shut down for the summer?

While I was mulling over the business, a call came from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Who’s calling? Huh?”

It was a local area code. Since home phones are rare these days, a local code usually meant a public institution. Was it the forest fire office calling to ask me to do another year of contract work? I’d seen a text about that. But the number was slightly different from the ones I knew.

“No way…”

I remembered the story contest I’d applied for weeks ago. I’d basically put it out of my mind, thinking, ‘Would that even work?’ I just wanted to show the world that “a crazy person like this lives in this neighborhood, so steer clear.” Just in case, I turned on the computer and went to the website while answering the phone. The announcement was up: Winning Works.

“Hello?”

[“Ah, hello. Is this the author? I am Uhm Dae-han, lead of the Story Team at the Jeonbuk Content Korea Lab.”]

“Ah, yes, hello.”

The vibe was good. I must have made it.

[“Regarding the Regional Food Culture Content Story Contest you applied for… ‘The Uncomfortable Mr. Jong-un’… pfft. Ah, I’m sorry. I’m calling to inform you that ‘The Uncomfortable Mr. Jong-un’ and ‘The 4 Districts: Byeon Gang-soe Selection Contest’ have won the Silver Prize.”]

It’s funny, right? I wrote it to be funny. Even I think it’s hilarious that it won.

“Thank you. It’s an honor.”

[“We will send you an email regarding the future schedule and story development work. Please read it over and we ask that you definitely attend the award ceremony and the workshop. Congratulations once again.”]

“Yes, thank you very much.”

I replied dryly, but I couldn’t help but be thrilled. Anyway, Silver Prize. I just made 500,000 won in “free” money.

“What in the world?”

The announcement stated I won the Silver Prize. I scanned the other winners.

“Wow, the ones with the good titles really all made it.”

Ten works were selected. The ones I thought had “dignified” titles really did take the Grand Prize and Gold Prizes. It was a shame, but hey, at least it wasn’t an Encouragement Prize. According to the email, there was a workshop and ceremony planned at the Content Korea Lab. I felt like dancing, but I had one curiosity.

“Doesn’t my Honor/Gwan-un point go up? Ah, I guess this isn’t enough to fill it yet.”

**********************************

A few days later, I went to the Jeonbuk Content Korea Lab to attend the winners’ workshop. The award ceremony was scheduled for later.

“Did I get here too early?”

Inside, it looked like a typical office. People were busy with their own work and paid me no mind. A female employee stood up and approached me.

“How can I help you?”

“Ah, I’m here for the story contest workshop.”

“Oh, hello! Right this way.”

“Got it.”

Having run a business and read Saju, I’d become quite bold. I didn’t get very nervous in new places or doing new things anymore.

“Which work did you write, Author?”

“Uh… Gochujang Hero, Kim Mal-…”

I hesitated at the title. It was the most embarrassed I’d felt since being asked what I wrote and answering, “I, ‘Stamina King Kim Chang-nam’.” Seriously, I need to start writing cool titles…

Since my job involved observing people, I caught her micro-expression. The corners of her mouth definitely twitched upward.

“A-ah. Right. Please, come in and take a seat over here.”

I followed her to a space partitioned off in the office. There was a whiteboard for presentations, a beam projector like the ones in schools, and a U-shaped table with chairs. There were several people already there. Though there were ten winners, there were more people than that—some seemed to be in teams. Above all, groups of people who looked like students were sitting together.

‘Looks like whole classes from universities applied together to build their resumes for employment.’

Once everyone gathered and the scheduled time arrived, a middle-aged woman in office wear with heavy makeup appeared.

“Hello. I am Yoo Myeong-shim, a professor in the Department of Traditional Culture and Arts at Jeonbuk National University. First, congratulations once again on your awards. I have been tasked with leading this regional food culture story contest and project.”

Observing her, I realized there’s a distinct difference in the physiognomy (Gwansang) of housewives in their 50s and professional women. My knowledge of Gwansang was just hearsay, but Professor Yoo Myeong-shim was quite tall for a woman of her generation and had a very strong impression. Usually, women with such features are career-driven.

“The Grand Prize winner couldn’t make it today, but I believe it’s rare for local literary figures to gather like this. To have time to critique each other’s works and stories, why don’t we start with some introductions?”

I wondered if that was necessary, but I came prepared. There were two adult males older than me; the rest were middle-aged women or university-aged females. The writing industry definitely has more women.

“I am Kim Chang-yeop, and I run a local independent cinema.”

