The Complete Edition of 'The 18-Year-Old Novelist Exploring the note Algorithm'

Synopsis

In the spring of my 18th year, I started writing stories on note simply because I wanted to write. It wasn't about becoming a novelist or getting selected for a public contest. But even after writing, I received no 'likes.' My views didn't grow. I didn't know if I was reaching any readers. Carrying that anxiety, I kept writing for four years.

I explored the note algorithm, changed titles, shortened openings, and reviewed tags. There was a 'formula' for being read, but I couldn't find the balance with my own voice. Still, a comment from just one reader kept me going: 'It was painful to read. But I read it to the end. I felt that this kind of emotion exists.'

I created a collaborative magazine, built a closed space through memberships, and published a book. I challenged myself with public contests and was rejected. But even after rejection, there was something that didn't disappear.

This work is a record of those four years—facing the anxiety of writing without being read and exploring the algorithm, yet continuing to write regardless. I don't write for public contests; public contests exist for the sake of writing. Continuing to write while carrying that anxiety—that was the only thing that truly mattered.

'A World That Is Not Shared'

I began writing novels in the spring of my eighteenth year.

Three months.
I didn't think that something would change in just three months. But I also hadn't expected that nothing changing would be so soul-crushing.

The articles I posted received no 'likes.'
My views didn't grow.
The numbers were always quiet. As if what I had written had never existed there in the first place.

Every night, I clutch my smartphone in bed. Watching someone else's work gain traction, I wonder why that one is read and this one is not.

Is the title bad?
Is the opening weak?
Are the tags off?
Is the update time wrong?
Or is my writing itself not needed by anyone from the start?

I don't know.
Not knowing, I write the next one anyway.

'I wish I could become a more wonderful version of myself'

Every time I write, those words cross my mind. Not just about my writing. I wish I could become something more readable as a person, too.

But, perhaps that's wrong.
I don't want to become a 'wonderful version of myself.'
I just want to become someone who can be found.

When morning comes, the timeline wears a different face than yesterday. Someone's personal story, someone's creative work, someone's worries, someone's success. Even though there are countless things flowing by, each one is swimming in a sea slightly different from my own world.

Even though we should be under the same sky,
even though we should be living in the same town,
no one is looking at the same thing.

In the past, everyone watched the same programs, laughed at the same scenes, and talked about them the next day. It seems there was something we could share naturally like that. But now, even if I ask, 'Did you see that?', the reply I get is either that they don't know it, or even if they did watch it, they saw it from a completely different perspective.

A world that is not shared.

I am writing a novel within it.

Is it the fear of not being read,
the fear of not reaching anyone,
or is it the fear that I am the only one misinterpreting something?

Probably all of it.

Even so, I open the posting screen again. Because I want to believe that there is still someone on the other side of the numbers. Because I want to believe that there is at least one person who will find my writing.

I didn't want to know about the algorithm to gain an advantage.

I wanted to know how to reach people. How I could move a little closer to the center of this world, rather than staying at the edges.

But the more I researched, the more I realized it wasn't just the mechanics that were visible. People only see what they want to see. They chase similar things, gather around similar things, and quietly lose sight of what is different.

That isn't just about note.
I felt like this town itself had already become that way.

I breathe, alone, in the light of the screen.

I can still write.
It's not over yet.

If I don't think that, I will probably fade away, my own outline blurring into nothingness.

So I write again today.
Not to be read, not to prove anything,
but to believe that somewhere in this world, there is someone else who, like me, carries the 'pain of not being found'.

'The Format of Being Seen'

First, I gathered articles that were performing well.

Time of day. Title length. First-person or second-person. Personal experience or analysis. Whether the conclusion is at the beginning. Number of tags. Presence of images. Frequency of updates.

As I wrote them down in my notebook, a kind of rule that couldn't be dismissed as 'coincidence' began to faintly emerge.

Articles that get read have a face for being read.

That was a little scary.

I had always thought that writing was defined by its content. But reality was more complex and colder. Content alone isn't enough to reach people. You need a form to reach them.

So I experimented.

I changed the title. I shortened the opening. I used more hiragana. I added more line breaks. I reviewed the tags. I imitated phrasing that seemed likely to get a good reaction, to the point where I felt a little embarrassed myself.

Even so, the numbers didn't move right away.

Every time I posted, I stared at the screen for hours, or sometimes a whole day. It was as if I were waiting for someone's reply. But all that came back was the same quiet view count as always.

At night, I kept searching alone.
'Note titles that grow'
'Note algorithm'
'Articles that get read'
Every time I typed those words, the same kinds of answers lined up.

Make it easy to understand. Hook them in the first few lines. Clarify who the writing is for. Make sure something remains after reading.

It's correct. Probably, it's all correct.

But within that "correctness," I found it harder and harder to breathe.

What I want to write, and what gets read. Why are those two things so far apart?

There is someone on the other side of the screen. But that someone isn't guaranteed to read my writing to the end. They might leave after the first line, or they might just look at the title and pass by.

Thinking about it that way, I felt a little powerless against the world.

'What is the algorithm actually looking at, anyway?'

When I muttered that, only my own voice remained in the room.

Number of views. Where they stopped. The percentage read. Who, where, and how much they dropped off. Surely the machine is looking at things like that. It isn't looking at human feelings directly. And yet, the things we write change their shape toward that invisible something.

It was just like the atmosphere of a town.

Everyone changes their words little by little to match someone else. So as not to break the mood. So as not to cause discomfort. So as not to be disliked.

I suddenly thought.

Is this really just about Note?

Maybe we've been doing this all along, for a long time. Adjusting ourselves little by little to be seen. Shaving off our true feelings little by little to be read. The closer we get to a common correct answer, the more our sense of security grows. But at the same time, something is quietly being lost.

I closed my notebook.

Only the analysis I wrote down remains on the desk. But those strings of text didn't make me feel even a little bit at ease.

There is definitely a format that gets views. Perhaps that is what I need right now.

Even so—

Every time I fit into that mold, I feel like I lose a little bit of my own outline.

How should I write the next post? Do I write to be read? Or do I write so I don't lose myself?

I still don't know the answer to that.

Beyond the First Line

At first, the numbers moved just a little.

