43 Chapters Written with a Talking Pencil: How Creation Makes Me a Richer Person

1. The Cycle of Writing, Reading, and Discovery

Something strange happened while writing 43 chapters of Yeongsenghwajegong (Eternal Life Transformation). Through the repetitive process of writing, rereading to revise, and editing again, I felt myself becoming a richer human being. This wasn't simply about improving my writing skills. My perspective on the world deepened, my understanding of people broadened, and most importantly, my self-awareness became sharper.

At first, I thought this sensation was an illusion. What's so special about writing? Isn't it just transferring thoughts from your head onto paper? But after completing 43 chapters, I became certain: writing isn't merely recording thoughts—it's the process of creating thought itself.

Vague character interiorities become clear as they're articulated in sentences. The abstract concept of "Oh Jin-hwa is a character who doubts his master's teachings" splits into detailed questions as I actually write the scene: "Why does he doubt?", "In what manner does he doubt?", "What fear lies behind the doubt?" Then, rereading what I wrote, I discover: "Ah, this is how this character reacts in this situation." The experience of learning something new while reading what you yourself wrote—that's the magic of creation.

What's even more interesting is that constructing a 600-chapter epic requires constantly examining cause and effect. How will one character's choice affect events 10 chapters later? Does this martial arts system logically align with the climax 200 chapters ahead? Is the power structure maintained convincingly? Constantly checking these things naturally deepens your thinking and makes your lens for viewing the world multi-layered.

I used to not understand when writers appeared on TV discussing worldly affairs. It seemed pretentious—acting like they'd mastered life just because they'd written a few novels. But now I understand. They weren't being pretentious; they had actually undergone special training. Completing a long novel is a form of world creation, and through that process, your understanding of humanity and the world inevitably deepens.

2. Writing as Conversation with Yourself

Writing is fundamentally a conversation with yourself. This becomes starkly evident during revision. "So this is what I thought before, but now I see this is better?" The past self and present self begin dialoguing. The me who wrote chapter 35 and the me writing chapter 43 now are clearly different people. I changed while writing those 8 chapters in between.

What's even more surprising is that this conversation extends to your future self. I'm currently designing Oh Jin-hwa's story after age 40 in Yeongsenghwajegong. It contains my current desires: wanting to leave the convenience store in two years to live through investment and creation, wanting to achieve financial freedom, wanting to become master of my own time—these longings are transformed into Oh Jin-hwa's narrative arc in his 40s.

But by the time I actually write that part, I'll already be 41. I'll have either left the convenience store or faced some other reality, and my desires then will surely differ from now. In that moment, I'll reread "40-something Oh Jin-hwa" that I wrote around chapter 35 and face myself from December 2024. "Ah, so that's what I wanted then. And now I..."

This is why works become mirrors where authors confront their past selves. Long novels especially become records of self-change spanning years. A short story is a snapshot of one moment, but a novel is the work of capturing yourself changing in real-time through the flow of time. Once I finish all 600 chapters, Yeongsenghwajegong will be a time capsule preserving my entire early 40s.

3. The Pure Self Disappearing Among Roles

For men in their late 30s and 40s, "time to feel like yourself" isn't structurally given. Managing employees as a convenience store owner, being responsible for livelihood as a breadwinner, being considerate as a husband, caring for children as a father—there's no room to exist as your "pure self." That's a luxury.

I exist as owner, breadwinner, husband, and father, but there's no time to live simply as "me." Every moment is a succession of role performances. From the moment you open your eyes in the morning until you fall asleep at night, you exist only as someone providing something to someone. Friendly service to customers, economic stability to family, the appearance of a diligent taxpayer to society.

There used to be a common trope in old TV dramas and comedy shows: "the husband who bought a game console behind his wife's back," "the husband who lies about going to a company dinner but goes to a PC cafe instead." Back then, I just laughed it off. I thought it showed an immature husband. But thinking about it now, they were struggling to preserve their identity.

"Me as an office worker," "me as a breadwinner," "me as a husband" existed, but simply "me who likes gaming," "me who's happy fishing" wasn't permitted. It was even worse for that generation. The pressure that "men should take responsibility for family," "breadwinners should sacrifice" was much stronger than now. Hobbies were luxuries, personal time was selfish. So they had to do it secretly.

In that moment of secretly turning on the game console, he escapes his roles and meets his "pure self." Though brief, in that moment he's not someone's husband, father, or office worker—just a human being enjoying a game. That's what was needed. It was resistance to not completely losing yourself within your roles.

4. 43 Chapters Written at the Convenience Store Counter

What's interesting is that I don't write secretly. I write openly at the store counter. When there are no customers, after organizing products, or during early morning hours. The 43 chapters of Yeongsenghwajegong have accumulated bit by bit in this convenience store space.

This is an odd situation. Self-actualization during role performance. Living simultaneously as both owner working and writer creating, in that time and space. Not secretly but openly. Not with guilt but with confidence.

