Chapter 79: The Hermit Crab on Stage

By complete coercion, I found myself standing on the podium, facing hundreds of staring eyes.

It felt like I might develop trypophobia on the spot.

‘Were people’s eyes always that round? Ah, and so black, too. It feels like I’m about to be sucked in.’

In a daze, I stepped up onto the stage.

Clinging desperately to what little clarity I had left, I managed to steady myself.

The stares from the students seated in the tiered rows pierced me evenly, from head to toe.

I struggled to avoid their gazes.

“If you can’t avoid it, enjoy it”—I think some iron-willed person from the past said that.

I had long since given up on such composure; I focused only on the pointer in my hand.

The prepared PPT appeared on the large screen above.

[What Is a Drama Writer?]

The black letters written in Gungsuh font on a white background soothed my nerves a little.

“What do you think a drama writer is?”

I felt grateful that, to this common question, none of the students replied with the obvious, ‘A drama writer is just a drama writer, isn’t it?’ and quickly moved on to the next slide.

The page was filled with text, from the top left corner diagonally to the bottom right.

To some, that much writing might be visual violence, enough to induce a panic attack at first sight.

But as a severe bibliophile, seeing the densely packed letters somehow calmed me.

‘Right! Text assault for trypophobia!’

Dozens of students expecting a star writer’s special lecture.

Under such heavy pressure, a slightly twisted side of myself began to view the seated students as targets to be bombarded.

“The way I see it, a drama writer must serve as a channel that leads viewers from their reality toward a more fantastic ideal. Who decides that role? Naturally, it’s the viewers. So, a drama writer’s first priority is to write dramas the viewers want to see, for the viewers. Then, someone might ask: If you’re not writing what you want, but what others want, can you still call yourself a writer? Anyone here thinking that—raise your hand.”

At this point, I was originally supposed to look around, exchange a few words with the students who raised their hands.

After all, every ‘How to Give a Good Lecture’, ‘Master of Lectures’, ‘Lecturer’s Attitude’ video I’d seen on YouTube stressed the importance of interacting with the audience.

But right now? I had no room for that luxury.

Some students did raise their hands here and there.

I ignored them and started to rattle off the next sentences.

“In that case, write novels or poetry. Essays or journals are fine too. Producing a drama costs at least several billion won, up to tens of billions—a full-fledged business operation. Using that business as a tool to fulfill your own ego is, in a way, embezzlement.”

With this strong (possibly positive?) provocation, I moved to the next slide.

Still, the unexpected start seemed to have succeeded in drawing the students’ attention.

The problem was what came next.

The following page listed, in excruciating detail, the contents of various drama writing manuals published in the US, UK, and elsewhere.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with them either, but there was no way out.

Originally, I’d planned to skim quickly, but if I did that, I’d have nothing left for later—so I started reading each one, word for word.

“The bestseller of the writing guide world, Robert McKee, author of , said this.”

“In , it says that creating characters is the same as creating a drama. The most important part of this book is—”

“Oh. This book really moved me. It’s , by the same author as the book above.”

The students who’d come for my lecture gradually began to lose focus and their eyes glazed over under my barrage of passion—or rather, attack.

Whether they zoned out or not, I only charged onward, determined to get through the last remaining slides like a runaway train.

‘Good, let’s keep this up and finish the lecture fast.’

But Hong Juhee, sensing my sly intentions, raised her hand.

“Writer-nim. I’m sure these students have a lot they want to ask—how about a Q&A session?”

All I wanted was to escape this lecture hall as quickly as possible, so the sudden interruption made me glare at Hong Juhee reflexively.

She simply smiled and invited the students to ask whatever they wanted, putting a solid brake on my escape.

‘Ahh. This is why I can’t deal with social butterflies.’

Social butterflies never care about the struggles of outcasts like me—they just assume that if we’re in the spotlight, we must enjoy it.

Though I logically understood that my position required such attention, emotionally—physically—I resisted with every fiber of my being.

On the other hand, for students desperate to escape this excruciatingly boring text-fueled runaway train, anything would do. So, hands shot up all around.

“Alright then, let’s take some questions. That male student over there?”

Because of all the shining eyes fixed on me, I glanced around and called on someone at random, my vision half-blurred.

Q: How did you come to write ? Where did you get the idea and how did you weave the story?

A: I was lucky.

Q: Many of your works are hits—do you have any secrets for appealing to the masses, or tips you could share?

A: I don’t. I was just lucky.

Q: How do you write such perfect scripts? As a fellow creative writing major, I respect you. Did you do any special training during school?

A: I didn’t. That’s why I was last in my class. Sorry.

Hong Juhee’s hopes that a Q&A would loosen up the atmosphere were completely dashed.

At least when I was reading from my slides, I’d given them some information.

This—well, even the earliest AI could’ve given more heartfelt answers.

‘I know, okay? But if I talk any more, I’ll start rambling, collapse, and never get up again!’

I kept responding with, ‘I was lucky,’ ‘There’s no such secret,’ ‘If you’re lucky, you can do it too.’