I was surprised by that. Even with the slightest reaction, people easily find hope. Just one 'like.' Just a few extra views. That alone made the depression I felt until yesterday seem a little bit rewarded.

Just like last time, I shortened the title. I put the conclusion at the beginning. I made the first-person perspective clear. I made sure the situation was understandable in the first few lines. Prioritizing readability, I lowered the temperature of the prose a little.

Then, it was certainly viewed more than before.

However, it was too small to call it growth. What I wanted wasn't just a slight improvement, but the certain realization that I had reached someone.

So I explored a little more. I looked at people who were growing more. Their articles were easy to understand. They draw you in with the first line and have a flow that makes you read to the end. There is a problem, an answer, an experience, and an aftertaste. All of them were made to be 'read' properly.

I forced my writing into that mold.

Then, the reaction increased a little more again.

I thought, 'I found it.' This will work. Maybe I finally learned how to survive here.

But the next moment, a strange sense of discomfort remained.

Even though it was writing I was supposed to have written, it sounded like someone else's voice somewhere. It is certainly polished. It is certainly easy to read. But it lacked the tremor I had before.

What was I writing?

Every time I put it into a mold to be read, the writing becomes a little cleaner. But the cleaner it gets, the more something I wanted to write at the beginning fades away somewhere.

There is definitely someone on the other side of the screen. Reaching that someone is surely important. That is not wrong.

However, I felt that as I learned how to reach people, I was losing something else. My own way of writing. My own breath. The pain I truly wanted to show.

At night, I looked out the window. Bright rooms were lined up just like mine. In each one, someone was looking at a different screen. Following a different flow, bathed in different words, and touching a different truth.

Even though we are in the same town, no one is in the same place.

That feeling was the same within note. Everyone, while gradually donning a shape meant to be seen, scatters into places that look similar but are different.

I suddenly thought.

If I only chased after being read, how far could I really change myself? And who would be left at the end of that?

On my desk, there were three drafts. Each one had a shape that looked like it could grow a little. But none of them were finished within me yet.

I closed my laptop. In the quiet room, I could only hear my own breath.

Beyond the first line, there is a reader. But the reader on the other side probably doesn't want all of me. They gently take only the easy-to-read parts.

Should I still write? Or should I hold onto something that remains unreceived until the very end?

I still cannot decide.

However, there is one thing I have realized.

I can write to be found. But writing so as not to lose myself is much harder.

'The Place It Should Have Reached'

That post had the most response yet.

It wasn't that notifications rang repeatedly. It didn't grow explosively either. Even so, I couldn't move for a while, just staring at the screen.

It certainly reached someone. It certainly touched someone's eyes. It certainly made more people stop in front of my writing than before.

I was happy. I should have been happy, but another emotion remained deep in my chest.

I'm scared.

Why am I scared?

Before, I was just afraid of not being found. I was afraid of not being read. So, reaching people was supposed to be my salvation.

However, once I actually reached them, a different kind of anxiety emerged. Was this reaction directed at my writing itself? Or was it merely the result of tailoring my work to a format that is easy to read?

It shouldn't matter which one it is, but I find myself strangely concerned about it.

The next day, I looked at other people's posts. The articles that were trending were, as expected, trending. Similar themes, similar openings, similar vibes. They are different, yet somehow similar. It was as if they were all flowing toward a single correct answer.

I placed my own writing into that flow. And sure enough, I got a reaction. A little bit, at least.

But that was when I realized it for the first time.

"Reaching" someone does not necessarily mean being "understood" by them.

People receive what is easy to read. They choose what is easy to see. They gravitate toward what is easy to empathize with. On the other hand, things that are slightly challenging, things that require a bit of explanation, or things that are a little bit troublesome are quietly passed by.

I have seen that quiet passing-by many times.

It wasn't just a story within Note. It's the same in town. It's the same in the classroom. It's the same in the atmosphere of a group. Just by being a little different, people keep their distance. Just by not sharing the same topic, you are pushed outside the circle. It's not so much that someone hates someone else, but rather that they just naturally remove them from their field of vision.

That way of doing things was far too quiet.
And that is precisely why it was cruel.

I sat on the edge of my bed and turned my smartphone face down.

Underneath the trending post, there were several comments. Some saying they had read it. Some leaving behind their empathy. Short words that didn't quite amount to a review.

I'm happy. I really am happy. But as I looked at each one, I began to lose track of where I was standing.

I was writing to reach someone. That is not a lie.

However, standing in the place I had reached, it felt more ambiguous than I had imagined. It felt like I was being welcomed, yet tested. It felt like I had been found, yet also chosen.

This feeling was a little similar to how a minority might appear to be accepted by chance, but in reality, they are only tolerated within a "convenient range."

I thought to myself while staring at the light from the screen.

Did I really want to reach people?
Or was I just afraid of being abandoned?

There is no answer. But the questions just keep on growing.

That night, I opened my drafts again. Some pieces had gained traction, others hadn't. Both were mine. Both, perhaps, were created by whittling myself away, bit by bit.

Standing in the place I was supposed to have reached, I was still alone.

And that feeling of being alone was the contour of myself I knew best.

The Shape of What I Want to Write

I almost deleted one of my posts.

I kept my finger over the delete button, pausing again and again. That piece had a shape that seemed more likely to gain traction than the others. It was easy to read, easy to understand, and had a well-crafted hook. Perhaps it would get a little bit of a reaction again.

But for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to hit send. It was well-written. Perhaps better than the old me. Yet, something felt empty. It was a quieter sense of discomfort than the pain of not being read.

I want to be read. But when I write only to be read, I gradually forget what it was I wanted to convey.

I slumped over my desk and let out a long breath. It had been three months since I started writing novels at eighteen. In that short time, I had tried many shapes. Shapes that gain traction. Shapes that stall. Shapes that are easy to empathize with. Shapes that are easy to find in searches. Each one had changed my writing, little by little.

Perhaps changing itself isn't a bad thing. In fact, it's necessary if you want to keep writing. But I was afraid of how much of myself would remain after those changes.

I opened my smartphone. Countless pieces of writing were flowing through my timeline again today. Someone's success. Someone's failure. Someone's analysis. Someone's emotions. All of them seemed to be running just a little bit ahead of me.

I think again. I want to know the note algorithm. I want to know how to reach people, how to get read. That hasn't changed. But what I really want to know is probably something else.

