Chapter 86 – Promising Talent (2)

In the history of literature—or rather, art—artistic merit and commercial success have always been two sides of the same coin. 

You can't have one without the other.

But when you raise the question of which should be prioritized, it inevitably leads to a heated debate—300+ messages deep—and people start hurling personal insults. 

It's a topic with no clear answer.

Occasionally, though, a white knight will ride in, saying things like, "Why not just do both?" or "It's easy, just do it like this," and they somehow manage to achieve both, setting a new standard for the industry in the process.

One such knight, William Somerset Maugham, the giant of British interwar literature and the best-selling author of the 1930s, happened to be standing right before us.

"How can you make a living just by selling your writing?"

"W-William!"

"Hey, watch your mouth!"

Well… he was being a bit too blunt.

Arthur Conan Doyle and I stood there, stunned, as the still (or perhaps permanently) adolescent William Somerset Maugham continued to run his mouth.

"Oh, come on! Isn't that why we're all still here? To make money!"

"W-Well, that's true, but—"

"But still, show some respect to the seniors!"

Hmm. To be honest, I think I get why he's like this.

Though they would become big names in the future, these young men were still just starting out—newly acquainted with the harsh realities of society.

Maybe it's because of what happened recently? They seemed a bit more self-conscious, their confidence slightly shaken.

It had been a bumpy road.

And yet, even in such circumstances, Maugham, with his head held high, expressed his opinion firmly, looking rather tough.

Well, this is the same man who later said, "For my soul's sake, I find it good to do at least two things I hate every day." So, I guess it's not all that surprising.

But.

"His eyes are darting a bit—it seems there's some underlying anxiety," Arthur noted.

"I heard he lost his parents young and was raised by his uncle," I replied.

"Ah, I see."

But in the end, he's still just a rookie. Anyway, I think I can guess what's driving his question.

Maugham's ultimate goal is to succeed quickly and gain independence, rather than continue living under the care of a distant uncle. And that independence hinges on "financial success." London's property market isn't exactly forgiving.

And right now, the writers in Britain closest to that goal are… well, naturally, Arthur and me.

Wait, we're both standing right here, aren't we? There's no way he's not going to ask… That's probably what this is about.

Well, it's not like I can't answer him.

"There's nothing wrong with making money your goal," I said, my voice calm but a little louder than usual.

Both of the younger writers stopped trying to restrain Maugham, and I addressed them now that the room had fallen silent.

"After all, we're human. We need to eat and survive, don't we?"

"But, sir, shouldn't a writer aim to create works that will be remembered by history?"

"Well, some people do aim for that," I said with a chuckle, casting a quick glance at Arthur.

He used to talk about wanting to write works that would stand the test of time. Noticing my look, he awkwardly averted his gaze.

"But for now, isn't it the reality that matters?" I continued.

"Reality…"

"Mr. David Lindsay. If you write something that goes down in history, people in future generations will speak your name. But if you ignore the present, even your own family won't mention it."

Ultimately, the choice is yours.

I shrugged as I said this.

Neither path is inherently wrong. It's just a matter of which one you choose.

David Lindsay seemed to take my words to heart, falling silent.

Meanwhile, Walter, standing next to him, nodded slightly, as if understanding.

Well, he'd once dreamed of being a writer but had joined an oil company to support his family. Or was it that he'd been fired?

And then.

"I don't care about any of that."

Our rebel, Somerset Maugham, stood defiantly, radiating an air of "I'll say what I want, regardless of what you think."

"So, sir, tell me. How do I write something that sells?"

"Well, Mr. Maugham?"

I called out his name, still finding it odd no matter how many times I said it.

"There are three things I can tell you."

"And what are they?"

"First of all, we don't know what kind of writing sells."

I answered plainly. Arthur Conan Doyle, too, nodded softly in agreement.

The three future literary giants—though, right now, just amateurs—stared at us blankly.

"Uh… does that even make sense?"

"It does."

I smiled and gestured to the side.

"First, let's start with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle here. He just writes what he wants to write. Isn't that right?"

"Well, you're not wrong," Arthur Conan Doyle nodded.

If he weren't that type, he wouldn't have dropped Sherlock Holmes just because he got tired of writing him. Not to mention, his later historical novels completely flopped.

If he knew what kind of writing sells, would that have happened? And more importantly:

"If someone knew for sure what would sell, they'd be a god."

That's an arrogant statement, though. No matter how good someone is, no one can say that with confidence. If someone could, they'd either be incredibly gifted, as if touched by the divine, or a con artist who believes their lies.

So.

"I write what I think the public *might* want to read."

"... Isn't that the same thing?"

"No, there's a clear difference."

There are two paths to success.

One is insisting, "Your tastes are lame! Shut up and read my work!" and sticking firmly to one's style, which might end up perfectly capturing the spirit of the times.

The other is studying clichés, structures, and memes, thoroughly researching what the public wants, and delivering just that.

Me? I'm obviously the latter.

Although people now seem to think I belong in the former category… all I did was blend in modern clichés that didn't exist in the 19th century. Had this been the modern era, I wouldn't have succeeded nearly as much.

