Chapter 94 – End-of-Year Season (1)

The success of the "Setting Guide" was largely due to perfect timing.

First of all, many scientists, who had developed an interest in science fiction thanks to the discovery of X-rays, gave it strong recommendations.

"Whoa, they explained it like this?"

"There's some exaggeration, but... it's pretty good. We could even adopt it as teaching material."

"Interested in studying criminology? Then read the Sherlock Holmes setting guide! It contains both the past and future of our field!"

The 19th century was a time when science was advancing rapidly, but the general public's knowledge couldn't keep up, and the gap between them began to widen. 

That's why the setting guides, which explained concepts like evolution, forensic science, and cultural anthropology in an accessible way, were so well received.

In modern terms, it's like a university professor citing a well-written entry from FireWiki as an example.

Secondly...

"They're holding an open novel contest, and then they publish a setting guide like this... What's the plan?"

"If you use this as it is, it'll be obvious plagiarism, hmm. So maybe they want us to use this as a textbook to write better stories?"

"Fine, I was already feeling like I was swimming in the mud! With this as a guide, writing should be easier!"

The first Charles Dickens Literary Award contest, jointly hosted by the Writers' League and the publishing company.

Naturally, many wanted to seize this opportunity to realize their dreams of becoming writers. But writing, after all, is a skill.

Especially in the case of novels, there's so much to consider just to fill the pages. Naturally, there were many "newbies" who either lacked creativity despite having technical skills, or vice versa. 

For the latter group, the recently published setting guide provided some salvation, even if not for the former...

However, it wasn't as if only contest submissions inspired by the guide emerged.

Quite the opposite.

"Hey, doesn't this look too similar to Peter Perry? I heard plagiarism gets filtered out in the blind review."

"Ah, but this isn't going into the contest anyway."

"Not entering the contest? Then why write it?"

"Just because! I find this more fun!"

And so began the rise of secondhand creations.

What we now call parody or fanfiction started to emerge into the spotlight.

Of course, secondhand creations have been a long-standing custom and culture, almost as old as the first creations themselves.

In extreme cases, Roman mythology was an offshoot of Greek mythology, and Greek mythology was a fanfiction of the original Proto-Indo-European myths.

However, such works were usually limited to ancient works with expired copyrights, pirated versions, or fantasies scribbled in the notebooks of obscure authors.

They weren't lucrative compared to the effort required.

Sure, if you had plenty of money, it wouldn't matter. But those with that kind of wealth wouldn't be writing secondhand novels.

They could just hire a painter to illustrate and actors to perform, so why waste time on something as inefficient as writing a novel?

However, by the 19th century, with the rise of the middle class—who could now afford the cost of paper and pencils—things began to change.

When high-quality official setting guides were released, they acted as a spark, igniting the creative desires that people had long harbored.

If they couldn't find it, they would create it themselves.

Thus, the era of secondhand creations dawned, and the most popular first creations were, of course, those of Hanslow Jin and Arthur Conan Doyle.

─After completing his adventure in the Fairy Forest and returning to the real world, Peter Perry marries his stepsister, Portia Perry, with whom he has no blood relation. They have twin children, Phineas Perry and Petunia Perry. The twins, who never believed their father's fairy tales, one day discover the Fairy Forest where Peter had ventured and enter it themselves.

"Yes, Peter and Portia were always meant to be!"

"Damn it, you uncultured swine!! What about Iluril and the other fairies?!"

"Well, they have to have kids somehow!! Don't you know Mendel's laws of inheritance?!"

"What the hell does inheritance have to do with this, you idiot?!"

─"I apologize for the commotion, Miss Jane Watson. Let me introduce myself again. I am Shirley Holmes."

"My God, they swapped Holmes and Watson's genders!?"

"Are they… are they going to… do that sort of thing at night!?"

"Damn it, I can't accept this! Don't get aroused, my inner self!!"

─When I opened my eyes, I had become Edmund Earhart, the protagonist of the novel DawnBringer, a simple British gentleman. "Well, this is a disaster, damn it."

"Wait, did they really merge DawnBringer with Vincent Villiers?"

"Come on, this isn't Edmund at all! How could he be so frivolous!"

"But don't you also want Edmund to be happy? His parents are alive, and he's still a hero! What's the problem!!"

"But then again… this is pretty fun. How about dropping the DawnBringer content and turning this into your original creation?"

"Hmm…?"

And occasionally, those who wrote well would strip away the original content and submit their creations to the contest.

By the end of 1895, the publishing company and the Writers' League were accumulating more and more submissions for the contest—far more than they could ever reduce. 

***

And so, the Writers' League, where these manuscripts were being submitted, was currently ablaze with excitement.

"Ah, I keep telling you, this latest one, The Eye of the Wasteland, is the best! Can't you feel the Irish fantasy vibes reeking of MacDonald and Hanslow Jin?"

Fantasy literature.

"Are you kidding? Sure, it's well-polished, but it's still the work of an inexperienced rookie! I stand by Antagonos! It beautifully captures the anguish of the heir rising amidst the Diadochi conflicts."

Historical fiction.

"Hah! Are you still hung up on the Royal Literary Society? Sure, it's well-written, but it lacks mass appeal! How can such a slow-paced work represent the Charles Dickens Literary Award? The Scarlet Cuff is clearly superior!"