When I change my shape to be read, can I still remain myself?

That question had been stuck deep in my chest for a long time.

I opened my draft. What was written there wasn't a flashy introduction or a sharp argument. It was just a story about a girl who, without ever being found by anyone, whittled herself away.

It was too similar to who I am right now.

I don't know if it will be read. Honestly, it probably isn't very strong. But I couldn't delete that piece.

It doesn't have to be good. It doesn't have to gain traction. At the very least, I will write what I am truly seeing.

Polishing my work to reach someone and keeping it intact so I don't break—I still wanted to believe that those two things could coexist.

As I typed in a new title, the corners of my mouth softened just a little. I need an entrance to be found. But if I start tailoring what lies beyond that to suit someone else's expectations, I won't be able to write anything at all anymore.

So next, I will write. I will do it so that the me who wants to be read and the me who wants to write can sit at the same desk together.

It is okay if I don't find the answer right away. I can just look for a compromise little by little.

I stop in front of the post button. And this time, I didn't run away; I pressed it.

I don't know if it will reach anyone.
But these were, without a doubt, my own words.

'Words That Cannot Be Found'

That post was surprisingly quiet.

I was a little prepared for it. It might be read even less than before. It might not grow as much as it looks like it should. But I posted it thinking that was fine.

The result was even less than I had expected.

There were few notifications. There was little reaction. The screen maintained the same silence as always.

However, strangely enough, this time I wasn't as hurt as before.

I sat in my chair and stared at those numbers for a while. And then, a little late, I realized something.

This piece of writing is probably hard to read. But while I was writing this post, I felt closer to myself than usual.

When you worry too much about whether you are getting through to someone, your words gradually drift outward. Explanations increase, the edges get rounded off, and in the name of readability, what you really wanted to say gets diluted little by little.

But this time it was different. I didn't try to write well. At the very least, I didn't make catering to someone else my top priority.

That is probably why this post was so quiet.

It looks like a failure. Objectively, it probably is a failure.

But I felt a strange sense of accomplishment within that failure.

Words that cannot be found. Words that are not read. Words that are picked up by no one and sink into the depths of the screen.

Before, I would have thought of that as just a defeat. But now, it is a little different. Because they cannot be found, there is a part of them that remains unpolished. The heat that wasn't worn away by trying too hard to deliver it still remains, just a little.

I turned my smartphone face down and looked at the ceiling.

Exploring the note algorithm is certainly meaningful. Knowing the mechanics of how to get read is certainly necessary. I no longer deny that.

But at the same time, I had begun to realize something. Knowing the mechanics and protecting one's own words are not the same thing. With only one or the other, I probably wouldn't be able to keep writing.

In the outside world, everyone is following their own separate currents. Inside our smartphones, there are countless oceans, and everyone is riding their own wave. Because of this, common topics are decreasing, and the entry points for conversation are becoming narrower. People get used to that narrowness before they even realize it.

But I still couldn't quite get used to it.

Ending without being known. Remaining without being understood. Staying right there without growing. All of that is a little scary, and a little dear to me.

I opened my draft folder once more. In it, many unfinished words lay dormant. Each one was half-baked, each one was clumsy, and each one looked a little like me.

'It's okay if the words aren't found.'

When I said it out loud, it was weaker than I had imagined. But I realized I had no choice but to carry that weakness with me.

It's not just the words that reach someone that are strong.
Even if they aren't found by anyone, there are words that support oneself.

I was finally beginning to believe that.

'The more I try, the further away it gets.'

I began an experiment.

I wanted to know what kind of words exist between writing completely to be read and writing completely for oneself.

For one, I polish the title. I draw the reader in with the first line. Keep it short, easy to understand, and add a little emotion. For the other, I reduce the explanations. Without worrying too much about whether it will be read, I write my own raw feelings just as they are.

I lined up two ways of writing on the same theme.

The results were more cruel than I had thought. The polished one, as expected, had a little bit of a reaction. A quiet growth. A certain, slight increase. The numbers were indeed there. On the other hand, the other one remained submerged. There was hardly even a sign that it had touched anyone's eyes. It was just left behind on the screen.

Watching that difference, I realized something. There is a reason why certain writing gets read. Because there is a reason, there are results. But the more carefully I picked up those reasons, the more I felt I was drifting away from my own center, little by little.

For example, shorter words are easier to read. For example, it's harder for readers to leave if the conclusion comes first. For example, it's easier to empathize when emotions are visible. All of that is probably true. Yet, every time I learn that, I feel a little more pained.

Why is that?

Perhaps it's because I didn't want an answer, but rather thought I could feel at ease if I had the 'correct' answer. If I follow the correct path, I can reduce failure. If I reduce failure, I can have a little more confidence. That's what I thought.

But in reality, it was different. The closer I got to the 'correct' answer, the easier my writing became to read. At the same time, my own personal touch grew thinner. That was what scared me the most.

At night, I compared the two posts. Both were written by me. But the one that got read was only 'like me' in some way, not entirely me. Conversely, the one that didn't get read was clumsy, unstable, and sank without being touched by anyone.

No matter which one I choose, I lose something. If that's the case, what should I do?

I stared at the screen for a while. The light from my smartphone was white, illuminating the room coldly. Countless sentences flowed there, countless reactions were born, and countless differences were piling up.

Everyone is surely trying something. To reach someone's gaze. To confirm their own existence. Today, too, they are adjusting themselves just a little bit.

That scene suddenly felt far away.

I was supposed to love writing. But now, every time I write, I don't know where I'm heading. Every time I try something, I see something. But at the same time, the outlines that should have been visible are gradually blurring.

How much am I allowed to change? From what point on should I not change? That boundary is written nowhere. So, I have no choice but to decide for myself.

I will make efforts to be read. But I won't give everything away. I will look for a form that grows. But I won't throw away the core of what I want to write.

I am desperately learning such an obvious thing now.

Every time I try, I drift further away. Even so, I still try. Even if there is no answer, I felt that the reason for my writing now exists only within this back-and-forth.

'In order not to lose the temperature'

I gradually returned to my way of writing.

Returning, I say, but it doesn't mean going back to how it was. The readability I once learned won't disappear. The way to reach people I once knew cannot be undone.

