"Place your canned juices properly in the fridge for a delicious taste."
And what about those who don't pay the electricity bills?
They can only enjoy it in a limited way. That's how it goes.
"My lord editor, why did you reject it?"
"Show me your ass, and I'll consider it."
A complete, crushing rejection. Twenty ways for a writer to throw their work straight into the trash.
"Go to hell with your opinion."
This is life: what you see is always the opposite of what others see.
"Get out of here."
In other words, you can watch a comedy play… without laughing.
"I'll kill you, you scoundrel…"
And you can watch an action movie about a duck's struggle for power and feel your blood pumping.
"Hahaha, you want to try it…?"
On the other hand… you can write erotic harem stories… and feel no false satisfaction.
"Are you saying the protagonist should have all the beautiful girls? Is he Genghis Khan?"
Or you can write a chaste love story… and the editor will reject it without hesitation.
"Your story cannot succeed."
And I say:
"Go to hell with your opinion."
Can we expect a vagrant to win at the Olympics?
"Yes, in a dream…"
And if he wins?
"Then you must wake up, go to work, and pay your electricity bills first, or you won't get to drink the juice."
Is this really fair?
"I am the law here."
So revolt against the law. Anyone with me?
Just cowards.
After a hundred years of hard work, you can achieve your dreams… in the grave. This is the only truth you can accept.
A year ago, Lauren Phillip uploaded his vulgar novel to a platform…
Its success was guaranteed from the start. Why?
"What do you want…? A harem…? It's there. Heroines with plenty of juice… countless. An invincible hero…? He's the best from the start."
Isn't that enough?
"What about… an academy… with magical elements? All men oppressed, except for the alpha protagonist who subjugates all the heroines."
You won't read it, review it, or pay for it? Where else will you put it but in another harem novel?
Look closely and see how it stands out from the usual clichés.
See what my support will bring you besides immense benefits.
"So why reject it? The heroines aren't attractive? Or should I just add more perversity for everyone to be satisfied?"
The reply came quickly:
"Author Lauren… don't hope to continue the contract. You can just start over."
If that's the case…
Destroy the world you created.
Burn, kill… destroy, start wars, chaos, and rape.
The heroines turn into Yuri. Women across the entire planet disappear… what about the protagonist dying of grief?
"Die, all of you, along with the editor…"
Heh… heheh… heh…
I laughed with a fragmented, aristocratic laugh, lifting my foolish head to the ceiling—or the sky.
The time difference is what matters here. Okay, where were we?
"Damn the editor!"
The least of it.
A year ago, I spent ten days off work writing a silly draft of a novel aimed purely at profit: a harem, a hero, and some clichés sprinkled in. Formula for success = readers = money.
No hard work, no genius, no creativity… just glue.
Or so I thought… until editors hounded me to write more chapters daily for a week.
Away from my family at university, in a student apartment, working part-time and writing two chapters a day, I ended up… cursing the editor.
And here I am, a year later…
"Shouldn't a fly come out of the wallet?"
Completely out of money.
"The time is midnight… I finished today on time."
Completely out of time.
"This girl is beautiful, let's get to know her… Seriously, do you know… no, on the contrary, it means…"
No comedic skill, no ability to form relationships.
And all this because of the editor… damn the editor.
A complete failure… or discover it yourself.
When I finally decided to write the last chapter—after destroying the world, slaughtering the characters, and bringing it all to an end—
With the final chapter published, I finally felt… a deep, suffocating relief.
"Nooooooo!"
What the hell…?
"You bastard, you wouldn't dare—"
Suddenly, the dorm room door burst open.
A boy around my age stormed in like a crazed zombie, grabbing me by the neck from behind.
"Wha—ugh! Let go! You're choking me!"
"I don't care, bastard. Just die already!"
What the hell was this lunatic doing…?
"This is my revenge… for Eleanor, you heartless bastard!"
What? His brain was seriously fried…
"L-let's just talk this out—"
"No talking. Just die here!"
After nearly ten minutes of wrestling like stray cats… the madness finally cooled a bit.
"Are you insane? What the hell were you doing?!"
"I haven't gotten my justice yet… I haven't had my revenge… you pile of shit!"
This guy—Milosh. My roommate. One of the biggest fans of my novel. He practically worshiped one of the heroines, molded after his own preferences. His obsession had long surpassed real, three-dimensional women. He had fallen for his own fictional waifu.
But when the author—out of spite—decided to kill her in the final chapter… this lunatic was now standing here, fueled by rage.
"For Eleanor…"
He lifted a chair with both hands, aiming to smash it down on me.
"She's just a character, you idiot… fiction, nothing but fiction!"
"How dare you even speak her name… Aaaargh!"
Veins bulging, Milosh swung the chair like a medieval executioner.
"Wait, wait, WAIT! We can fix this! I'll write a spin-off! A fan-service chapter! Hell, I'll even write a kissing scene for her!"
"Too late! You killed her in the last chapter! The trauma… the PAIN… it's eternal!"
The chair came crashing down—
BANG!
—but instead of smashing my skull, it missed completely and shattered the desk. The poor laptop buzzed violently, its screen flickering neon like it was possessed.
"What the hell did you do?! That was my only laptop!"
"You mean… the sacred altar where Eleanor's soul was imprisoned?"
The laptop sparked once… twice… then—
BZZZZZT-BOOOOOM!!!
A blinding flash filled the dorm room.
"AAAAAAARGH!!"
And just like that… both author and obsessed fan were sent straight to the afterlife… courtesy of cheap batteries and unresolved plotlines.
The final chapter ended not with redemption or glory… but with two idiots dying in a secondhand dorm room fireball.
Game over.