Writing was like a precision machine.
The setting, the prose, the plot, the rhythm, the cast, the protagonist—every part of it mattered. Only when all those elements came together in the right balance did something called fun emerge.
That was why a writer could not simply chase fun itself.
Fun was a mirage. The things that mattered lay elsewhere.
And yet, paradoxically, fun still existed.
Even if you could not explain exactly what made something fun, you could still recognize it by instinct.
At the very least, a commercial writer needed that ability to make a living.
And by that standard, perhaps I was no longer a commercial writer.
Because I had fallen into a state where I could not tell what was fun at all.
“You’re in a slump.”
“I never thought I was the sort of person who could fall into one.”
Maybe he had caught the implication.
So even someone with barely any talent can have a slump, huh.
Yoshihiro let out a long sigh and dropped his forehead onto the table.
Then he spoke.
“How much money have you made again?”
“I’d rather not give exact figures.”
“You could take three years off, couldn’t you?”
“At my current standard of living, I could take eight.”
Yoshihiro lifted his head.
“Good. Let’s stop talking about new work. At least for this year, that’s the right call.”
“I took all of last year off too. You want me to take this year off as well?”
To be honest, this had not been going on for a day or two.
I had been like this ever since I finished my fifth series.
Almost a full year now.
Yoshihiro frowned.
“Rest? What rest? You kept writing. Stop doing even that.”
“A writer who doesn’t write is no different from an unemployed bum.”
“You said you’d made plenty. Live off it for a while and rest. Besides, you’re still selling steadily.”
“Only <The Otherworldly College Student>.”
“At least you have that. If things ever get truly tight, you can write a side story for <The Otherworldly College Student> and make it work somehow.”
“A side story in my current state?”
“I was obviously just talking. Why are you taking it so seriously?”
Out of habit, Yoshihiro patted at the inside pocket of his jacket.
His craving for nicotine must have flared up, but unfortunately, this café was a no-smoking area.
He probably had not actually intended to smoke.
His chest must simply have felt that stifled.
Yoshihiro lowered his hand and met my eyes.
“…”
“…”
An awkward silence settled between us.
It had been a long time since one like this had passed between Yoshihiro and me.
The last time had been about six years ago, when I showed him my second novel, <The Devouring Beast Series>.
The silence dragged on.
And on.
Then Yoshihiro finally forced himself to speak.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
What was this about?
Was he about to tell me I had been dropped?
But I was not a Shonen Jump artist, and I was not even a manga creator.
Yoshihiro continued.
“Is there…”
“Go ahead.”
“Something going on at home?”
“…”
“No. Forget I asked.”
There was no mirror, so I had no idea what expression I was making.
But judging by Yoshihiro’s reaction, I could make a fair guess.
What was with him all of a sudden?
It did not suit him.
“My family is the same as always.”
“…”
“You’re not saying, ‘Still a complete mess, huh?’ I see. Yoshihiro, paragon of restraint.”
“It feels a little strange to talk about someone else’s family.”
“Why the sudden change? Did you watch something weird on late-night TV last night?”
I was genuinely curious.
Yoshihiro knew about my family situation. About me, he knew at least that much.
We had met when I was in first grade.
He had watched me for nine years now.
He might not have imagined anything as fantastical as an adult soul taking up residence in a child’s body, but he must have long since guessed that my mental state resembled an adult’s.
You could tell from the way he treated me.
So he should have known better than anyone that I did not care whether my family was a complete train wreck or did not exist at all.
That was why his question caught me off guard.
“You said it was a slump. I’m checking a few possibilities.”
“Hmmm.”
“Editors are not supposed to look only at the manuscript. A writer’s mental state matters too…”
“Hmmmm.”
“All right, all right. Stop doing that.”
Yoshihiro took out a piece of gum and started chewing.
His stress had apparently reached critical mass.
I felt a little bad, but there was nothing I could do.
Served him right for saying something he did not mean.
Yoshihiro chewed for a while, then slowly spoke again.
“You’re starting high school now, right?”
By the old Korean age system, I was seventeen this year. By the new system, I was fifteen—three months shy of sixteen.
In the coming April, I would be starting high school.
What did that have to do with anything?
“First year of high school means… you know.”
“Means what?”
“You might be going through puberty…”
It was an answer I could never have imagined.
Maybe my stare was too sharp.
Yoshihiro rubbed a hand over his face and muttered under his breath.
“This is why I didn’t want to say anything.”
“You should not have entertained such a ridiculous suspicion in the first place.”
“Hormones are terrifying. Do you think you’re immune? I’ve been getting noticeably more irritable lately myself.”
“You are at that age, though.”
I was feeling the terror of hormones keenly myself these days.
But the effect was not strong enough for a puberty I had never even gone through in my previous life to suddenly hit me now.
Which meant Yoshihiro had been worrying for nothing.
“As long as you’re fine.”
“I’m not fine. I told you, my fun sensor is broken.”
“That’ll get better if you rest. You know the author of the <One-Character Series>, right? They broke down like you did, but they got better quickly.”
“That author is in an entirely different weight class. That comparison is not exactly reassuring.”
Why was he using someone worshiped by nerds and adored by literary types as an example?
“We’re all basically the same.”
“Sure. We both have two eyes, one nose, and one mouth.”
“…Are you really not going through puberty?”
“Why?”
“You’ve seemed especially touchy whenever talent comes up lately.”
“You’re imagining things.”
In truth, he was not.
Had I not just said that I was feeling the effects of hormones firsthand these days?
This was what I meant.
Lately, whenever I thought about talent and my own limitations, I found myself getting irritated.
No matter how hard I tried to hold it in, it kept slipping out.
Hormones were that terrifying.
