Marielle Clarac's Engagement

Paul wasn't obsessed with female writers from the beginning either. His father was not so hard-headed that he had nothing to do with fierce discriminatory feelings, but he also did not have the shoulders of a special woman. I used to bully neighbor girls into crying when I was a kid (and then I got fist bones from my parents), and I'm still not looking to improve the status of women in general separately. Like many boys, women have grown up with the awareness that they don't get to be men where they are.

It was a book we met a decade ago that radically changed Paul's values like that. There was a portrayal of the protagonist living diligently while flirting in history, dealing with historical facts and real figures, mixing there subtle original elements with fictional figures.

The lively portrayal of people and the historic grand incident drove Paul boy's mind, but more importantly, he felt it was a story written around the woman's gaze. Moreover, she is not a privileged class such as nobility or royalty, but a poor girl who has come out from the countryside to work in the capital. Holding such characters in their protagonists, they still paint a solid picture of the times of unrest and make historical celebrities work as well. He was a very pensive author. At least, the public initially appreciated it. Powerful battlefield depictions and narrative emotional depictions also strongly attracted readers and became a masterpiece called All Nine Volumes.

In the final volume, the protagonist breaks up with her husband and ends up standing alone again. That's a paragraph, but it also leaves the impression that it's not enough. Nine is halfway there. They probably wrote one more book and headed to a true end.

But then there never came out ten volumes.

A little after the publication of the Nine Volumes, one newspaper reporter finally ablaze the identity of a mysterious author known only by the name of Andre Legrand, because he discovered that he was first a woman named Milene Ferrier.

So the public appreciation flipped at once.

He began to learn that a woman had written a novel, praising it when it was thought to have been written by a man. All I want to say is that it's a fairy tale that tends to be realistic and distant dreams, and it's all about how feminine and detailed it is, but it's a waste of writing every great piece of history on a kitchen scale. Indeed, the myth that an unschooled, poor daughter of rural origin is to be seen and married by a noble second son is somewhat absurd, but it is a novel, not a history book, so can we be somewhat distant? Says it's a convenient development for a woman, but it would be a convenient story for a man if he wrote it. each other. Paul thinks it shouldn't be a problem if it's an element that makes the story interesting. Even though there are many of those pieces that are tight, this novel is the only one that gets slapped. The reason, as I mentioned earlier, is because the author is a woman.

Of course, it was mostly men who had those terrible reviews. It was something they should never admit, such as having the power to produce excellent works for a woman who was supposed to be less than a man.

Many female readers continued their support, but it is the men who make and sell books. As a result, the ten volumes of illusion never show up in the world, and the author, Ms Ferrier, also remains unclear what happened afterwards.

Seeing such noise, the Paul boy was frightened when the adult stuck to the crap. Whoever the author is, why not if it's interesting, such as a book? What should I do with a reader who was thrown out on the brink, even though it seemed almost complete? What a good thing you did, it's something that seriously angered the newspaper reporter who was the culprit.

Since then, Paul has had a goal. Which editor will you be, and find Ms Ferrier and have her write the rest of the piece? I want to send the final roll out to the world with my own hands. There must be a lot of like-minded people who are forced to shut up by loud voices. We all wanted to have fun together.

But I was reminded as an adult that it wasn't going to be that easy in the world. Until I got a job at a major publisher and became an editor of the memorial, but all around me are still men who don't recognize women. I don't understand Paul's thoughts at all. They just scoff at strange men who want to put their shoulders in women and put out women's books, or maybe they have feminization aspirations, etc. I thought those involved in publishing would understand the value of that work, even if they could not speak publicly to their peeves, but even novel editorials who are supposed to be experts say the same thing as the public. Paul was deeply disappointed.

Still, I've suggested a number of plans to make a breakthrough somehow. Little by little in novel magazines, even small articles, trying to publish something for women and widen their mouths. I still don't have a female reader, but the majority are male readers. There is still a lot of room for exploration. I tried to convince the editor-in-chief to say I could increase sales more. I even let a man get used to it from that place, and eventually I thought of a female writer's book - but the prospects were still sweet.

The editor totally hated me and now treated me like a bastard useless. There are no days when people say they do their original business properly and contribute more to sales than anyone else in the editorial department, but they don't say they dislike it.

Even Paul knew it. In this publisher, Paul's ideals are elusive. They don't want to understand, rather than they don't. I avoid sticking out of old values and waving. If you sell out female writers or publish articles for women, many male readers will rebel. I'm not willing to dare try there and turn the world upside down. He thinks he should continue his tough business as it is now, turning away from Paul's persuasion and blocking his ears.

