Haruto answered this perfectly natural question with a shrug.
“Everybody knows intellectually that everything has different priorities, but the way someone feels about it can be a lot different. Even outside of writing, nobody feels good about having their work not be as important as other people’s.”
“Sure…but if you can’t tell the truth like that, then what? Like, should you say you got sick or a relative passed away or something?”
He laughed at Miyako’s idea. “True, nobody’s gonna be enough of an ass to say, I don’t care—put my work first. But if they catch you in that lie, that’s gonna ruin their trust a lot faster than otherwise. Basically, lying to earn yourself more time is about the worst possible thing you can do. Especially now that industry people interact with one another all the time on social media. If you lie like that, you gotta assume it’ll come out at some point.”
“Of course… I don’t think lying is good, either. But really, what should I do, then…?”
“Well, the best thing to do, without a doubt, is to not take on so much work that you have to make someone wait for more than a week in the first place.”
“That’s easier said than done… I mean, nobody volunteers to take a ton of work.”
“Exactly. So realistically speaking, you need to explain exactly what this other work is that you have to prioritize. Basically, convince the other party that they really do need to wait a bit. Whether they put up with it depends on them, but…”
“I see… So it’s all about communication in the end…”
Miyako looked humbled.
“Yeah. And the other thing… I hear about editors who create these incredibly intricate schedules for writers, stating that the plot has to be finalized by this date, Chapter One needs to be up by this, the first draft by this, edits and revisions by this date—like they’re controlling every aspect of their writers.”
“Wow, that sounds like a band manager.”
“You’re right. It must take up a ton of work. And some writers don’t appreciate it much, either. They picked this job because it lets them use their time freely, so why try to manage them so rigidly like that?”
“Right. I can imagine a lot of writers really don’t have the mindset for that sort of approach.”
“Indeed. It’s really tough, being an editor.”
“Oh, like it’s not your problem…”
“Well,” Haruto said with a smile as Miyako pouted, “I’m not an editor.”
After that, Haruto kept answering Miyako’s questions, spending a few hours talking about the issues and hardships he and his fellow writers had faced, as well as retelling anecdotes of editors with good reputations and not-so-good ones. They kept it up all the way to last call, so after splitting the bill evenly and leaving, the two of them walked along the dim streets.
“Phew. I feel a little light-headed.”
There was a loose, breezy smile on Miyako’s slightly reddened face.
“I’m amazed it’s only a little,” Haruto replied, half astonished and half exasperated. Miyako had managed to consume ten glasses of nothing but high-gravity beer. Itsuki would’ve been down for the count after half that much, and even Haruto would probably have trouble walking straight.
“Sometimes,” Miyako said with a wistful smile, “I’d like to drink so much that I lose my memory for a while. It’d be easier, maybe, if I could reset my mind and get so drunk that nothing mattered so much anymore.”
“Miyako…”
There was concern in Haruto’s mind as he watched Miyako politely bow to him.
“But anyway, Fuwa, thanks a lot for today. You were really helpful to me.”
“Well, I’m glad if I helped out, but…really, I don’t think you should let yourself obsess over it too much.”
Miyako’s face hardened a bit.
“This is your first year on the job, so of course you’re going to make mistakes. I messed up a lot when I was just starting out, too.”
For example, that time he let an online review calling his first book “by the numbers” anger him enough to lash out at a writing-school seminar he was invited to. Then again, that wound up becoming the inspiration for Ui Aioi’s writing career, so maybe it worked out well in the end. But to Haruto, it was still a painful, embarrassing mistake. His lips twitched into a tiny smile, which for some reason seemed to affect Miyako.
“…But you’re so far ahead of me, you can laugh at your rookie mistakes now. They’re these things from the distant past.”
“Huh?”
She smiled at the confused Haruto. “Well, I’m gonna do my best to catch up with you sometime. And Itsuki, and Nayu, and Kaiko, and Ayane, too. So I hope you’ll meet up with me again like this. So we can keep talking.”
She smiled as strongly as she possibly could, obviously forcing it. Tears were glistening at the corners of her eyes, and his chest ached at the reminder of the disconnect between them in this moment.
He was sure she relied a lot on him. She must trust him…as a person, as an adult, and as a veteran in her industry. They’d be drinking together in the future like this, they’d be listening to each other’s troubles, and they’d give each other advice, just like today. But no matter how much she trusted him, relied on him, respected him, appreciated him…
…I’m always going to remain someone she likes as a person.
Haruto could intuitively feel it.
…I don’t want that.
He didn’t want anything like that. He felt it so badly, it made him want to tear his heart out. Trust, respect, and appreciation wouldn’t make him at all happy. Convincing himself that helping her out made him happy would be nothing but a delusion.
What…I really want…