Part 7: Fable of the Failure

Publishing House Director: Hunting, we've been talking for nearly an hour now. I need a conclusion.
Publishing House Director: So far this year, the H.A. Publishing House hasn't had a single book break into the top three bestsellers. That's an undeniable fact.
Editor Hunting: Of course, Director. I've been in close contact with several authors and have already prepared multiple commercial plans. Their new drafts will be submitted soon.
Publishing House Director: I've heard these words far too many times, Hunting. The market's changing too fast, and the readers' tastes are unpredictable. I think we need to explore new directions.
Editor Hunting: I firmly believe that literature is our way forward, Director.
Publishing House Director: Here's the case. "Literature" was indeed once our major selling point. But now, slogans like "The Vanguard of the Literary Revival!" and "The New Generation's Pedro Páramo!" have been overused.
Publishing House Director: Listen. I need to give the investors a clear conclusion before the acquisition at the end of the year.
Editor Hunting: I understand, Director.
Recoleta: Long time no see, Ms. Hunting. How have you been?
Editor Hunting: Recoleta? Where have you been?
Editor Hunting: I asked after you at the café, but no one knew your address. They said that they've barely seen you since you quit.
Recoleta: Ah. Yes, I'm sorry for missing so many appointments. But please believe me, I had to take the time to reconstruct the symbolic forest labyrinth.
Editor Hunting: Forest? What forest?
Editor Hunting: More importantly, have you finished your outline of Chapter II? Let me remind you that this month—
Recoleta: No, there's no need for an outline! The Symbolic Forest is the name of Chapter II.
Recoleta: I've already completed it.
She pulls a thick manuscript from under her cloak. Fortunately, it is mostly untouched by the rain.
A relieved smile comes across Hunting's face.
Editor Hunting: This is probably the best news I've had all month. You're almost writing like a professional author now, Recoleta.
Editor Hunting: Alright, then let me take a look. How did our cowboy and coachman travel from the temple to a forest?
Hunting flips to the first page of the manuscript.
Silence hushes over them.
The soft scratch of a pencil, the rustle of pages, the gentle patter of rain.
A sharp snap as the pencil lead breaks. A long, deliberate inhale. A look of utter disappointment.
Editor Hunting: This is what you're submitting?
Recoleta: I ... I wrote it with all my heart.
Editor Hunting: Recoleta, do you know what this is?
Hunting stands up, gathers the manuscript neatly together, and pushes it toward Recoleta.
Editor Hunting: A scorched, lifeless forest. Desolate. Empty. There's ... there's nothing here!
Editor Hunting: You've let me down, Recoleta.
Editor Hunting: Freedom of expression does not equal reckless indulgence. You've repeated every mistake I pointed out in your last manuscript.
Editor Hunting: Your world is totally unwelcoming.
Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle—the burnt ends of electrical wires spark.
Hunting's voice grows distant as countless flashing fragments emerge.
Flashes of polite yet firmly rejecting letters.
Flashes of faces filled with prejudice and indifference.
Flashes of scenes repeated over and over again, every one wounding her heart a little more.
Recoleta: Why should I seek their approval?
Recoleta: I've never truly been accepted by those who view literature with prejudice and misunderstanding.
Editor Hunting: Enough.
Editor Hunting: That's your problem to deal with. It's not my place to get involved.
Editor Hunting: But I can't help you publish this kind of literature. It's totally self-indulgent.
Editor Hunting: Of course, you're free to ignore my advice. You are the writer, after all. I'm just an editor.
Recoleta feels dizzy, an unnamed sense of conflict taking over her.
Outside, the sky is covered in dense, impenetrable clouds, and a torrential rain is about to engulf the city.
Without a word, she grabs her manuscript, stands up, and runs out of the office.
As Recoleta runs through the rain, it gradually extinguishes the flames of defiance burning within her.
As rationality returns, questions begin to claw at her.
Recoleta: Following the flow of instinct, avoiding self-examination—that's my current state of writing.
Recoleta: Ugh. Well, of course, I know this isn't exactly professional writing.
Recoleta: But ...
Recoleta wipes the rain from her forehead with her sleeve.
She leans against the wall and buries her head tightly in her arms.
The cool air is quickly replaced by a scorching heat, the raindrops becoming sweat, her clothes drying instantly.
She and her words return to their original state, like a blank page untouched by ink.
All the structures drawn under guidance, all the carefully added embellishments, now crumbled to dust.
Recoleta: This desert ... It looks familiar.
Recoleta: Wait, isn't this ...
Recoleta: The desert by the town of Amalfitano?!
Recoleta: No, I tore this place apart. I can't possibly be back here, back to this wasteland.
???: Who told you this place was a wasteland? To my mind, it is ten times more remarkable than anywhere else in the world!
A shadow suddenly blocks the sun. Recoleta looks up.
Recoleta: Who are you? Are you ... me?
Recoleta: No, that's not right. What are you the symbol of?
Gaucho Rider: I'm not a symbol at all. I'm the Gaucho Rider of 1975, the legendary cowgirl of Sonora—Recoleta!
Recoleta: You're Recoleta, then who am I?
Gaucho Rider: We exist in thousands of forms across endless pages. The faces we present to readers are limitless.
Gaucho Rider: You tore up The Rise and Fall of Sanity. After that, you chose to return to reality, didn't you? But I chose to stay here, in the realm of fiction.
Recoleta: What are you doing here?
Gaucho Rider: I don't have time to sit around and chat. My comrades need rescuing.
Gaucho Rider: I must rally our people—unite our strength to turn these ruins into a library! Because the library is the greatest metaphor of mankind!
Gaucho Rider: Will you stand with me and help write the next chapter of our cause?
Recoleta: You really are me. I can't think of anyone else who would speak such nonsense.
Gaucho Rider: Come on, Recoleta! Get moving!
Gaucho Rider: Cross the silent desert, follow the Gnostic River to its source, and find a way through the cave dwellers' settlements. In nine or ten nights, the Ruinas Gloriosas will appear.
Gaucho Rider: And there, an important comrade awaits our rescue.
Recoleta: Alright. But how can you prove we'll find this so-called ruin?
The Gaucho Rider pulls out a rusty badge.
Gaucho Rider: See this—? It's my badge of honor!
Gaucho Rider: There was no grand ceremony when it was awarded to me. In fact, there was no official honor from it. But still, it is an irreplaceable symbol, the undeniable proof that we will find the Ruinas Gloriosas.
Recoleta: It's beautiful! How did you get it?
Gaucho Rider: What happened to you? You really aren't anything like me anymore.
Gaucho Rider: Listen to your heart. There's something missing, isn't there?
Recoleta: ...?
Gaucho Rider: "Blessed me, blessed me, my beating heart does drum—the fervent words of visceral realism, within my chest they thump." Isn't that a poem you wrote?
Recoleta: ...?!
Gaucho Rider: Well, you may have forgotten much, but none of that matters now. A new adventure lies before us!
Gaucho Rider: Let reality be torn apart! And should we fail, let us fail spectacularly!
Recoleta: ...!
Recoleta: Come on, Recoleta! Get moving!
Recoleta takes her own hand.
What a strange feeling, like curling up under a blanket in winter.
She returns to that comfortable place.
Optimistic, reckless, an anonymous writer chasing the literary explosion era.
Recoleta: Failure doesn't diminish the glory of the journey.
Recoleta: At the very least, I'll earn a badge of honor, just like hers! Haha.
Recoleta: Yes, and my novel will be that badge!