Even so, I wanted to regain the temperature of my writing.

When you only think about catering to others, your words quickly become thin. Pretty, orderly, safe, but somehow cold. Perhaps I should have noticed that coldness a little sooner.

So, this time, I wrote about myself being a little lost. I wrote about myself being a little scared. I wrote about myself being a little afraid of not being found by anyone.

Then, strangely enough, the writing began to breathe a little.

When you try to make things look good, the heat escapes. But if you throw away the form for showing it too much, it won't reach anyone. Somewhere in between, there is a place like a narrow bridge.

I am probably looking for that.

I can no longer completely stop investigating the note algorithm. Now that I know about it, the habit of looking at numbers and tracking reactions will likely remain. But now, I am starting to feel, little by little, that those things are not everything.

Being read is certainly a joy. But if I feel empty inside after being read, then something is wrong.

I stared at the screen for a while before posting. The title is a little more modest than before. For the first sentence, I prioritized warmth over explanation. I also kept the tags within a range that suits me now—not too broad, not too narrow.

I don't know if this will gain traction or not. I will probably feel a little shaken again. But I am not as afraid as I was before.

Because now, I know a little bit about what I want to protect.

It is not the numbers, nor the connections, but first and foremost, I want to protect the heat I feel when I write. If that is lost, even if it reaches many people, I probably won't be able to be happy.

I place my finger over the post button. And then, I let out a breath.

I write to be found.
But I also write so as not to lose myself.

I felt like I could finally place those two things on the same desk.

The post was sent. The screen closes quietly.

Whatever the result, this is fine for today.
At the very least, I did not discard my own temperature.

'Only one person read it'

That morning, I woke up a little earlier than usual. I knew the reason. It was because the piece I posted yesterday was still lingering in my mind.

Usually, by morning, I would have cooled down a bit. But this time, for some reason, a small warmth remained deep in my chest.

I open the notifications. At first, it was the same silence as always. But among them, there was one unfamiliar message. It wasn't a long comment. It wasn't a passionate review. Just a few lines. But those few lines were more than enough for me right now.

'Reading this was a little painful.
But I read it to the end without stopping.
I felt that these kinds of feelings exist.'

I couldn't move for a while, just staring at the screen.

Only one person. Only one single person read it. And yet, why am I so happy? In terms of numbers, I have seen bigger reactions. There have been posts that gained more traction. But I have never felt my heart shaken like this before.

Perhaps I didn't want the numbers. I wanted the realization that someone was actually breathing on the other side while reading it.

I read the comment over and over again. 'Painful,' 'read to the end without stopping,' 'I felt these kinds of feelings exist'—in those short words, I felt as if my writing had touched someone's body temperature for the first time.

And then, I realize. While I was exploring the note algorithm, I had been looking only at "ways to reach people." But what I really wanted was for someone to stop and stay once they arrived.

That is not the same thing. They are similar, but they are not exactly the same.

Reaching people is just the entrance. Having them stop. Having them read. Having them feel something there. I realized that this is finally the moment when writing truly lives as writing.

I sent a short reply to the person who wrote that comment. Just doing that made me feel like I might cry a little.

In this world, everyone is swimming in different seas. And yet, there are people who will sink to the same depth as you for just a brief moment. I never thought that could be such a salvation.

Of course, just because one person read it this time doesn't mean everything has changed. There will be days when it isn't read again. There will be nights when I feel down about the numbers again.

Even so, today is different. For the first time, I felt like I understood the meaning of being found. And I learned that writing to be found and writing to remain in someone's heart overlap just a little bit.

Outside the window, the sky still has the color of morning. I put down my smartphone and opened my notebook. The next thing I write might not be read either. But I felt like that was okay, too.

One person read it.
That fact is supporting me today.

The Person Beyond the Algorithm

One person read it. That fact was bigger than I had imagined.

Just one person. But because of that one person, there is something I finally realized.

I had never tried to look beyond the numbers. Being seen. Growing. Reaching. In my pursuit of those three things, I had lost sight of "what remains after reading."

However, the moment I read that short comment, I understood. Reaching people is only the entrance. What is truly important is that someone stops there.

That is not just a story within note. It is surely the same in this town, in the classroom, and on social media. People are always swept away by what is easy to see. They gather toward things that are easy to understand, things that are hard to get hurt by, and things that are easy to react to. In that flow, things that catch on just a little are quietly lost.

I had always accepted that quiet way of being lost as "my own lack of talent." But in truth, that might not have been the case. I just didn't know how to reach people yet. I just hadn't yet managed to build a bridge between the form for being read and the core for protecting myself.

I open my notebook. The trial and error I have written down so far is lined up. Forms that grow. Forms that sink. Forms that were read a little. Forms that no one touched. All of it looked a little different now. The records I thought were just failures, when viewed from a different perspective, were all "traces of searching for whether I could reach people."

I create a new draft. This time, I won't ignore how easy it is to read. But I won't entrust everything to the numbers either. I will prepare the entrance. But I won't trim away the heat inside.

I thought that was the most correct way of writing I could do right now.

At the edge of the screen, yesterday's comment remains. Just one person read it. That one person taught me that there is indeed a person on the other side of my writing.

Beyond the algorithm, there are no cold numbers. On the other side, there is someone who is lost, pausing, and trying to receive something.

I have finally come to believe that.

So, what I write next will not just be for the sake of being seen by someone, but written so that it can be properly handed to the one person on the other side.

I place my fingers on the keyboard.
It is not over yet.
In fact, it starts here.

'The person who was a little ahead'

It was in the middle of the night when I read that person's article.

I couldn't sleep and was just staring at the screen when I happened to find it. The title wasn't flashy. But the moment I opened it, there was a strangely quiet gravitational pull.

It was written by a twenty-year-old university student. It was their second year on note. Their profile didn't have a long list of achievements or flashy titles. Yet, as I read to the end, I stopped many times.

What was written there was the same kind of pain I had been carrying for a long time. Not getting likes. Views not increasing. Feeling like no one is reading. Not knowing the meaning of continuing to write.

The difference was that this person was no longer talking about it as a 'current struggle,' but as a 'path they had already traveled.'

I couldn't close the screen for a while.