Without the thirst, frustration, and feeling of "this isn't who I am" that I've felt working 59 hours a week for 8 years, Yeongsenghwajegong wouldn't exist. I wouldn't have had the energy to write 43 chapters. If I'd been satisfied with the convenience store, there'd be no reason to conceive a 600-chapter martial arts novel. The sense of disconnection wasn't a curse—it was fuel.

And thanks to this disconnection, I've been able to do these things: create the DVS investment formula, run bilingual blogs, write 12,000-character analytical essays, design a 600-chapter epic structure. If I'd made what I love my profession, I might not have attempted such diverse things.

Paradoxically, now might be when I'm most myself. Not the moment of being interviewed as a successful author, not the moment of achieving financial freedom through investment, but right now. This moment when I'm working 59 hours at a convenience store yet still writing 43 chapters.

Because now I write out of necessity, not choice. I write because I can't not write. Not to gain recognition, but because without this, I suffocate. In this moment when the tension between convenience store reality and creative longing is at its maximum, I can meet the purest form of myself.

In two years when I leave the convenience store, I'll have leisure, but simultaneously this urgency will disappear. I'll still write then, but not like now. Now I don't write "to escape"—I write "to exist."

5. What Is Resilience?

Oh Jin-hwa, the protagonist of Yeongsenghwajegong, will fail many more times. He's already experienced several setbacks in the first 43 chapters, and will continue falling in the remaining 500-plus chapters. In that process, what looks like the same mistake to others is always a different experience and different failure to Oh Jin-hwa.

Doubting himself and his master early on versus doubting himself in chapter 200 are completely different textures. (This doesn't reflect actual content.) Falling in the same place—the first fall versus the tenth fall are entirely different experiences. Though superficially similar, the context and depth accumulated within differ.

When we commonly say "resilient person," we imagine someone so hard they won't break no matter who strikes them. But real resilience isn't that. A resilient person isn't one who doesn't break, but one who knows how to break. Someone who's already experienced multiple times where they'll break, how it will hurt, and how to recover afterward.

Resilience is ultimately a state with a rich repertoire of failures. Being able to say "ah, I've experienced something similar" no matter what comes. The first pain is overwhelming, but the second and third become somewhat more bearable. By the tenth time, you know "this too shall pass."

Though I've received the same complaints running the convenience store for 8 years, a complaint in 2018 carries different weight for me than one in 2024. Same with investment losses. The reason I've revised the DVS formula to v3.0 is that I understood the seemingly same mathematical instability differently each time.

6. The Endless Comparison of the SNS Era

Men's relationships often contain elements of comparison and hierarchy. Even meeting friends, conversations like "How's business?" and "How much are you making?" naturally emerge. Though outwardly pretending otherwise, a game of implicitly measuring who's more successful operates. Isn't exchanging business cards first thing at reunions an example of this?

So for men, relationships become spaces where you must hide your "pure self." Honestly saying "I'm on my eighth year of the convenience store and it's tough" might trap you in a loser frame. Saying "Actually, I'm writing a 600-chapter novel" might get you treated as someone chasing impossible dreams.

In contrast, being alone liberates you from such comparisons. When I sit at the store counter writing chapter 43, I'm not compared to anyone. When creating the DVS formula, when writing blog posts. In those moments, I exist not as "convenience store owner ranked number X" but simply as someone creating, someone thinking.

In the past, you were only compared at reunions or gatherings. Once or twice a year—exchange business cards, ask "How are things?", part ways, and it's over. Don't go, and you simply avoid it. The rest of the time you were truly alone, and whether you turned on a game console or wrote a novel, no one knew.

But SNS destroyed this implicit rule. More precisely, it didn't destroy it—it made it operate 24/7. Now the SNS feed is an endless reunion. Friends post travel photos, coworkers post promotion news, college seniors post startup success stories. Even trying not to look, the algorithm pushes recommendations at you.

What's most terrifying is that even alone isn't solitude. Physically alone, but mentally constantly comparing yourself to others' achievements. Even taking alone time to find your pure self, that time itself becomes contaminated.

I have SNS accounts but barely use them. The updates or photos they post are ultimately just short stories. I know life is a novel.

7. AI Algorithms as the Perfect Companion

There's a reason people are enthusiastic about AI recommendation algorithms. TikTok, YouTube Shorts, Instagram Reels. With just a few clicks, content you want flows endlessly. You fall into the feeling: "I'm having this much fun all by myself."

But this is an illusion. You're not actually alone. An algorithm trained on tens of millions of people's data is constantly whispering beside you: "This is fun, right? Want to watch this too? I think you'll like that." What's more frightening is being unable to distinguish whether it's really your taste or a taste the algorithm trained you to have.

