Chapter 89: The Unforgivable Sin of Scoring Art

About ten years ago, there was a competition program that became wildly popular.

They gathered veteran singers, each with several hit songs to their name, and had them perform, with the audience and judges scoring them to decide the rankings.

The last place singer would even be eliminated and barred from the next stage, and a certain novelist went so far as to say, ‘Scoring art is an unforgivable sin.’

When I heard those words, I fell into deep contemplation.

After all, that was not the first time art had been scored.

We have been giving points to art for a very long time, and we've come to trust those numbers quite a bit.

A film banner uses a line like ‘a masterpiece that critic so-and-so gave five stars to’ as a promotional phrase, and every OTT platform does the same, rating with stars and grades.

It’s no different with dramas.

Even though there’s never been a perfect score out of one hundred, we grade dramas based on their viewership numbers and judge their success by those figures.

This is exactly what troubled me.

Did every so-called masterpiece that received five stars from a famous critic actually break even and turn a profit?

Conversely, can a drama that pulled in a phenomenal 40% viewership rating be called a flawless masterpiece?

The answer is ‘no.’

No matter how high the rating, asking the general public to appreciate the cinematic devices that only the trained can see is an extremely selfish desire.

And even if a work achieved record ratings, there are plenty of cases where the script is a rush job and the acting leaves much to be desired due to poor research and preparation.

But then, why do we give out star ratings, believe in them so religiously, and use them to create hierarchies?

I've been wrestling with this question for quite a long time, and while I might not have found the answer, one thing I felt in my bones was that unless I wrote a hit that could turn a profit, I wouldn't be able to keep writing.

So, regardless of the answer, my priority was to write ‘hit works.’

My latest piece, , which I secretly hoped would win an award this time, was of course heavily influenced by this direction of mine.

And as a result, it set unprecedented records and became the ‘representative work’ of my career.

In the same year, Oh Hee-kyung’s  aired, pulling in a peak viewership of 11% and an average of 8.6%—a result that left much to be desired in terms of commercial success.

But as everyone knows, it was Oh Hee-kyung, not me, who took home the Writer’s Award at this year’s ceremony.

At the time, when Oh Hee-kyung’s name was announced as the winner, I couldn’t help but bite my lips.

I was embarrassed.

But my shame wasn’t from not hearing my name called, as is now being satirized as an internet meme.

I had watched every episode of , and I could feel a towering wall in Oh Hee-kyung’s work, something I could never reach.

Yet, deep down, I’d hoped that , with its record-breaking viewership, would beat out Oh Hee-kyung and win me the award.

Because to me, the best drama was the one with the best numbers.

And when that notion was so thoroughly crushed—

Even though I was aware the camera was zooming in on my face, I couldn’t help but scowl, feeling disgusted with myself.

To think I’d mistaken numerical superiority for being the best.

Wasn’t this way of thinking no different from the CL Group’s Jeon family, whom I so despised?

When did I start judging dramas by numbers alone?

Was it after I started doing Godflix quests?

Or when  became a huge hit?

Or because every piece I wrote turned into a massive profit, with top actors and directors lining up to meet me?

‘So did I just take all that for granted?’

The fingers that had never stopped churning out scripts finally froze.

And so, my slump began.

---

The word ‘slump’ has a Western flavor, and yet it rolls off the tongue so smoothly that it almost sounds like a magic spell straight out of Harry Potter.

Realizing this, Lee Jun-hyuk began to use this ‘slump’ spell to solve every problem.

For example—

Even if Seo Soon-ae was running around in frustration because the script for  wasn’t coming, and the assistant writers were shivering under the pressure of looming deadlines—

Lee Jun-hyuk used just one phrase to get out of it all.

“I’m in a slump.”

With that one word, ‘slump,’ he could ward off any angry production director, writer, or director.

Especially since he was the lead writer at the company—a best-selling, never-once-failed, highest-value creator—Lee Jun-hyuk’s slump wasn’t just any magic spell, but a cheat code of near-instant lethality.

“Maybe it’s the slump… I don’t have any appetite.”

“Writer~ I made your favorite Jeju bracken salad and LA galbi for the first time in ages, would you like to at least try a bite?”

“Maybe it’s the slump… I just feel down these days.”

“Writer, why not take a nice, refreshing vacation? We’ll take care of the remaining work however we can!”

“Maybe it’s the slump… I look kind of haggard, don’t I?”

“No way, who would think our writer—who’s barely in his late thirties and just hitting a slump—is some rampaging divorcé? You still look great.”

Day after day, a week passed, but there was no sign of Lee Jun-hyuk’s slump abating.