Somewhere, I had to cut it off. Paul and his surroundings remain uncomfortable as they are. But if you left, where would you go after that? Where can I serve my purpose? To the extent that he thought he could not stop earning without doing so, Paul was also an adult who couldn't live with all his dreams.

I stayed up a little late, so I had a sleepy morning.

Paul yawns down the stairs. A room on the third floor of a single-family house, which should no longer be on the verge of extinction, remains buried in the centre of Saint-Terre, where all the collective housing is located. Apartmen are built next door to each other, and small houses left in the gap cannot now be sold. The mother and her returning daughter stood up to each other and lived carefully in the estate of their deceased father.

My mother and daughter welcomed Paul to his boarding house, as there was much anxiety about living in the city. Because of the fringe that my father and the deceased were acquaintances, but it must be someone else's man in red. It would have been resistant to let them into a house just for two women and a toddler, even letting them have a comfortable living key. Of course he takes care of his meals, he even washes them. So the rent is cheap. Then even as Paul, I feel like rewarding them as much as I can for their kindness. Sometimes I get home late for work, but I tried to get home as early as I could and help with the house errands, of course, with the caution stick.

"Morning, Paul. Looks like Yube was up late."

When I entered the kitchen and dining room, my daughter Grace worked apron. It feels good to stir and move a good fleshy body. He loved his husband, who had a bad liquor habit and a rough money bill, and he came back with his son, who had just turned five, but he was always a cheerful, hospitable, nowhere to be bullied.

Seven are just seven years older than Paul, and they don't seem to be very aware of it as heterosexual. It would be a good place for my brother. No, they might be looking at me about my other son. It's easy to feel unconscious, but Paul was willing to spare me treating him in the same line as a five-year-old.

"Uh, sort of. Whoa, what about your mother?

"Marcel's got a fever, so they're looking at it."

"Is it terrible?

A plate of bacon and eggs is served before the pole where the old chair is pulled and seated. A little hardened bread would be a good enough breakfast if you put it on the rest of last night's stew.

"It's okay, because it happens all the time. I think it would calm me down if I slept for half a day, but if it's not okay at noon, I'll see Dr. Bruton. Looking to be late today?

"I don't know. I'll get Marcel some candy if I can get home early. When it's late, lock it up as usual and get some sleep first."

"Thank you. If I hear that, I'm going to get better fast."

Grace pouring coffee still has a bright smile. Paul also laughed and received and remembered the envelope he had placed instead.

"Yes, would you read this to me if you like. I simply want readership perceptions."

Grace asked slightly unexpectedly as she pushed the envelope of the manuscript she had deposited from Mariel.

"Am I supposed to show it to outsiders?

"This is not a work manuscript. I took it from the one who brought it in. I read it, too, but I think I need to know what women think. I don't need any flattery or care, so why don't you let me read it and listen to what I think?"

If asked on top of each other, Grace nodded and took up the envelope.

"Okay. Hurry?"

"Well, I promise I'll see you the day after tomorrow, if I can, by then."

"Fine, thanks for reading."

For the common man, books are a luxury. When it becomes a stand-alone book of fine attire, it also stretches its value, so only the wealthy can buy it. It was common to buy a relatively inexpensive magazine or newspaper and read a series of novels, or borrow them from a renter.

Paul thinks there's a new way of doing business around. We should not only make books for the rich, we should also make them more easy to buy. With lots of cheap and interesting books out there, more people will want to remember the letters. Even though improving the literacy rate is a story that I don't even hope for publishers, such consideration will not be made in the company. They make more money selling commodities to nobles and the wealthy than thinking about the business of the poor.

I guess that's not wrong, as one management strategy. But Paul thinks books are things that exist to entertain people. Or give knowledge, or be salvation. It has the power to appeal to the reader's mind. I would like to say that what matters more than anything is content, not props for the rich to tease their finances.

"There was a big fraud case in yesterday's paper, but you don't look into that at Paul's?

"It's not the paper we're selling, it's the novel."

"I know. You put that kind of article in a magazine, right?

"I don't know. I guess it depends on the editor's mood."

Drink up the coffee and Paul gets up. Considering that its editor-in-chief and I had to face each other again today, the refreshing morning also made me depressed once and for all. But I can't keep quiet. After completing his assignment quickly, he went to work as a diligent employee.

Head to your seat with greetings as usual. I put my stuff down and the first thing I reached for was a drawer that I had manuscripted yesterday. Begin printing steps today. It is necessary to specify all the layouts of what kind of structure to make the book first. I tried to take it out of the drawer to give it to the person in charge.

……

Paul frowned as he tried to unlock the drawer. I can't turn the key. I should have locked it tight and left yesterday, but the key was open.