So everyone would do well not to defy Lord Hormone, but to prepare themselves to accept His will with humility.
Start showing off that you are different, and you will turn into a cyberpsycho.
Consider yourselves warned.
“Anyway. Take it easy for a while. Do you even have hobbies?”
“When would I have time for those? You know my academic ranking.”
“I’m always amazed when I see it. How do you keep grades like that up? Hey, you’re going to suffocate at this rate. You can’t write for a while anyway, so take this chance to have some fun. You’ll regret it if you don’t enjoy yourself now.”
Ever since I had ended up in a body like this, other people’s advice often felt as awkward as gears that did not mesh.
People gave me advice suited to my outward appearance, while a fully grown adult sat inside.
But what Yoshihiro had just said was different.
You’ll regret it if you don’t enjoy yourself now.
It was advice meant for the first-year high school student I appeared to be.
At the same time, it was advice the adult inside me could understand.
No.
Maybe I understood it even better because I was an adult.
I thought back to my school days in my previous life.
My life had consisted of nothing but part-time work and writing. The money I saved back then had carried me through until my work began to sell, but that did not mean I had no regrets.
There were experiences you could only accumulate during your teenage years.
And someday, they would surely prove useful.
Naturally, I was talking about writing.
An ordinary office worker might never need them.
In any case.
Back then, I had not had a choice.
Orphans did not get many choices.
But that was not true anymore.
Sure, my mother had left to find her own life, and my father might as well not have been there.
But had I not overcome that through my own ability?
So perhaps it would be all right to live like a real high school student for a while.
That thought crossed my mind.
“Okay.”
“The fact that you agreed so easily makes me nervous. Do you even know how to have fun?”
“Who in the world doesn’t know how to have fun?”
“Surprisingly, people like that do exist. In fact, one may be sitting right in front of me.”
Was he saying I was so dull that I could not have fun even if someone laid everything out for me?
That would not do.
“I’ll show you what real fun looks like. Just don’t be too shocked.”
*****
People could be divided into two broad categories.
Those who went up onstage during school trips, and those who did not.
And those two groups could be split again into four.
Those who went onstage willingly and those who were forced up there.
Those who enjoyed watching what happened onstage, and those who wanted to go home.
For the record, I belonged to the fourth group.
That had been news to me too.
I had never gone on a school trip in my previous life.
“I’ve met people who don’t know how to have fun, but you’re the first person I’ve met who asks what he should do when he doesn’t even want to have fun. Don’t have fun, then.”
“If I don’t have fun, I won’t get out of this slump.”
“What a load of shit.”
The man snapped at me, then ignored me and went back to hammering away at his keyboard.
If you thought he had a nasty personality, that was a misunderstanding.
He was actually being pretty nice.
If I had been in his position, I would have smashed him over the head with the keyboard.
After wrestling with his manuscript for a while, the man finally let out a long sigh and began fiddling with his phone.
Apparently, he was taking a break.
Perfect.
I spoke to him.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you chased by a deadline, Ryota.”
“You’ve seen something rare. Now go home. I’m busy.”
“You still have three days before the deadline. The actual cutoff is even farther away. Keep me company.”
“I’m the kind of person who loses his mind if he hasn’t finished two weeks before the deadline.”
“I comforted you last time your girlfriend cheated on you.”
Only beasts forgot favors.
That was one of Ryota’s favorite lines.
He used it often enough that it had become a meme among his readers.
Ryota grimaced.
“You did nothing but make fun of me.”
“That was me comforting you.”
“Haah.”
Ryota sighed, spun the mouse wheel, and quickly skimmed through what he had written that day.
He was checking how much more he needed to write before the episode came to an end.
Apparently, he had more room than he expected.
Ryota pressed Ctrl+S and got out of his chair.
“I’ll give you exactly one hour.”
“You should have said that from the start.”
“I don’t know how to solve a slump, so don’t ask.”
“I was not planning to ask in the first place.”
Ryota was not the sort of writer who had much to do with slumps.
If I asked him how to get through one, I would only get a perfunctory answer.
What I wanted was different advice.
“Ryota.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know what high school students normally do for fun?”
“How would I know? Do I look like a high school student to you?”
“Out of everyone I know, you are the closest thing to one.”
“At twenty-three?”
“At twenty-three.”
Ryota let out a disbelieving laugh.
We had known each other for nearly four years, ever since his debut.
Yet neither of us knew anything about the other’s social circle.
I knew what Ryota thought, what he liked, what he disliked, and what he hated.
But I knew nothing about the people around him or his family circumstances.
The same went for Ryota.
We had never talked about such things, so all we could do was guess.
Writers were dopamine addicts by nature.
Neither of us had the patience to linger on subjects that interested neither one of us.
Ryota rested his chin on his hand and spoke.
“I expected it, but you really don’t have a single friend your own age, do you?”
“Call them acquaintances my age. People start using the word friend the moment they get even slightly close to someone, but I classify relationships at that level as acquaintances.”
“Which is exactly why you don’t have acquaintances either, asshole.”
Strictly speaking, the reason I had no acquaintances my own age was the generational gap.
But saying that out loud would get me treated like a lunatic, so I kept my mouth shut.
Ryota stroked his chin.
“How to have fun, huh.”
“You know plenty of people, Ryota. And all you write are high school romantic comedies.”
“Join a club or something.”
“Did you get tired of dealing with me after one minute?”
“Honestly, yeah.”
When someone bothered you while you were working, canned answers were inevitable.
I understood.
“All right. Just pick one thing for me to do, and I’ll go home.”
“Just one? Hmm.”
Ryota began to think it over.
He seemed to be rummaging through his own school memories.
After a long while, he finally spoke in a serious voice.
“How about trying dating?”
Sigh.
I should go home.