Chapter 71: The Price of Stardom

This year, Ishihara Sakura turned thirty-five. When she was in elementary school, her dream was to become a radio DJ.

One day, she saw her favorite DJ perform on a broadcast. With her innocent heart, she thought, ‘If I become an actress, maybe I can become a DJ.’

So in 2006, Sakura made her first debut in the entertainment industry through the ‘Pure Girl Contest’ held for young girls.

She briefly captured attention at a young age with her natural looks, but in the harsh world of Japanese entertainment, looks alone weren’t enough to land her a spot on TV programs.

In some ways, the industry atmosphere was even more conservative and closed off than Korea’s, so becoming an entertainer required more than just simple talent.

Here, “effort” didn’t mean practicing skills like acting or singing, but rather the determination to grit your teeth and adapt to the irrationality and disgust lurking in the dark side of the industry.

At eighteen, just having reached adulthood, Ishihara Sakura got her first opportunity.

‘If you work here, you can make some spending money and meet all kinds of people. You might find your chance.’

The person who said this was a producer at ‘Hokapro,’ who produced gravure models for youth magazines and underground idols.

The place was a small bar tucked away in an alley in Tokyo’s Minato Ward, surrounded by broadcasting stations and advertising agencies.

‘It’s not like a cabakura or host bar. It’s just a small place for regulars.’

Trusting the PD’s advice that an adult should be able to take care of herself, Sakura started working part-time at the small basement bar.

There, she learned how to survive.

She learned how to keep smiling even when balding middle-aged men, old enough to be her father, whispered creepy jokes at her.

She learned how to pretend not to notice blatant hands brushing her waist or thighs.

She learned how to empty her glass without actually drinking alcohol.

She learned how to read the mood and laugh at the right times to keep everyone pleased.

Girls who couldn’t adapt to this world gave up their entertainment careers, returned to their hometowns, and spent their lives blaming themselves, unable to escape their warped youth.

But those who did adapt often drifted from party to party, always hoping for bigger money and better opportunities.

Some even got lost in the pleasures and squandered their fortunes at host bars.

Sakura endured, refusing to fall to either extreme.

One day, as she struggled to keep her balance, a man visited the bar where Sakura worked.

The man said,

‘Your talent is wasted in a place like this.’

He introduced himself as Keita, a TV producer who’d been dragged there by his boss for a night out he didn’t want.

Keita was careful with his words, always mindful of Sakura’s feelings, and never laid a single finger on her, no matter the situation.

More than anything, his sincere praise of her—insisting she had a talent that outshined anyone else—made Sakura develop feelings for him.

They exchanged numbers, went on dates on their days off, and spent time together in Sakura’s small one-room apartment, cooking yakisoba like any ordinary couple.

Even though Keita had just entered his thirties, he was already recognized for his talent within the broadcasting station.

Thanks to his recommendation, Sakura was cast in a significant supporting role as a barista in the 2008 drama , catapulting her into stardom.

But the love story between a promising producer and a young rookie actress didn’t last long.

The reason was simple.

He was a married man.

Before they parted ways, Sakura asked Keita,

‘What was that brilliant talent you saw in me back then?’

With eyes dark as night, Keita reminded Sakura of her talent.

‘Your face and voice remind men of their first love.’

‘From now on, many men will be captivated by your talent.’

‘So, Sakura. If you use your talent, you’ll become a beloved actress.’

Hearing Keita’s words, Sakura smiled.

It was a habit she’d picked up while working at that basement bar in Minato Ward: to smile whenever she felt dirty inside.

And so, Ishihara Sakura became Japan’s “first love.”

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No matter if it’s music, writing, or art, every creator has their own beloved muse.

A muse gives the creator endless inspiration and motivation, and sometimes becomes the very reason for creating.

For those who live chaotically, unable to predict even a step ahead, a muse is their only escape and sanctuary.

Just look at the story of Shel Silverstein, author of the Korean children’s classic “The Giving Tree,” who is said to have had relationships with over a thousand women. No one can deny that my assertion is a universal truth.

A drama writer who draws inspiration from only one person is far more likely to be a great author than a dissolute fairy-tale writer constantly seeking new muses.

-Sensei, what did you eat today?
-I had kimchi stew. It might be a little spicy for Sakura-chan?
-Oh, I can handle spicy food just fine (insert confident shoulder-shrug emoji)
-That’s a cute story from a Korean’s perspective.
-But I can probably handle sour flavors better than Sensei. Today’s my lunch!
-(photo)

Looking at the photo of Sakura holding up an umeboshi rice ball, I broke into a broad grin.

Lately, chatting with Sakura on KakaoTalk made me smile a lot like this.

It’d been a long time since I felt this pure rush of dopamine, not since that first crush in high school.

Back then, I was an orphan with no one to look out for me and barely any inheritance. Instead of taking the easier science track for employment, I boldly chose the humanities—so naturally, I heard, ‘My mom says I shouldn’t date someone like you. Sorry.’ I ended up crying my eyes out.

