17 - Three's A Club (3)

Valerie shrugs. "I just meant, drawing the latest isekai flavor-of-the-season got me a lot of commissions."

"Oh."

A bit of an anti-climactic answer, in the end.

But Alex and I look at each other. It occurs to both of us simultaneously that Valerie, in her past life, was leagues above us, from both a financial and artistic standpoint.

Me, a mediocre office drone. Steady salary sure, but a dead-end position. And too spineless to ever climb up the corporate ladder.

And Alex, a NEET writer who never even finished a single work.

"Ehh," Alex says, smugly, "Being an illustrator is living on easy mode, anyway."

I can tell this rankles Valerie a bit. Rightfully so, in all honesty.

(… As for me, I make myself some popcorn and grab a seat. I'm kinda interested to see what kind of spicy take Alex has in store for us. Since, you know, it's usually just me giving them out.)

Valerie, vein popping out her forehead: "… Come again? I can guarantee you I worked harder than both of you put together. Corporate gacha clients, commissions backlog, drawing and rigging other streamer models. I literally worked myself sick some months."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Alex says, palms raised placatively. "That's not up for debate. VeeVeeNeko was an absolute master of her craft, and I kneel to her skill and talent. Don't misunderstand me. … What I'm trying to say is, speaking as a fellow artist here—"

"Failed artist," I (very helpfully) add.

"(Long walk, short pier, Odd-kun.) … What I'm trying to say, Valerie, is it's much easier to 'consume' a drawing, than it is to consume a written work. We're in agreement about that at least, right?"

"I guess," shrugs Valerie.

"When you open up a 50K-word book, which is quite short by novel standards, you sort of enter into an unspoken contract with the author. You're saying, 'Okay, I'm taking a bit of gamble here. I'm willing to give you some of my time and mental effort, both of which I'll never get back, and in return I expect some kind of worthwhile payoff.' Sometimes it comes. Most of the time, it doesn't."

"… Okay? So what's your point?"

"My point is," says Alex, "there's none of that when you ask someone to look at a drawing. You can consume a drawing in an instant. You just look at it, and you can instantly tell whether it's good or bad. Drawing are judged instantly, by anyone. There's no barrier to consuming a drawing. You can look at it if you have working vision. You like it, or you don't. It looks good, or it doesn't. A book, on the other hand, requires patience. It requires that the reader can not only read, but interpret. They can interpret things wrong. Sometimes that's on the author, sometimes that's on the reader. But there's skill involved here in the interpretation of a text. The reader has to meet the author halfway. … Here, take this for example."

Alex reaches behind him and pulls out his manuscript. He slams it down onto the club room table.

"You can look at a drawing instantly," he says, "but to get through this fucking slog of a prologue is gonna take you at least an entire nine-to-five work day. And that's assuming you can even untangle the labyrinthian prose style and all my bullshit pretensions to high literature."

(Me: "Oh … so he's self aware, at least.")

Valerie picks at the corners of Alex's manuscript, nose upturned. "That sounds miserable to read."

Alex, defensively: "Th-that's just the style in the prologue! I had a whole structure planned out afterward for the upcoming arcs."

Then the entire club room dims, which is weird because it's still light outside, and a single spotlight illuminates Alex from above.

"The golden structure. One which I long to see. Remember when I said I want VN-like plots fused with literature? I wasn't just speaking about the scope, or the emotional impact. No, I'm even talking on a surface level: I want routes, each one dedicated to a single character, as sub-plots. The main character(s) solving their problem. Self-contained stories within a large story. All threads converging into a true route at the end of it all. A truly fractal narrative, wherein each route represents a microcosm of its own encapsulation."

"They're still doing that," I point out, the light coming back on in the club room. "I mean, look at B*nny-G*rl S*np*i. That just came out recently."

Alex and Valerie exchange concerned looks.

"Odd-kun, you might wanna sit down for this," begins Alex gently. "… B*nny-G*rl S*np*i came out six years ago."

I stumble back, clutching my head. "No … No, it's not true …"

"Yes—they came out with three full-length movies between then and now."

I shake my head. "It can't be … Y-you're lying …"

"In fact, they're airing the second season now as we speak."

I fall to my knees, reeling from the critical damage done to my psyche.