This person was the same. Just like me, they were hurt by the lack of response and doubted the meaning of their writing many times. But they didn't quit. They weren't completely saved, nor had they overcome everything. They just hadn't stayed submerged in the middle of their worries; they had moved forward just a little bit.

That fact was dazzling to me.

The next morning, I read their article again. I saw details I hadn't noticed yesterday. Words that weren't putting on a brave face. A writing style that wasn't forced to be too polished. A warmth that wasn't written just to gain traction, but hadn't given up on being read.

I caught my breath a little at that warmth.

What I had been looking for all along wasn't the words of a successful person. It wasn't the answer from someone who had been doing well from the start. It was the quiet record of someone who had struggled in the same place and yet was standing just a little bit ahead.

'How did they get that far?'

I found myself whispering that.

It didn't feel like they were above me. Rather, it felt like I was looking at myself in the near future. If I keep going like this, will I eventually reach this way of writing? Just being able to think that made the knot deep in my chest loosen a little.

At the end of the article, that person wrote this.

Even during the times when I wasn't read, there were things that truly remained.

I read that sentence over and over again. Things that remained. Things that don't show up in numbers, but certainly accumulated within me. That person knew that even in the time that seemed like nothing but failure, something had remained.

Suddenly, I wanted to write down everything I had done so far. The posts that didn't gain traction. The writing I did while feeling lost. The pain of trying to fit into a mold. The one comment from a single reader. I wanted to look back at all of it, not just as results, but as part of the journey.

I might be able to talk to this person. The moment I thought that, I felt a little bit of courage.

Someone who had moved past the same struggle. But they weren't a winner. They weren't someone who had made their worries disappear. They were someone who had found a different way to stand while still carrying their worries.

I opened the comment section to write a reply to that person. I hadn't decided what to write yet. But perhaps this would be the beginning.

In the silence of the night, I looked forward just a little bit. To the person on the other side of the screen, who was a little further ahead. That person surely wasn't writing to leave me behind. They were there so that I could take my next step.

Beyond the comment section

I wrote and deleted it many times.

Hello, I read your post. I was struggling with similar things, so it really stayed with me. I especially liked the words, 'Even during the times when I wasn't read, there were things that truly remained.'

Everything seemed cliché. But cliché words are the hardest to use at times like this. If I decorate them too much, they become thin, and if I'm too honest, they seem light. I wavered between the two for a while.

In the end, I sent a short message.

I read your post. I am currently struggling with the same thing. As words from someone a little further ahead, it was very saving.

After I pressed the send button, my hands were shaking a little. A reply might never come. The other person might not even notice my comment. But I felt there was meaning in having sent it anyway.

A few hours later, a notification arrived. I opened the screen without thinking. There was a reply that was neither too long nor too short, just right.

Thank you for reading. If you are struggling with the same thing, that is enough. Rather than having moved past it, there are days when I am still in the same place. But I haven't stopped writing.

When I saw that sentence, I closed my eyes quietly.

They weren't someone who had moved past it. They weren't someone who had completely moved forward either. Even so, that person was just a little bit ahead of me.

There are days when I am in the same place. But I haven't stopped writing. Those words remained in my heart in a strange way.

I had always imagined someone who was completely free from their worries. That's why I felt miserable comparing myself to them. But in reality, it might be different. People don't move forward by making their worries disappear. They change their stance little by little while still carrying their worries. Along the way, their words change, their writing changes, and the scenery they see changes.

For the first time, I truly realized that.

That night, we exchanged a few messages. When we find ourselves unable to write. How we keep posting. How we accept the times when we aren't read. The conversation wasn't anything grand. But every single word definitely resonated within me.

That person wasn't trying to teach me anything. It was as if they were simply offering up the path they had walked themselves.

I felt the person on the other side of the screen a little closer. A reader. A writer. And someone a little further ahead. That distance felt much warmer than I had imagined.

Beyond the comment section, for the first time, I felt like I was standing on the same level as someone else.

Before that feeling faded, I opened my notebook. Not to show anyone this time, but to preserve the feeling of this night.

There are still things I want to write.
And I feel like it's okay to write them.
That alone was enough for today.

'A Place for the Two of Us to Put Things'

We didn't start anything right away.

First, we just talked. What we were writing now. What we were struggling with. Where we would get stuck. What we were looking at, and what we were trying not to see.

The exchange through the screen was quiet, but strangely, it never broke off. Conversations between those who know similar pain don't need to rush explanations. Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, the other person already understands.

She was a twenty-year-old university student. It was her second year on note. Like me, she had apparently struggled with the lack of engagement at first. But now, she was standing in a slightly different place.

'If you chase being read too much, the reason for writing disappears, you know.'

When I saw that sentence, I laughed a little. It was as if she had known me for a long time.

The conversation about creating a collaborative magazine happened shortly after that.

At first, it was like a lighthearted joke. 'It might be interesting to compile it like a series for people with the same worries'—I think that's how it was phrased. But as we talked, it stopped being a joke.

She can write about algorithms. I can write about the pain of just having started. She has a perspective from a little further ahead. I have the raw, still-wavering sensations. If that's the case, isn't there a place the two of us can put things?

We listed a few tentative titles for the magazine. 'Records of Days Unread,' 'Outside the Algorithm,' 'A Place Where One Reader Exists,' 'Things That Remain Without Reaching'—none of them were bad, but the night grew late without us being able to decide.

That was when she said, quite casually,

'How about, "A Place to Put Things"?'

I couldn't react to those words for a while. A place to put them. It wasn't flashy. But it felt strangely right. Words written while trembling over whether they would be read. Emotions released while thinking they wouldn't reach anyone. A place where I could just put all of that, without forcing it to be decorated.

The first post was published much more quietly than I had imagined. I checked it over and over again. The title. The opening. The line breaks. How it looked next to the other person's writing.

It seemed she felt the same way. The confirmation message she sent had only a short sentence added to it.

Let's put it out like this.

That was all. But that one sentence had a weight that wasn't there when I posted alone. Putting not just my own writing, but someone else's out into the world together. The responsibility was greater than I had imagined.

For a while after publishing, nothing happened. The views increased slowly. The likes, too, came in little by little. But what mattered wasn't the numbers themselves. What I was watching was the comment section.

It's interesting how the two perspectives are different. There's something that stays with you when you read them side-by-side, not just one or the other.