Both paths are difficult, and both are valid.

But if your goal is 'financial success,' the latter is naturally the better route. As I mentioned earlier, "commercial appeal" is the hallmark of popular literature, and the 21st century is the era of the masses.

However, we're still in the late 19th century, on the cusp of the 20th. The concept of "the masses" isn't fully mature yet.

Readers are still figuring out their tastes, so unconventional ideas sometimes work, and there's a lingering admiration for high-quality writing.

Take James Joyce, for example. His *Ulysses*, a literary masterpiece—if anyone's managed to finish that book, I'd not just bow but kneel before them in respect.

It's so difficult to read that people need dissertations to interpret it, yet it has a strange allure that continues to draw readers in.

"Second, in my country, we have a saying: 'Do your best, leave the rest to fate,' and 'Luck is 70%, effort is 30%.'"

This can be interpreted to mean that even if 70% of success comes down to luck, you still need at least 30% effort and skill to seize that opportunity. Of course, that's not wrong.

But in the world of the arts… it goes more like this:

No matter how hard you work or how skilled you are, it only accounts for 30% of your success.

The other 70% is sheer luck.

"No matter how well you write, some people will always go unnoticed. You know *Wuthering Heights* by Emily Brontë, right?"

"Yes, I'm personally a huge fan of it."

"What? No, never heard of it."

"Is that even a real book?"

Somerset Maugham looked bewildered, glancing at David Lindsay and Walter de la Mare.

He had the look of someone thinking, *How can you call yourselves aspiring writers and not know this masterpiece?!*

Well, I suppose it's understandable. That book wouldn't be re-evaluated until the 20th century—and by none other than the man standing before us, Somerset Maugham himself.

"Well, that's how it goes."

I shrugged.

The belief that quality work will always be recognized is the delusion of idealists or those who've had the fortune of self-made success.

You know, like how the muscular Terminator-turned-governor once said that he didn't believe in being self-made; his success was built on the dedication, effort, and faith of the people around him.

"In most cases, especially in the arts, no matter how great a work is, if it isn't effectively promoted, it won't be acknowledged."

"...So, is that why you ran those ads?"

"Ads? Oh, those…"

I nodded reluctantly.

That wasn't really my doing, though. It was an early advertisement from Bentley Publishers, something along the lines of, "The mystery of the fairy (novel), finally revealed!" or "See the legendary fairy (novel) with your own eyes!"—which, to be honest, bordered on false advertising.

And as I mentioned before, Britain at the time was obsessed with fairies.

That ad naturally blended into the hype, good reviews spread, and thus, the early popularity of *Peter Perry* was solidified.

"Well, yes, that's one way to do it. There's even a saying in my country: 'Get famous first. After that, even if you mess up, people will applaud you.'"

"Indeed, I see…"

Somerset Maugham nodded thoughtfully, lowering his head for a moment.

Hmm. Seeing him like this makes me wonder—am I raising the next Goebbels here?

It's not like it's impossible. After all, once he debuted, Somerset Maugham famously put out an ad pretending to be rich and asking, "Is there a beauty like the one in Somerset Maugham's novel?" just to sell out his book when it wasn't doing well.

"Of course, none of this matters if your writing itself lacks appeal."

So I hastily added:

This brings us back to the saying, "Luck is 70%, effort is 30%." This kind of 'marketing' falls under the 70% luck category. Without the 30%—meaning the quality of the writing itself—it ultimately cannot succeed.

"By appeal, I don't necessarily mean artistic merit. Commercial viability, mass appeal. If you want to talk about the appeal as a 'work of art,' that's one thing. But it also needs to have appeal as a 'product.'"

"Then, sir, how does one create that kind of product appeal?"

"That brings us to the third point."

A very sharp question. Ten points to David Lindsay.

"Appeal, in the end, is the reason someone picks up a book."

"A reason, you say."

"Yes. So to understand that you need to read as many books as possible, analyze them, and—most importantly—write as much as you can."

Arthur Conan Doyle nodded beside me. As I mentioned, this man is truly an avid reader.

And so am I. Classic literature, literary fiction, genre fiction, and modern web novels. I may not have read everything, but I can confidently say I've read more than most.

Of course, reading alone isn't enough.

You also need to absorb it into your style. The process of understanding, deconstructing, and reconstructing isn't limited to alchemy.

It's a pity. If this were the modern day, you could just watch films—the distilled essence of all these forms of culture.

What are the Lumière brothers up to, anyway? They should hurry up and get the cinema craze going, and develop film technology already.

Well, in any case.

"Read a lot, think hard about it, and crash into it head-on. Don't worry. At least here, there are plenty of people willing to let you do just that."

So hurry up and grow.

I smiled, filled with anticipation for the future popular literature market these three would soon lead.

The three of them, each with a different expression, were deep in thought, clearly pondering my words.

Now, since I've laid the groundwork...

"Well then, I have a proposal for you all. Would any of you be interested in a job where you can read a lot of books and earn some money while doing it?"

"Huh? Is there such a job?"

"Yes, let me introduce you to one."

Got that, Mr. Bentley?

New recruits incoming.

< Promising Talent (2) > End.