Alex, seeing an opportunity to hurt me more: "Also, Yu* Og*ra is turning 30 this year."

"No … That can't be … Our St*ady B*y just came out, didn't it? … Yu*Ka*ri … I even learned the dance …"

"(… By yourself?)"

Valerie, shaking her head at our stupidity: "… Okay, Alex, but you never got to your so-called golden structure. All you got done, in twelve years, is a prologue that nobody in their right mind would actually read."

Alex: "Exactly, right? And that's the problem! To actually judge the work on its own merits, you'd have to 1) be able to read it, and 2) be able to understand what I'm trying to say in it."

Valerie: "… If you want people to understand what you're saying, why don't you just … you know …"

"What?"

"… Make it easy to understand?"

Alex thinks about this for a very, very long time.

Eventually he answers, "I want to be understood on my terms."

Valerie shrugs. "Okay, well, then the price you pay for that is to toil away in obscurity for the rest of your miserable life. … Which I guess you did, from the sounds of it."

Alex picks up his manuscript again, sniffs the pages for some reason. "So there's my whole predicament. Anyone can look at a VeeVeeNeko work and know that it's good right off the bat. But to any random reader, my 12-year prologue of a novel is just as likely the equivalent of a child's crayon drawing, as it is the Sistine Chapel. How can they tell?"

(By the way, while this conversation continues, I've long since checked out, right after my B*nny-G*rl S*np*i spiral, and I'm currently playing retro games, picking up where Alex left off.)

Alex: "As soon as VeeVeeNeko posts a new work, literal thousands will see it the instant it's uploaded, and in that same instant decide they love it. Some save it to their Pictures folder, others just leave a like. But they've all effectively 'consumed' it. The consumption is done, it's already over. I mean, yeah, they'll probably take it out again to look at it, and the picture might live rent-free in their heads for a while, but the taking-in of the work is finished. Compared to a written work, the accessibility of consuming a drawing isn't even in the same ballpark. … As an illustrator, if you're good, you're good. It's immediately apparent. And if you're good, you're gonna go far."

Valerie rolls her eyes. "Yeah, just be good at drawing. It's that easy, right? Fuck my tens of thousands of hours of practice and grinding."

"I didn't say it was easy."

"You literally did! You called it easy mode! Scroll back up to the top!"

"Arggh! You're deliberately misunderstanding me! See, if you can't even interpret this conversation properly, then what hope do you have in reading my novel correctly!"

"I don't even want to read your shitty fucking story! Who writes a 1000-word long sentence!? Actually, forget that—who wants to read a 1000-word long sentence in the first place!?"

The two of them fight for a while longer, and I actually pause the game and watch them bicker for a while, a dumb smile on my face.

You know—I never actually had friends for most (all) of my adult life.

My only social interaction consisted mainly of neutral greetings and small talk with co-workers in the office. Sometimes we went out for drinks, but those were like obligations. The 'mandatory fun' type, you know.

When was the last time I was able to just act like dumbasses with other people like this? To joke around and argue about stupid shit?

How long has it been since I could be myself around other people? And not have them dump water on my head?

Answer: Too long.

… Aw, shit. Where's that sentimental music coming from?

(Ah, I just realized. I forgot to turn it off after my fire extinguisher speech rehearsal two chapters back.)

"Odd-kun!" the other two I.W.C.(T.N.) club members suddenly shout at me. "What do you think?!"

I wasn't listening, so I have no idea what they're asking me.

I look at Alex, then to Valerie. They're both looking at me expectantly.

I stroke my chin, eyes closed, to pretend like I'm in deep thought.

Then I say, "Valerie!"

"Y-yes, Odd-kun?"

I walk over to where she is. I look deeply into her eyes. I grab her by the shoulders.

"… What?" she says.

"Valerie. Listen to me closely."

"… What???"

I sustain the tension for another minute, before finally saying, "Soap. And water. Seriously, it's not that complicated. Or at least try Sp**d St*ck. I will lend you the money."

Valerie pouts. "See, stuff like this is why I don't feel welcome in your stupid club."

Alex cries, "Because you're not welcome! You just invited yourself here!"

As this whole stupid comedy routine comes full circle and begins anew, I can't help but smile, and wonder to myself …

… Is this what having friends is like?