Godo frowned even further. “What do you think would happen, though, if publishers simply abandoned their mission to cultivate new talent and just bought up untested prospects from the Internet instead? That’s what led to the current industry, where web novels are just eating us for lunch.”
“Whether they’re posted online first or not, if good novels are coming out and selling well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“I’m not talking about whether web novels are inherently a bad thing or not. There’s been lots of series that would never win a prize but still hit it big on the web. But we can’t have nothing but web novels. Yes, there are works who fail in the contest circuit but still find an audience online—on the other hand, these contests help us discover works that can’t find popularity online.”
“But if a series is truly good, it’ll find its audience, even in the vast sea of the Internet. Let’s say that Nayuta Kani’s Silvery Landscape was self-published online first. The title isn’t all that eye-catching, and the writing doesn’t really follow the current web novel fashion. But do you still think it’d remain buried?”
“I think that’s a pretty extreme argument. It’s a big leap to assume that’d ever happen.”
“Huh?”
“Yes, you see a lot of inexperienced authors win prizes in contests with really unique ideas and unusual senses of style. But how often does it happen that a writer produces something like that, then grows and matures in the same direction as what they showed in their debut work? From the second book forward, that standout style gets dumbed down, and in the worst cases, they just start cranking out these cookie-cutter books to chase whatever the trend is. If that’s how it goes, why try to discover new talent that way at all?”
“…I can’t speak about how other firms see it, but at GF Bunko, at least, our editorial team doesn’t demand that writers stick to what sells. If a writer transforms their writing style after their first book, it’s entirely their own free will.”
“That was the case at the company I used to work for, too. People on the net made fun of it like ‘Oh, someone must have swapped the author,’ but in most cases, if a writer drastically changed their style, it was something they wanted to do. And why are they willing to make that commitment—to kill the inherent uniqueness that earned them that new-writer prize in the first place? It’s simple. If your stuff doesn’t sell, that’s hard for you. That’s it.”
“Exactly… It’s tough on you, mentally and financially. And maybe having a small but fervent fanbase will provide some mental satisfaction, but it won’t help your bank account very much. Every writer needs to live, after all… We can’t order them to stick with their original edge, even if it’s not selling.”
“Well, don’t you think that’s deceptive? If you’ve really committed to a writer’s talent and seriously want that talent to bear fruit someday, you should at least tell them something like ‘don’t worry about sales numbers; we’ll figure out a way to keep you fed until your books start selling.’ Because what are we seeing in reality? Once a writer’s branded as ‘unprofitable,’ the publisher gives them the cold shoulder and they’re discarded like yesterday’s news.”
“It’s not our policy to ever shut out writers like that. As long as they want to keep writing, we keep providing our support.”
“Hah! That sounds very noble on the surface, but aren’t you really just continually making them produce trendy work they’re not suited for until they have to be taken out behind the shed? Because continually writing novels that don’t find an audience and don’t garner any praise is going to wear on any author’s mind. Then they drop out of the industry themselves. I’ve seen it happen so many times. It’d almost be kinder if you said they can’t cut it sooner and just dumped them from the payroll.”
“It’s arrogant to completely write off someone else’s talent. Besides, if we do that, the only type of writers who’d be left are those lucky enough to be a match for the times, or talented enough to freely change their writing style.”
“Well, that’s great, isn’t it? Survival of the fittest. Only those suited for the era can find a niche.”
“That’s ridiculous…! What’s the point of a publisher that doesn’t protect its assets? There is none.”
“If all you can do is keep them on life support for a little while longer, isn’t that the same as not protecting them at all?”
“If they can hold out long enough, sometimes the trends can turn their way.”
“But if a writer, or a publisher, gets constantly tossed around by trends instead of trying to forge a path to a new era themselves, do they really deserve to keep going?”
“If we have an industry where only a small handful of the strongest get to survive, that’s hellish for all of us. Having a large playing field where even normal, everyday writers can find a living is exactly what we need. That way, we can create the geniuses who’ll build those new eras.”
Shirogamine and Godo glared at each other.
“…Well,” Shirogamine said with a faint smile, “I think we both agree that the more writers we can bring happiness to, genius or not, the better.”
Godo sighed a little. “I think you take too radical an approach in your thoughts, but there’s no doubting the fact the publishing industry can’t last in its current state. We need to make some major changes…”
After acknowledging each other’s opinions, the two of them finished off their beers and went right back into heated argument. Miyako and Toki had no room to get a word in, instead pecking at their food as they quietly, intently listened to their bosses.
Shirogamine and Godo’s debate wound up continuing all the way to closing time. Even after everyone was outside and the end-of-year party was over, the two of them disappeared into the night, eager to continue discussing the future direction of the industry at some other bar.
“Wow… That became quite a party,” Miyako said to Toki, who was walking next to her as they headed for the station.
“Yeah.” Toki chuckled. “I haven’t seen the boss get that heated in a while. I heard the rumors about Nobunaga Shirogamine, but he really is something special.”
“He’s usually a lot more easygoing than that, but yeah. Usually, he’s more like ‘if it’s a good story, keep it up.’ I guess he has his own convictions after all. It’s kind of surprising.”
“I see. Maybe, as two EICs, there’s a lot that resonates between them.” A pause. “And by the way, how’s Itsuki doing? I didn’t see him at the award ceremony last month.”
“I’m sorry… We had him confined at the office to finish a volume.”
Toki laughed at the visibly blushing Miyako. “You’ve really become a full-on editor, haven’t you, Shirakawa?”
“I’ve gained a talent for catching reluctant writers, anyway…” She grinned. “But Itsuki’s the same as always, I guess. It looks like he’s in a bit of a slump…but I think it’s a necessary slump if he wants to reach the next level.”
“I see… You’ve really become a partner for him, haven’t you?”
There was something forlorn about Toki’s voice that drove Miyako to ask a question she had been wondering about for a while.
“Um… Mr. Toki, now that Itsuki’s got an agent contract with me and he’s mainly working for Branch Hill… What do you think about that?”
Toki stopped walking, eyes up in the air as he thought for a bit.