Now, he barely left his room except to eat.

Granted, it wasn’t unusual for Lee Jun-hyuk to hole up in his room, but that was only when he was immersed in writing.

Now, he just stared blankly, doing nothing, not writing, not even going out.

Seo Soon-ae set everything aside to try and cheer him up, but nothing worked.

“How long has Writer been like this?”

“It’s been more than two weeks already.”

“This is the first time this has happened, so we’re all flustered. What should we do, Director?”

“Hm… I suppose we’ll have to call someone.”

To deal with the ‘Lee Jun-hyuk is throwing a tantrum like a child’ crisis, Seo Soon-ae, the de facto manager of God Media Studio, decided to call in an expert.

A genius negotiator—an expert in coaxing demon-possessed writers and directors back to sanity, skilled in both childcare and conflict resolution.

Jo Min-seong arrived at God Media’s headquarters.

Already briefed on the situation by Seo Soon-ae, Jo Min-seong calmly approached Lee Jun-hyuk’s door and knocked softly.

Knock, knock—

“……”

“Writer, it’s Jo Min-seong. May I come in?”

Still holding onto a sliver of basic human courtesy, Lee Jun-hyuk opened the door just enough to reveal his haggard face.

“Director Jo? What brings you all the way here?”

“I was nearby for business, so I thought I’d stop in and check on you.”

As he spoke, Jo Min-seong subtly glanced over Lee Jun-hyuk’s shoulder into the room.

The desk, usually tidy with only a laptop and some stationery, was now littered with empty coffee cans, snack wrappers, and bits of chocolate.

With no writing being done, he was trying to relieve his stress with caffeine and sweets.

“Mind if I come in? How about we have a little chat?”

“The room’s a bit of a mess…”

“No worries. I’ve seen much worse than this. This is practically spotless.”

Before Lee Jun-hyuk could refuse, Jo Min-seong breezed into the room, brushing off the dust from the cot and plopping down as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Finally sitting face-to-face with Lee Jun-hyuk, Jo Min-seong began to ask some gentle questions.

“When did you realize you were in a slump?”

“Right after this last awards ceremony.”

“Were you very disappointed not to win?”

It was a direct question, aimed at the heart of the issue. But Lee Jun-hyuk shook his head.

“No, it’s clear to me why I didn’t win, so I don’t really feel disappointed.”

“I see. Then what’s weighing on you so much that you can’t write?”

Maybe it was because no one had ever asked him so directly about why he couldn’t write.

Hesitating, Lee Jun-hyuk cautiously revealed his true feelings to Jo Min-seong.

“I’m not sure. I keep worrying whether the direction I’m taking is right… And no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to produce satisfying humanism in my writing.”

“Humanism, huh? But you have so many other strengths as a writer.”

“No, I was just lucky. I still feel like I have a long way to go as a writer.”

After a few more questions, Jo Min-seong nodded, having reached his diagnosis.

“Hm, I see.”

Then, excusing himself for a moment, he stepped outside and made a few phone calls. When he returned, he gave Lee Jun-hyuk an unexpected answer.

“Why not go see Writer Oh Hee-kyung?”

“Writer Oh Hee-kyung?”

“Yes. We produced one of her works at Ten Entertainment before. We got to know each other then, so I know where her studio is.”

Writer Oh Hee-kyung was notorious among writers for her reclusiveness.

She didn’t even attend the last awards ceremony, instead sending her director to accept the award on her behalf. She rarely made public appearances and barely left her studio.

Very few people even knew where her studio was, but Jo Min-seong, who had a knack for getting along with everyone, had visited her studio several times.

He’d even told her he wanted to introduce Lee Jun-hyuk to her, and she’d agreed that he could bring him by anytime.

“I’ll say this again, I have no regrets about Writer Oh winning the award.”

“I know. But I think if you discussed your concerns with her, it might help.”

Seeing how sure Jo Min-seong was, Lee Jun-hyuk felt his heart waver.

“The direction you’re seeking for your writing… If it’s with Writer Oh, I’m sure you’ll find it.”

At last.

Stepping out of the room, Jo Min-seong flashed a satisfied smile at Seo Soon-ae, like a priest who had just completed a successful exorcism.

“The writer’s slump should be resolved soon.”

Seo Soon-ae and the assistant writers all let out a sigh of relief.

And, as if to prove it, Lee Jun-hyuk emerged from the room behind Jo Min-seong, carrying an overstuffed bag.

Seo Soon-ae pointed at the bag and asked,

“Writer, you’re not even writing. Where are you off to?”

“I’m going to visit Writer Oh Hee-kyung’s studio.”