“I am Hyun Sang-jin, a radio writer for Jeonju Broadcasting.”

“I am No Mi-young. I write poetry and novels.”

“Oh, Author No Mi-young?”

The professor and the radio writer both showed immediate interest in the thin, makeup-free writer who looked to be in her late 30s.

“Whoa, the poet No Mi-young.”

The group of female college students seemed surprised, too. Apparently, she was a well-known writer not just locally, but nationally. I had no idea who she was. I like manga and web novels. Pure literature or poetry? I don’t really read them. When I’m bored, I read the I Ching. A hidden dragon does not act.

“I am Lee Hyo-min, a sophomore majoring in Korean Literature. I won the Gold Prize…”

I don’t have much “literary” refinement, but the submissions overall had a strong “Pure Literature” vibe. I expected a crowd like this. Still, it made it even funnier that they picked something like “Mr. Jong-un.”

“I am Ye Ji-soo, winner of a Silver Prize. I wrote ‘Father Didiert’s Hawaiian Pizza’.”

I have a good instinct for these things. The Gold Prize work was <If the Taste of Jang Changes, the Household is Ruined> by No Mi-young. The Grand Prize work, <A Story of Bibimbap Colors>, didn’t show up—probably acting like a Grand Prize winner. The ones I thought would win based on the titles alone had all won. Is this the importance of a title? I wasn’t sure if this was a sharp eye developed from reading Saju or from agonizing over my own novel titles.

Everyone was from the literary world—majoring in it or established in it. I didn’t feel inferior about working in the genre industry, but I felt a sense of awe at their refined literary skills. I praised them sincerely without jealousy. They all wrote better than me.

Well, except for one thing. I tend to nitpick “Pure Literature” novels with intense sexual descriptions. Honestly, it feels unfair. When I do it, the Publication Ethics Committee sends me warnings like, “Hey, you porn producer! You want to die?” But for those novels, the critics say, “Ah, such an exquisite depiction of human psychology through eroticism. So literary…” It’s the same “arousing” stuff, so why the difference?

I admire those who write pure literature, but since I’ve been criticized by them before, I didn’t intend to mention my books here.

“I wrote ‘The Uncomfortable Mr. Jong-un’. I provide lifetime Saju, fortune-telling, and compatibility readings.”

I figured saying I was a fortuneteller was less embarrassing than saying I was unemployed or a job-seeker. My confidence had grown from reading for the ladies recently. Professor Yoo Myeong-shim asked, looking surprised.

“You’re a fortuneteller?”

I don’t dress like one, do I? She must have had a stereotype of a fortuneteller in mind: Modern Hanbok/Colorful Hanbok/Overcoat.

“It’s 30,000 won for a single lifetime Saju, and 50,000 won for two-person readings and compatibility. Thank you. I run the Myeong-seung Philosophy Hall across the Jeonju Stream from the Hanok Village.”

The independent cinema director and Professor Yoo were exchanging business cards; I wondered if I should get some made too. Then, the Content Korea employee who led me in distributed some A4 sheets. It contained summaries and evaluations of the authors and works, along with the names of the evaluators. They were all literary professors, authors, or Korean teachers who had debuted through newspaper literary contests.

Wait…

[Gochujang Hero, Kim Mal-seok]

The pent-up sorrow of the farmers is spicy. A story of a taste that blends the will, conviction, and sorrow that contrasts against the state’s violent water cannons that crush human resolve.

[The 4 Districts: Byeon Gang-soe Selection Contest]

Food is perhaps like s*x. A story of delicious s*x and the orgasm reached through food.

[The Uncomfortable Mr. Jong-un]

Perhaps the yearning for a taste is what connects even 70 years of division and a history of severance. We expect this to be a symbol that follows Okryu-gwan’s Pyongyang Naengmyeon.

What on earth are they talking about? Looking at the evaluations of my stories by these “authoritative” professors and local writers, I felt like I was going crazy. Is this what they mean when they say the interpretation is better than the dream? I didn’t write them with that intention at all…

While the writers were reading quietly, suddenly:

“Pwahahaha! Ah, I’m sorry.”

“There’s one very interesting work, isn’t there?”

Among the writers reading the texts, at least a few were smirking. One female student actually burst out laughing. Professor Yoo Myeong-shim looked right at me while saying there was an “interesting” one. At least it was funny. That was something.

The first workshop ended, and just as I was about to head back alone…

“Excuse me?”