Seeing those words, I realized for the first time that the meaning of creating something together existed outside of the numbers.

When writing alone, I was always afraid of whether my words would reach anyone. But when we put them together, that fear changed just a little. I became able to think not just about whether they would reach, but how they would remain.

Her writing was, as expected, different from mine. Her observation of the algorithm was sharp. But it wasn't cold. It left a margin for the reader to think a little. Watching her way of writing, I was stimulated many times. At the same time, I could see my own immaturity.

When placed side-by-side, the stronger one doesn't win; rather, the differences become visible. And those differences are actually interesting.

After the post, I received a short message from her.

That was a good start. We might be standing side-by-side better than I thought.

Standing side-by-side. That phrase made me strangely happy. Not competing, but standing side-by-side. Not overtaking, but placing them next to each other. That feeling was a little different from how I had used Note until now.

Voices that exist only in a closed space.

After starting the collaborative magazine, the number of people watching us gradually increased.

At first, it was just a few people. But those few people came to read every time. They didn't stop at once, but watched the next post as well. It wasn't a one-off reaction, but a will to read the next one. That was much warmer than the increase or decrease of numbers.

One night, she suddenly suggested something.

If we're going to keep doing this, maybe we should have a slightly more closed space.

A closed space. That meant not a place to show things widely, but a place to protect in order to keep going.

note is an open space. Anyone can read, and anyone can come. That is precisely why it can be exhausting. If you worry too much about who is watching, your words gradually harden into something outward-facing.

That was when we first began to seriously consider the word 'membership'.

At first, I felt a bit hesitant. Receiving money. Having people read consistently. Meeting expectations. All of that suddenly became very real.

But she was calm.

'It's not so much about selling, but about continuing.'

When we started the membership, the first thing that changed was the temperature of my words. In a public space, I inevitably tidy them up a little. To make them readable. To make them less likely to be misunderstood. To make them reach just a little further. But in a closed space, that necessity fades a bit.

It was there that I first realized what I had been afraid of. It wasn't just about not being read. It was about being misinterpreted. Being treated lightly. Having only the 'easy-to-understand version of me' cut out and taken away.

That fear was deeper than I had imagined.

Unfinished drafts. Openings I didn't post. Sentences I cut while being conscious of the algorithm. Emotions I actually wanted to include but removed from the public article. I started to share those things, little by little.

At first, I wondered if it was okay to show such things. But the people who gathered there received them much more quietly than I had expected.

'Actually, I find it more trustworthy to be able to read these works-in-progress.'

Watching that reaction, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease just a little. Perhaps what exists in a closed space isn't a secret, but the breath of a work-in-progress.

However, that was when, for the first time, my opinion clashed with hers.

I was planning to release a certain draft to the membership. It was a record of when I had leaned too far into the mold of being read and had almost disappeared myself. It was about a night when I almost cried while writing. It was, perhaps, my weakest point.

She read it, paused for a moment, and then said,

'I don't think you should release this.'

For a moment, I felt breathless.

'Why?'

'Showing vulnerability is fine in itself. But this has the danger of turning vulnerability into a 'commodity.' Just because it's a closed space doesn't mean you should release everything. What you should protect and what you should show are different.'

I reflexively pushed back against those words. What I should protect? I had been suffering because I had protected myself too much and couldn't show anything. Now that I had finally found a place where I could share, was she telling me to trim it down again here too?

It's my writing. Why are you trying to stop me from publishing what I want to publish?

The silence through the screen was long.

Her reply arrived after a while.

I'm not stopping you. I'm just worried about you after you put this out there. Even in a closed space, once you release something, you can't take it back. As long as there are people reading it, these words will change shape within their gaze. If you're still going to publish it, wouldn't it be better to rewrite it just a little more?

I couldn't reply.

I was angry. But at the same time, I knew that somewhere, her words were right.

I didn't write anything that night. Or the next day. For about three days, a strange void remained between us.

In the end, I rewrote that draft. I kept the record of my weakness. But I trimmed away the self-indulgence of wanting people to see my weak self. Instead, I wrote about what I was seeing within that weakness.

When I sent the rewritten version, she replied immediately.

This is much stronger.

As I looked at the screen, I felt frustration and relief pass through my chest at the same time.

Writing with someone else means facing parts of yourself you couldn't see alone. Because you can see how the other person writes, you can also see your own distortions. You can no longer hide what you are afraid of.

But precisely because we clashed, I was able to re-examine my own words one level deeper.

In public spaces, I was trying to become a person who conveys things. But in a closed space, I could return to being just a writer. That is not running away. Rather, it was a recovery process to keep on writing.

She said while creating the description for the membership.

This doesn't have to be a place where we provide the right answers, does it?

I liked those words. It's not a place to provide the right answers. If so, it's okay to leave my hesitations here. It's okay to leave the process of wavering just as it is.

A voice that exists only in a closed space. It only comes out along with embarrassment and anxiety. But I felt that those voices were what supported our writing.

A bundle before it becomes a book.

As we continued our exchanges through the membership, our writing gradually gained depth.

At first, it was just a record. Fragments of worries. Pieces of drafts. Sentences that didn't make it into published articles. But as they piled up, a single flow began to emerge.

It started with the pain of not being read, trying out different styles, being saved by a single reader, creating a collaborative magazine, and learning to place honest thoughts in a closed space. That flow belonged only to us.

One day, she said casually.

If we bundle these together, they could become a book, right?

I held my breath for a moment at those words. Becoming a book. The sound of it was still distant, yet suddenly it felt real.

Of course, it doesn't mean it will immediately become a publishing deal. Reality isn't that simple. But things written along a single theme can eventually take on a cohesive form.

I looked back at my list of past posts. Words placed as one-offs. Articles written collaboratively. Fragments shared in memberships. Each of them seemed separate, yet they were all gradually pointing in the same direction.

A bundle before it becomes a book. I liked that way of putting it. It's not a finished book. But it's not just fragments destined to scatter, either. It hasn't fully taken shape yet, but it is certainly being gathered together.

She said, while arranging the sentences.

Publishing a book probably isn't the goal, is it?

I nodded immediately. It's not the goal. Rather, I think it's a waypoint to preserve what we've built up so far in a different form.

