On Being an Author of Books > IDEAS & IDEALS

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 To be an author of books is like to be a parent of children. You are always full of high hope and great expectation when they are born, but in nine cases out of ten you end up in disappointment and betrayal. It is a blessing as well as a burden. It could be an honor as well as a distress. It makes you happy when they do well in the world, but unhappy when they go badly. They promise you fame and money, but the promise is rarely kept. They leave and forget you soon and easily, but you keep worrying and caring about them as long as you live.    

     I went downtown of Seoul last week to visit Kyobo bookstore. To buy books? Of course not. To check my books. Fortunately or unfortunately, I have become an author of several books, and like a father who always worry about his children who had already grown up and married off, I am always curious and concerned about how they are doing in the bookstore. I decided to go and see how they fared.

     As I vaguely anticipated, my books were not faring well. I couldn't find out any of them in the ocean of books to begin with. I didn't expect any of my books to take a place at the bestseller corner, or being displayed conspicuously on any display-board with those beautiful books recently published. Years have already passed since my last book was published, and I knew none of mine sold well. I examined so many bookshelves packed with books like sardines one by one, but failed to locate any of mine. I felt ashamed.

     Pretending a nonchalant buyer of books I asked for help from a salesgirl nearby. I told her three books of mine. She disappeared into somewhere to fetch them. Having kept me waiting quite for a long time, she reappeared from nowhere with only two books in her hand. I felt sorry for the salesgirl because she seemed to have dirtied her hands with dust to find out my books. I paid the money and hastily left the cashier. I dared not even ask about the fate of the missing book of mine.

     On the subway train for home I fell into some thoughts about the bitter experience I had suffered during the short visit to the bookstore. It was evident that the two books of mine were barely keeping their life in total neglect among thousands of the unsold books somewhere in the bookstore gathering dust only. To my sorrow and agony, the missing one had already ended its life in the world of harsh competition after living less than several years. It was certain that the days of the surviving books of mine were also numbered. Like a father who has unfortunate children, I felt sorry for my books.

     Indeed, books to the authors are what the children to their parents. As the children are so dear absolutely to their parents, so are the books to authors - so precious and lovable disregarding their merits or demerits. Each time a book of mine was published, I was happy, excited and secretly ambitious. I thought my book would sell like hot cakes, be read by everybody, become a bestseller, and make me famous and subsequently bring me a lot of money. I found myself busy planning the bright future with the money. I waited in hope, fear and expectation for several months before falling invariably into deep abyss of disappointment, shame and regret.
    
     Frankly speaking, to be an author of books is not a common experience that can be shared with many others. Most of us buy and read books, but rarely write them, even if we wish to. We regard the business of writing and publishing books as some special activity or ability that belongs to someone who is somewhat different from ordinary us in many ways. We think that authors of books must have deep knowledge on a certain subject, extraordinary experience and wisdom in life, and rare talent of writing that most of us don't have. They are supposed to have something uncommon to inform us, please us or teach us. This is why we look up to the authors of books.  

     Impudently enough, however, with none of the qualities or qualifications required for being any author of good books, and without any clear purpose or motive, I have become a published author of books, as I became a father of three children before I knew what had happened. Quite deservedly so, none of my books have sold well, or brought me fame or money. No one seems to read my books. No one around me remembers or recognizes me as an author of books. Even my wife and children do not care. I feel sad, angry and ashamed by turns. I envy those who have succeeded in this enterprise. I sometimes regret for what I have done.

     Although most of us are satisfied with just being a good reader of books, strangely enough, I felt an impulse to write something on the paper. I felt I had something to say, something very interesting, important or useful to the world, and felt like sharing it with others. Before many practical obstacles and realistic considerations I had hesitated, but the desire, the sad desire, lay dormant, smoldering, as the first love, and it woke up from time to time from its hibernation and tempted me into it. It was a trap and I was the one who got trapped into it.

     Now I am sitting in my armchair in my study looking at the bookshelf in which all the immortal works written by the great names in history reign over me. My eyesight inevitably stops where my shameless books are neatly arranged at a corner of the same bookshelf. As I often do, I take them down and put them back after touching, caressing and feeling them one by one with my hands. I do not expect any of my books will ever be read or remembered long by anybody, let alone after my death. But, like a father who unconditionally loves and marvels at his mediocre children, I will always be proud of being an author of my books as long as I live.
                                                                                                           (April 5, 2007)