Author's Note: On Writing and Salvation

On the night of June 20, 2025, I woke up from a dream that had moved me to tears. The dream in question was a nonsensical dream not worth describing, but in it, I heard the familiar melody of the Theme from Schindler’s List. That was all it took for my heart to be moved: it made me remember the unmatched pathos that comes from the act of salvation.

Now, over a month after completing the final chapter of this story, I have come to realize that the reason I became an amateur writer was to find this “salvation”. Every main character I’ve written throughout my published stories seeks it in one form or another, either to be rescued from solitude, guilt, futility, or another source of suffering.

But while many of my other stories expressed this desire to be saved, it was the story of Mr. Atlas that was supposed to go beyond expression and “provide decisive answers that could save an individual’s soul”. In other words, Mr. Atlas was supposed to possess the power to change people—including myself—for the better.

While I do admit that I am not an exceptional writer, I believe that some of the more significant flaws of this novel are the results of those intentions: I seemed to have cared more about discussing my beliefs in the story than the plot itself. I feel very strongly about this to the point that I feel a quiet yearning to apologize to the readers, because I am starting to view Mr. Atlas as an unpolished and personal journal disguised as a novel.

Unfortunately, even after spending three months dedicated to such personal writing, I still have not found an answer that liberated me from all my doubts and struggles.

Now, a month after completing this novel, I have come to understand that I have made the fatal mistake of believing that I could find salvation through the process of writing. Mr. Atlas was destined to fail its primary purpose because it was given the impossible task of transforming an individual through words alone.

I do not say any of this in a self-pitying way: what I am trying to say is that just because I verbally state what should be—just because I know how I want things to be—doesn’t mean that my heart possesses the strength to stand by those ideals.

… I think this is something that a lot of people can understand. It’s very easy to tell ourselves that something is right, only to be unable to live accordingly. We look for permanent answers to our problems and sometimes believe that we have found it, only to be quickly reminded of the fragility of such answers.

With these thoughts in mind, I no longer possess a powerful urge to continue writing. What this implies is that my stories were fueled not by an inherent love for providing entertainment and intrigue to readers, but instead fueled by a need to find something in the act of writing. And fueled by this need, I have poured out all of my feelings and reasonings onto paper.

But after emptying everything in my heart and looking through its contents, I no longer believe that what I need can be found in the act of writing; I no longer believe that there even exists a salvific answer that can really be “found”.

In fact, there may not be anything at all.

… The truth is that I can continue to write. I can continue writing, focusing not on finding answers but on expressing my hopes and sorrows; in fact, that’s the direction that my writing took after completing Mr. Atlas. But even if I press on and improve my ability to express the feelings buried within my heart, it will never be enough to definitively change me. There are dreams I have that cannot be fulfilled by the act of writing about it.

And I think that maybe—just maybe—in the process of courageously pursuing those dreams in reality, I may come to understand what it was that I truly needed.

— Han Quixote