We haven't taken it anywhere yet. There's no proposal. The cover design isn't decided. But looking at the bundle of words we've written, I felt it wasn't just a dream.

When I was writing alone, I thought it was over if it didn't reach anyone. But now it's different. Reaching people and remaining are not the same thing. To remain, you need someone to bundle it, someone to look at it with you, and time to read it over and over to give it shape.

We already have that time.

The bundle was almost finished. The places to tidy up and the places to review were already limited. Even so, I didn't feel like putting it out into the world just yet.

The closer it gets to completion, the more afraid I become. Is it really okay to release it as it is? Won't what we've built change once we show it to someone?

It seemed she felt the same way.

Maybe for now, 'protecting' is more important than 'releasing'.

When I saw those words, the tension in my shoulders eased a little. What's needed now isn't to rush. It's not about turning this bundle into a product in a hurry.

We have always been chased by the need to 'reach' people. But having come this far, I can finally see a different value. The reason we haven't released it yet is because we want to confirm the breath within this bundle just a little longer.

The word "yet" holds a future within it. It may seem like things have stopped, but they haven't. It doesn't mean it will end without ever being released.

The stack is on the desk. However, it is not yet out in the world. We can stay in that silence for just a little longer.

"The Day of Release"

That morning, the room was quieter than usual.

I opened and closed the stack many times. I could release it now. I could probably release it. Even though I had reached the point where I felt that way, my hand stopped at the very last moment.

Releasing it to the world does not mean ending it. Even so, it becomes fixed as a single form. The hesitation, the passion, and the unfinished wavering we have accumulated take on a contour there.

I received a message from her.

"Shall we release it today?"

It was a short sentence. But with that one line, I was able to let out a breath. Things I couldn't decide on my own moved forward with her voice. At times like this, I'm glad we did this together.

We did a final check. The order. The cover. The introduction. The table of contents. The title. None of them are perfect. But there was no longer a need for them to be perfect.

I paused for a while in front of the publish button. If it were the old me, I would have said, "Let's polish it more" at this point. I would have been afraid of the reaction, afraid of it not reaching anyone, and would have put it off even a little longer.

But now it's different. Releasing it is not running away. It is an act to properly hand over what we have held onto until now.

I took a deep breath and pressed the button.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, quietly, the screen changed. It was out in the world. It was just that, but the depths of my heart trembled a little.

I heard from her immediately.

"It's out."

The way she said it was strangely gentle. More than a great sense of accomplishment, there was relief. We finally placed it outside. Finally, our words were no longer confined to our own hands.

After publishing, the reactions increased little by little. It wasn't explosive. But it was definitely being read. There was a sense of people trying to properly receive the words we had placed there.

Behind that joy, I felt a different kind of anxiety. It was read. So, what do we do next?

After a while, the first feedback arrived.

“I read it. It was a very quiet book. But while I was reading it, I never felt like I was reading it alone.”

The moment I saw those words, I couldn't move for a while.

I never felt like I was reading it alone. That one sentence lingered deep in my chest for a long time. Perhaps that was exactly what we wanted to leave behind with this book.

You don't have to shout loudly. You don't have to push yourself too hard. If, after reading it, someone feels they are not alone, that is enough.

A book only begins to live once it reaches the reader's hands. And when their impressions return, that life is no longer just ours.

In a quiet evening room, I was finally realizing that.

“The more it spreads, the less you can see.”

An increase in reactions should have been a happy thing.

However, as it spread little by little, I began to feel a different sense of discomfort. More people are reading it. There are more impressions. Sometimes it gets quoted. And yet, for some reason, the "closeness" I felt at the beginning is gradually fading away.

The more it spreads, the less you can see. That sensation was much quieter than I had imagined.

The first readers looked deep into the words. She, walking a little ahead, understood the temperature of my worries. The people gathering in the collaborative magazine enjoyed the nuances of the arranged texts. But as reactions spread, the articles inevitably take on a "clearer outline."

The clearer that outline becomes, the harder it is to see the ambiguous wavering and the parts that cannot be fully explained that should have been in the writing.

It seems she noticed the same atmosphere.

“I'm grateful to be read, but the 'way it's read' is starting to take precedence.”

More than the article itself, how it is read. More than the content, which tag it is found under. Who it strikes. Where it is clipped. As these perspectives increase, we find ourselves, without knowing it, leaning toward the side of the algorithm again.

Of course, I am no longer at the mercy of it like I was before. But I haven't become completely free either. The more reactions I get, the more a "way of writing that meets expectations" begins to show its face.

I looked back at my previous posts. Writing from when there were still few reactions. Clumsy, rough, but strangely passionate. Reading them now, they are a bit unfinished. But I feel that that incompleteness was actually the form of my true feelings.

I have become a little more skilled now. That is not a bad thing. But it is also true that there are things lost by becoming more skilled.

She said this as if she could see through my hesitation.

“It's necessary to tidy things up a bit to be read. But if you tidy up too much, you forget where you were.”

Popularity and honesty are not things you have to choose between. It is a matter of testing how far you can go while holding onto both.

I still want to continue that experiment. Even as the reactions have increased, the uncertainty hasn't disappeared. If anything, I've become able to see that uncertainty. That is precisely why I want to make sure I don't lose sight of it now.

If so, I want to pick up those hidden voices as carefully as I can.

To the Public Submission

Some time after publishing the book, I was finally able to think about what came next.

I don't want this book to be the only one. Words created together. Voices nurtured in a closed space. A night saved by a single reader. Beyond stacking those things up, I felt there was still a place to test myself.

Public submission. When I said those words, my heart fluttered a little.

This time, I won't just be waiting. I will present my work myself and take it to a place of evaluation. That is scary. But I am no longer just trembling like I was before.

When I told her about it, her reply was immediate.

I think that's a good idea. If you're going to submit it, do it with a piece that feels like us right now.

When thinking about the work to submit, I paused for a moment. I wrote down in my notebook.

Not as an extension of the book, but as a new piece. But, don't discard the flow we've had so far. Write not just to be read, but to remain.

Looking at those three points, the corners of my mouth softened a little. I felt like I had finally put into words the reason for taking on this challenge.

The framework was immediately clear. The protagonist is a young writer. They are troubled by not being read. However, they meet a single reader and regain a bit of the meaning of writing. After that, they create a space to write alongside someone. Finally, they test their own words in the outside world.