The students, who’d started with bright eyes, gradually turned into glazed, glassy-eyed fish at my ironclad defense.

And in their minds, the same thought must have begun to take root.

‘Being good at writing and being good at giving lectures are two separate things.’

I didn’t care.

Better that than having my goat-like trembling voice immortalized as I broke down under their attack.

Watching the students drop off like mushrooms after rain, I began to feel more alive.

Like when the social butterflies finish partying and go to sleep at an MT, and the early-bird outcast quietly comes out to enjoy a festival of their own.

At that moment, from the very back corner—reminding me of my own college days,

A male student, hat pulled down low, raised his hand.

“Yes, you. What’s your question?”

“Hello, Writer-nim. I took the entrance exam four times before getting into this drama writing program. I’m older than the others, and I look even older, yes, since I’ve aged a lot. I even got held up in the military, so this is my seventh year here.”

My hunch wasn’t wrong.

Looking at him, I was reminded of myself from ten years ago.

That awkward tone. The self-deprecating comments, even though no one asked. The gloomy vibe. All classic outcast traits.

“Go ahead, speak comfortably.”

Maybe it was meeting a fellow kindred spirit.

For the first time, I felt at ease.

“At my age, is it still possible for me to become a drama writer?”

The fourth-time-taker in the hat shrank in on himself, as if he’d just asked a forbidden question.

Like a turtle that had poked its head out, thinking everyone was gone, then hurried back into its shell at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Even that, somehow, felt just like looking at myself, and my heart went out to him.

I cleared my throat and began to speak from the heart.

“My parents died in an accident when I was in high school. I suddenly became an orphan. With no relatives to care for me, I entered a facility. Naturally, because of all that, I couldn’t go to college right away and, after retaking the exam, I entered the creative writing department here.”

Students who had been dozing or fiddling with their phones started to look up at me, one by one.

But I kept my eyes fixed desperately on the fourth-year student who seemed like a mirror image of myself, and continued.

“I’ve done every kind of part-time job you can imagine, and while trying to become a drama writer, I worked as an assistant, but couldn’t make ends meet, so I did short-term jobs on weekends. I struggled, and as you all know, I was lucky to meet my wife. Thanks to my well-connected wife, I debuted as a drama writer. Honestly, if anyone here has seen my first work, raise your hand. If you do, you’re lying. Its ratings were under 2%.”

At my half-joking, half-serious comment, the students glanced at each other.

“Yes, as you all know, I’m also divorced. When I said I was lucky earlier, I meant because I met a wife with good connections. But all my well-known works, the ones you know—they came after the divorce. How did that happen?”

“Because you’re a good writer, Writer-nim!”

“Your real talent finally came out!”

“Was it experience?”

I nodded at all their answers.

“Yeah, well. None of those are wrong. There’s a bit of flattery mixed in, though.”

“Hahaha.”

As I grew more relaxed, the students responded in kind, laughter bursting out.

“What I want to say is: Don’t give up. No matter how rotten the situation or environment, if you keep writing, determined to see it through no matter what, sometimes—just sometimes—the gods take pity and give you a gift of opportunity.”

A gift of opportunity.

I recalled the first time I met Godflix.

The day I nearly killed myself. That wretched year in Sangju.

“Thanks to that god-given gift, I’m able to stand here today. So you, too, shouldn’t give up. If I’d given up and done nothing back then, I wouldn’t have had this chance.”

The god’s gift, delivered along with the agony of kidney stones.

I knew, for certain, that it was the last chance the heavens had given me—not to give up on life that way.

“Keep at it. The opportunity will come.”

With that, a five-second silence filled the lecture hall.

Then, Hong Juhee, her eyes moist, started clapping loudly.

The message I’d sent echoed throughout the hall, returning to me as a wave of applause.

“Wow! Writer-nim, you’re amazing!”

“Thank you! I won’t give up! That was so moving!”

“Lee Junghyuk, you’re the best!”

The student who had actually asked me the question simply clapped quietly, while the social butterflies whistled and cheered loudly.

Their huge cheers brought me back to my senses.

Ah, right. This isn’t where I belong.

Like a turtle—no, a hermit crab—I shrank back and hurriedly escaped from the stage.

---

“Writer-nim.”

Hong Juhee approached me as I gulped down cold water by the water cooler.

“Today’s lecture was so, so moving. It was the most impressive one I’ve ever heard.”

“Ha ha, cough, ack.”

As I pounded my chest to clear my throat, Hong Juhee continued speaking, her eyes sparkling just like the students’ in the lecture hall earlier.

“How could you describe your talent as a god-given gift? Wow, you really are a writer.”

“It’s not a metaphor.”

“Sorry?”

If Godflix isn’t a gift from the gods, then what is it?

Unable to explain it any other way, I just spoke plainly.

“If it’s not a metaphor, then what is it?”

“A fact.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let’s get going.”

Exhausted, I turned to leave the school.

Still failing to understand my outcast ways, Hong Juhee showed off her social skills once again, calling after me.

“You have to come to the after-party, Writer-nim!”