Mystery fiction.

"You're just biased because you're a Sherlockian and favor mystery novels! Can't you see the trends of the times? It's still the era of Gothic fiction! Look at John Bayer! A zombie hunting vampires as a vampire himself—now that's a fresh take!"

Gothic fiction.

"I-I think The Blue Star is g-good... The writing, the genre, the heart-fluttering romance... I think love stories should also be considered part of popular literature..."

"And what nonsense is that?"

Even romance.

Writers have as many tastes as there are writers, and the Writers' League was a place where all those writers, with their diverse preferences, gathered together. So naturally, when new, promising manuscripts were presented, the League's salon became a battlefield of literary views and tastes, with arguments over which work was superior.

The spirited debates continued late into the night until, at some point—

Ding—dong—ding—dong.

The grandfather clock struck midnight.

Upon hearing this, all the writers, as if on cue, straightened their attire and stood up.

"My goodness, is it already this late?"

"The kids must be waiting for me at home."

"Alright, everyone, let's meet again next time!"

Just like that, the heated atmosphere dissipated in an instant, and the writers who had been spitting fire in their debates moments earlier now patted each other on the shoulder and started to disperse.

On a regular day, they would have indulged in their typical writerly habits, stacking up whiskey, wine, and beer, and continuing their discussions (which sometimes turned into brawls) until the sun rose. But today was different, an unusually rare occasion.

Just the previous night, they had stayed up doing the same thing, hadn't they?

But tonight was different.

"I still need to buy some Christmas presents."

"Ah, but most of the stores must have closed by now."

"Hmm, maybe I'll just give them my book."

"Well, I'll take it, then."

"That'll be 5 pounds."

"You swindler!"

It was now December 24th.

The start of the year-end holiday season, spanning from Christmas Eve to New Year's Day, January 1st.

No matter how harsh capitalism in Britain might be, it was only natural for people to want to rest during the holidays. And if someone tried to make you work through it, you'd be tempted to bash their head in with a wrench.

Unless they were at the very bottom of the working class, most Britons finished their work on December 23rd, only resuming on January 2nd of the following year. This was true even for writers, often referred to as 'literary laborers.' It's why the term "year-end break" even exists.

During this break, most people would likely attend Thanksgiving services at home or at an Anglican church, but writers were not known for their social nature. Instead, they preferred to visit the salon to see familiar faces, engage in debates, and perhaps take away some new ideas.

And so, the writers naturally scattered—some heading home, some to pre-booked hotels, and others to their favorite pubs in small groups.

"Ah, writers truly are a peculiar bunch."

"Hahaha, isn't that what makes them great?"

Left behind in the room were three figures: George MacDonald, Arthur Conan Doyle, and George Bernard Shaw.

"So, aren't you heading home?" MacDonald asked.

"There's still work to be done," came the reply.

"Bachelors…"

For a moment, MacDonald and Conan Doyle exchanged pitying glances with Bernard Shaw.

But Shaw, unfazed by such trivialities, boldly crossed his arms and declared, "What of it? There are things more important than marriage."

"Sure, sure."

"Sorry for asking," Conan Doyle added, smiling.

With a clap of his hands, MacDonald shifted the topic. "Anyway, I wanted to thank you."

"What for, sir?" asked Doyle.

"Only yesterday, you were talking about needing my help, but in no time, you've managed to shake up the Royal Literary Society all by yourself. Haha!"

And you've even managed to organize such an event...

George MacDonald smiled warmly as he gazed at the competition entries the Writers' League had been reviewing: The Eye of the Wasteland, Antagonos, The Scarlet Cuff, John Bayer, The Blue Star, and many more.

Of course, the submissions that reached the Writers' League had already passed through an initial screening by the publishing house or freelance assistants like Somerset Maugham or Housewives.

But did that really matter?

Compared to the time when it was just himself and Charles Dickens, the sheer number of works now being considered under the banner of popular literature left George MacDonald with a profound sense of how far things had come.

"In the time I was away from England... popular literature has grown this much."

"It will continue to flourish, sir," Arthur Conan Doyle said firmly. "As long as we have young writers like Hanslow Jin, it surely will."

George MacDonald smiled in agreement. "Of course it will. I have high hopes for him."

That he will make literature accessible to all—MacDonald's eyes gleamed as he spoke.

For a long time, literature had belonged only to the educated elite. But wasn't that strange?

God's holy love doesn't reach only the upper class or nobility. His universal love is preached so that all may be saved. If everything in this world is God's love granted to mankind, then why should literature be an art form enjoyed by only a select few?

If literature cannot be for everyone, it isn't God's love. And if that's the case, it has no reason to exist.

That was the belief of George MacDonald, the Christian, and it was why George MacDonald, the writer, dedicated himself to popular literature.

That was why he clashed with the Royal Literary Society and harbored such fury toward them as they sank into disgrace.

"I don't know what else I can do now, but at the very least, I must never stand in the way of these young writers," MacDonald said as he once again glanced over the competition entries.

Then, he turned to face them.

"You've heard?"

The look he gave Arthur Conan Doyle and George Bernard Shaw was ice-cold. But it wasn't directed at them. Rather—

"The motion to dissolve the Royal Literary Society… was rejected?"

George Bernard Shaw nodded.

"Yes, it was."