That ticklish, fluttery feeling I had back then seemed to be returning to me these days.

As I chatted on PC KakaoTalk and occasionally grinned to myself, Jung Tae-mi cautiously asked,

“Writer?”

“Yeah?”

“Um… did something good happen recently?”

When I answered, “Not really?” with a meaningful smile, the assistant writers gathered around with excited exclamations and bombarded me with questions.

“Writer, do you play coins? The price shot up recently.”

“Coins, my foot! You’ve started seeing someone, haven’t you? Right?”

“Who is it? Is it someone we know?”

Various guesses flew around, but I stayed silent, quietly packed up my laptop, and headed to my room.

“Ah, come on, Writer, tell us!”

“Hey, everyone, get back to the scripts.”

I closed the door quietly.

It was time for the regular one-on-one online meeting with writer Park Eun-sook.

This time, we were discussing the part in ’s sixth section where Sakura’s character, the genius surgeon “Kaede,” and Jung Sung-woo’s character, the former killer “Seo Kang-woo,” begin their romance arc.

Kaede is a surgeon at Mitsui Hospital in Tokyo, and Seo Kang-woo runs a small café in Akihabara, where Mitsui Hospital is located.

The two, who come from different worlds, meet for the first time at Seo Kang-woo’s café and become aware of each other.

Kaede feels drawn to Seo Kang-woo, whose hollow gaze mirrors her own inability to truly look people in the eye, despite being her polar opposite.

Kaede, dignified yet somehow awkward, is instinctively attracted to Seo Kang-woo, who seems clumsy but is actually flawless.

When it comes to this kind of story, there’s hardly anyone in Korea who can surpass Park Eun-sook.

That’s why, as the one who wrote the new romance script, I sat down to meet with Park Eun-sook, feeling both anxious and hopeful.

“I’ve gone through all the scripts you sent.”

“Yes.”

“They’re good… hmm.”

Seeing Park Eun-sook looking deep in thought, I unconsciously pressed my knees together and rested my hands in my lap.

Who knows?

Lee Jung-hyuk’s romance writing is a mess. He has zero sensitivity toward the female lead. No wonder he got divorced. If you can’t understand a woman’s heart or evoke mysterious, sweet love, it’s no wonder you end up divorced. Tsk, tsk.

If the romance master Park Eun-sook says that, then that’s what I am.

“It’s good.”

“Eh? Really?”

“Especially Kaede’s character—you made her so lovely. As for Seo Kang-woo, well, you’re already so good at writing mysterious, wounded male leads that of course he’s well-developed. But showing Kaede’s lovely side was a pleasant surprise.”

I barely managed to keep from clapping my hands and shouting “hurray,” and instead humbly thanked Park Eun-sook for her evaluation.

“When a male writer can write the female lead this convincingly, it usually means one of two things. Either you’ve always had great insight into women—”

“What’s the other?”

Park Eun-sook tilted her head and smiled slyly at me through the camera lens.

“The other is, you’re projecting someone you actually know into the work. Hmm.”

Worried that Park Eun-sook might also ask, “Writer, are you dating someone?” I hurriedly changed the topic.

“Well, whatever the case, it feels great to be recognized by Korea’s master of romance, Park Eun-sook. Thank you, as always. When should we have the next script meeting?”

“About the schedule—actually, I heard the first shoot is starting soon, so I’m planning to go to Japan and see the set. If you’re free, you should come with me, Lee.”

“Yes, once the date is set, I’ll clear my schedule as best I can.”

After wrapping up the video call with Park Eun-sook, I slumped back in my chair and let out a long sigh.

I’d worried a lot, but writing this new romance arc had gone surprisingly smoothly, so I was a little hopeful.

My first debut novel was the same, and even judging by my usual taste, I’d never been especially strong in romance narratives.

Maybe it had something to do with my upbringing, never having received much affection, or maybe it was the result of having gone through a bad marriage born of misguided feelings.

But lately, when writing sweet scenes between the hero and heroine, I found myself picturing Sakura’s face without even realizing it.

‘Well, I did write it while imagining myself as her partner.’

It’s not like I intended to become her lover, but to say I never imagined it or wasn’t influenced at all would be a lie.

Sharing our daily lives, chatting about meals or sometimes serious discussions about our work, Sakura had naturally become a muse who influenced my creative world.

With this project especially—since she was actually playing the main character—the effect of having her as a muse felt even stronger.

And this wasn’t just one-sided.

Sakura was always the one to contact me first, and though it must be difficult for her to use Korean, she even ran everything through a translator just to keep in touch.

It was as if, just as I had chosen her as my muse, she wanted to become my muse as well.

If Kim from the Gangnam urology clinic heard this, he’d click his tongue and say I was worrying over nothing.

But for someone who’s been divorced once, letting someone else into my heart doesn’t seem like something that can be explained by simple infatuation.

‘Actually, this isn’t bad!’

Instead of digging deeper into these feelings, I decided to accept this level of connection—one that benefits my work—for now.