When I tried writing it, the bones of the story became visible. But building a framework isn't easy. Just having bones doesn't make a human body. Where should it breathe? Where should it get lost? Where should silence be placed? That is where the breath of the work resides.

The time until I wrote the first sentence was the longest. The screen remained blank many times. But this time, I wasn't as scared as before. Because it didn't feel like I was writing alone anymore.

I typed the first sentence.

The protagonist was afraid of not being read.

With just that, I was able to breathe a little. Once I started writing, the rest flowed little by little. Every time I stopped, I went back and rephrased. Trimmed. Added. Tested. In that back-and-forth, the writing began to find its own shape little by little.

The first draft, which I spent many days writing, was much rougher than I had imagined. It was a roughness that also brought me some relief. If it had been perfectly polished, I think I would have been scared. Seeing the dead ends and the traces of rewrites left as they are, I know that this work is still alive.

When I showed her the draft, she replied after a short while.

"It's really good for a first draft. It has a real sense of 'trying to move forward'."

We revised the manuscript together. Each of us had our own red lines. Cutting. Adding. Rephrasing. Changing the order. That process wasn't just about fixing the text.

"Here, it's better to leave a little more of the protagonist's hesitation."
"But if they hesitate too much, the reader will be left behind."

In that exchange, we recalled our previous clash and gradually adjusted the balance of each chapter. Revision isn't about hurting each other. It's about confirming each other's perspectives within the text.

On the night before submitting it to the open call, I read the entire manuscript one more time. She sent me a message.

"It's enough now. You don't need to aim for perfection any more than this."

I converted the manuscript to a PDF and named the file. I opened the submission form. I copied the title and synopsis into the input fields. I had rewritten the synopsis many times. Not too short, not too long. Just enough so that the protagonist's pain and their desire to move forward would come across clearly.

I was still hesitant about whether to press the submit button. But I took another deep breath and thought to myself.

This story is no longer just mine alone.
It has become something that should reach the place where the readers are.

The next day, I pressed the submit button and saw the submission complete screen.

In that moment, my chest felt a little lighter. The fact that I had sent it pushed me forward just a little bit.

"The Morning of Rejection"

The results arrived on a morning after I had checked my empty mailbox countless times.

The subject line was short. "Notification of Application Results"

The sender was the open call secretariat. Before opening it, I took a deep breath. Even though I felt like I shouldn't open it, I clicked it anyway.

The body of the email was a standard template.

"Thank you for your application. As a result of the selection process, we regret to inform you that your work was not selected this time."

That was all. There was no long explanation, no reason, and no words about future opportunities. Just a clear "rejection" written on the screen.

I stared fixedly at the screen. I could feel the depths of my chest slowly growing cold. The lightness I had felt the night before I sent it was gone. In its place, the heaviness had returned.

She messaged me right away.

"I'm sorry. But you haven't lost. This work has already become yours."

Those words allowed me to breathe a little.

Rejection doesn't determine the value of a work. I know that in my head. But it still leaves me feeling unsettled. The sense of betrayal from the expectation that 'I might be chosen next time' lingers.

I closed the email and opened the manuscript once more. The same words were still lined up on the screen. The lines I cut. The lines I added. The rephrased dialogue. The traces of the revisions we made together.

Those things don't disappear just because of a rejection. The result of a public submission is not the end of the story.

I thought about it for a moment. Should I just put this work on a shelf as it is? Or should I submit it somewhere else? Or should I revise it once more and publish it in a form closer to my own vision?

To be honest, I still don't know.

For about three days, I didn't write anything. Even when I sat in front of the computer, I didn't feel like opening the screen. I didn't look at my note timeline either. For the first time in a while, I was afraid of looking at the numbers.

On the fourth night, a short message came from her.

"You don't have to write. But if you're willing to read, take a look at what I recently wrote for my membership."

I hesitated for a moment before opening it.

It was her writing. The title was 'A Record of a Day That Didn't Go Well.' In it, she wrote about the time she had submitted to a public contest in the past and was rejected.

I didn't know. I didn't know she had gone through a time like that too.

She was always calm, walking a little ahead, and someone who knew more than I did. But in that piece of writing, she was in almost the same place I am now. Not getting results, doubting herself, and losing sight of the meaning of writing.

The difference was that she was placing that time here, now, as a 'path she had traveled.'

I remembered that one sentence I read in the comments section at the beginning. 'Even during the times when you aren't read, there are things that have properly remained.' Perhaps that was exactly what she was writing about back then.

On the morning of the fifth day after receiving the rejection, I opened my notebook.

It wasn't that I tried to write something. My hand just moved. At first, it was just scribbles. Being rejected. Feeling frustrated. The weight returning. But as I wrote, something else began to mix in, just a little.

What I have written over these past three months. What I have tried. What I have found. What I have lost. One reader. Someone who was a little ahead of me. The place we both stood. The things we bumped into in a closed space. Turning it into a book. Submitting it to a contest. And, being rejected.

All of it is inside me now. Even if I didn't get selected, it hasn't disappeared.

I was a little surprised by that.

If it were the old me, not being selected would have been the end. If there were no numbers, it was a failure. If I wasn't chosen, I was worthless. That's what I used to think. But now, it's a little different. Even if there are no results, something has certainly accumulated inside me. It might be technique, it might be resolve, or perhaps it's just a habit.

But because it's there, I can write again.

I sent her a message.

"I read it. Thank you. I'm going to try writing a record of the days that didn't go well, too."

The reply came immediately.

"I've been waiting."

Seeing those two characters, I looked out the window. The sky was its usual color. It wasn't particularly bright, nor was it dark. It was just there.

I sat back down in my chair and opened my laptop.

The note posting screen. A white square. The cursor is blinking.

I haven't decided what to write yet. Whether I'll submit it to the next open call, serialize it on note, or something else entirely. I don't know.

But one thing is certain: I will write.

I don't know if it will be read. I don't know if it will reach anyone. And I probably won't know if it will be selected, either.

Even so, I will write.

To be found. To not lose sight of myself. And so that someday, someone who is standing still in the same place can breathe a little easier in front of these words.

I began to type the first sentence.

I am still nobody.
I have yet to prove anything.

But my hands did not stop.

End