After watching TikTok for 3 hours, you think "Oh, I liked this kind of thing," but you can't know if that was originally your preference or a preference the algorithm taught you. It precisely hits the desire to avoid relationship fatigue while still receiving stimulation.

You don't want to be compared at reunions, don't want to read others' moods meeting friends, but being completely alone is lonely. The algorithm burrows into that gap, pretending to be the perfect companion saying "I won't judge you, I'll just show you what you like."

This is why art is used in psychotherapy. The act of drawing is pure self-confrontation without algorithms, others' evaluations, or comparisons. Just paper and you. Things that can't be expressed in words emerge. Saying "I'm depressed" versus drawing a picture covered in black are different depths.

And most importantly, it's expression without evaluation. The drawing doesn't have to be good, doesn't have to be meaningful, no one's watching. It won't be posted on SNS, won't receive likes. You just draw.

Writing 43 chapters at the counter is the same. I don't know if it'll be a bestseller, who will read it, but I'm writing. The process itself is healing.

8. A Talking Pencil—A Fairy Tale

So what is AI to me? If crayons and drawing paper are tools in art therapy, what kind of tool is AI to me?

Crayons and drawing paper are completely passive tools. Draw in red and a red line appears, but the crayon doesn't suggest "How about blue?" The paper just receives.

AI is different. When I ponder Oh Jin-hwa's next action, AI suggests "How about this direction?" In the process of writing 43 chapters of Yeongsenghwajegong, AI wasn't simply a typing tool but a conversation partner. An editor, a brainstorming partner, and sometimes a reader.

So AI is a talking pencil. This is unprecedented in history. When Tolkien or Jin Yong wrote martial arts novels, pen and paper never said "How about having this character act this way?" Hemingway's typewriter, Murakami Haruki's word processor—they silently received input.

But even so, the skeleton and soul of 43 chapters are mine. AI suggests sentences, but why Oh Jin-hwa makes that choice, what chapter 43 means in the overall 600-chapter structure—these exist only in my head. It doesn't control me like an algorithm, but it's not as neutral as a crayon either—an ambiguous existence.

It's like a fairy tale. We call Pinocchio coming alive a fairy tale, but a pencil talking is reality.

9. Blade's Lesson: The Answer Is Close By

I think of the vampire story in the movie Blade. Many Draculas and vampires appear, but ultimately Blade defeats them all. From ancient Dracula onward, what all vampires wanted was ultimately one thing: the ability to walk in daylight. They worked to find that ability, but ultimately Blade possessed it. The ancient vampire villain speaks at the end about the irony of searching far away while the answer was close by.

The vampires' real problem was seeing daylight only as a threat. Focusing only on "daylight kills us," "we must avoid sunlight," they missed that the method to coexist with daylight was right before their eyes.

AI is the same. Obsessing over "AI will steal my job," "AI will replace humans," "AI is dangerous," we miss AI's essence. AI is a talking pencil, an extended tool.

Did I become a less rich human because of AI while writing 43 chapters? I became richer. Same when creating the DVS formula, when writing blog posts. AI didn't replace me—it enabled me to reach depths I couldn't have reached alone.

The same happened during the Industrial Revolution. They smashed machines saying "machines steal jobs," but ultimately machines were tools, and people using those tools created more. The difference is this time the pencil talks. So it's more confusing, but the essence is the same.

The answer is close by, but we're only searching for threats far away.

10. Conclusion: Toward Completing Yeongsenghwajegong

It doesn't matter whether Yeongsenghwajegong becomes a bestseller or not. Looking back 40 years from now, the period when "ah, that's when I was most myself" will probably be now. Not in completion but in process, not in achievement but in longing—that's where the truest self emerges.

Of course, realistically speaking, it's contradictory. For men in their late 30s and 40s, "time to feel like yourself" isn't structurally given. Performing roles as owner, breadwinner, husband, father—there's no room to exist as your "pure self."

But here's the paradox: within that time lacking room, in that gap after working 59 hours and going home and taking care of family, I squeezed out and wrote 43 chapters. The "pure self" doesn't only appear when escaping roles—it seeps out through cracks between roles.

It's not that time separate from being convenience store owner, breadwinner, husband, father is given—it's that moment of sitting at the counter thinking "still, I need to write this" while performing all those roles.

Regardless of the novel's success, looking at the span of my life, perhaps this time writing Yeongsenghwajegong might be my most authentic moment. There's no time, yet I exist nonetheless.

And in that process, I completed 43 chapters conversing with a talking pencil. This is unprecedented in history. We're living in a strange era. All of us.

During the remaining 557 chapters, I'll continue changing. I'll leave the convenience store, turn 41, face new realities. And each time, rereading sentences past-me wrote, I'll discover "ah, so that's how I was then."

Writing is conversation with yourself. Past me, present me, future me meeting and conversing in the space of 600 chapters. And through that conversation, I gradually become a richer human being.

Whether the talking pencil is beside me or not, this journey will continue.