I meant to call you, and you forgot? No, I did turn the key properly. I remember. I was talking to a colleague, but I didn't forget to lock it. I put my hand in the drawer and checked it out. Definitely.

Open the drawer, not knowing what it means. Anxiety manifested itself in an obvious form. The envelope that was supposed to be in there was missing.

Stupid, Paul pulled the other drawers one after the other in advance. Ordinary drawers without keys are packed with work tools, such as writing instruments and paperwork. There was no way to put the manuscript in, and scratching it around and retracting it naturally didn't come out.

What's going on? No way, was it stolen?

Stunned Paul looks up. I was paying attention to him. Paul spoke first to the man in the next seat.

"Bliss, was anyone working here after I left yesterday? Didn't you see the one with the drawer open?

"... come on, I don't know"

The little fat edit frowns annoyingly and returns cold. Regardless, Paul turned to the other editors one after the other, but the words to return were the same. Nobody knows, says he hasn't seen anything unusual or anything. All I could get was a response asking if there had been any other theft, but there was no sign of that.

"What are you fussing about? You lost the manuscript, Paul."

The editor who heard the noise came and scolded Paul.

"No, it was stolen. I put it in here yesterday, locked it and left, and now I see it, it was unlocked!

"I guess nothing else is gone. Then it's your mistake. Or is it your stomach to deceive me into losing what you stole?

"Is that a mistake! Indeed here - Theo, you saw it too!? I would have put the manuscript here yesterday!?"

My colleague yesterday, suddenly asked, shook his shoulder in surprise. Compare the faces of Paul and the editor and look away at them at random.

"Come on... I saw you put something in there..."

"You were talking about manuscripts!

"Ha, we talked, but I didn't see the contents... I don't know if it was really a manuscript..."

"... Theo?

Paul finally realized when he had a bad tooth cut tone. Weird. He's not confused, he's hiding something. He usually runs over to Paul first and worries, but he just turns away and mumbles. That's like a confession if you're curious.

"Theo-"

"Paul!"

The editor's strong voice caught Paul trying to clog him.

Turning to him, the editor-in-chief tells him off intimidating.

"Look at that, I knew you lost it. I know you're pretending to be stolen to hide it."

"No! I didn't lose it! I did take it yesterday and bring it back!

"You've done a hell of a lot to get rid of an important manuscript I've kept from a writer. How are you gonna end this?

"That's why I lost it."

"This is what happens because I think about all the good things. Plan what no one asks you to do and do what you have to do, if you are serious enough to only encourage your work."

"Say what... I'm doing my job right! I've never done anything wrong!

The editor of Fifty Rays laughed spirally at the mouth of his beard.

"So? What the hell are you gonna do? You want me to ask the writer to rewrite it? I can't extend the deadline."

"Oh no..."

Paul complains about words that are too one-sided and irrational just because he is a subordinate opponent he doesn't like. He can't just make personal mistakes, he's the one in charge. And yet I just nigga laugh to rejoice at Paul's failure, and I wonder what the hell he's thinking - and Paul realized. No, this was a planned interaction from the beginning. I knew in advance what would happen - no, I stole the manuscript in the first place.

…………

My head grew white in what was roughly incomprehensible. Paul just stares stunned at the winning and laughing editor. No matter how much, no matter how much Paul doesn't care - just because he can't wait to fire me - and set something up for it, I can't believe I'm taking this kind of means.

The fever rises on my whitened head. Something boiling also erupted from the bottom of his belly. I couldn't even think about containing it, and Paul was stepping out.

"Still an editor... there will be good and bad things to do because how blind I am. What do you think the manuscript that the writer wrote up is so rooted in!?"

"What are you talking about? Don't blame people for your failures."

"Don't be ridiculous! It's a manuscript I've reworked over and over and finally finished! It's not just a product for a writer, it's like being his own. You'd know if you were an editor, too. How dare you give it back! Where's the manuscript!? Give it back!

"Paul! No!

A colleague peels off the Paul grabbed by the editor in advance. The editor rang his nose and fixed the messy collar.

"You're the one who's got no proof to treat people like thieves. If it was locked, no one would be able to help it."

"You'd have a key! You can make as much as you want without it, you just have to mould it when I'm gone!

"Ha, if such a claim works, the killer can create as much as he wants. Whatever it is, you're the one who lost the manuscript. There's no point in reflecting on trying to impersonate responsibility by blaming others for that. I've also closed my eyes to a lot of defiant attitudes so far, but I just can't miss this. You're fired. I can't let you work here anymore, you're fired!

"Oh, here it is!

Paul shook off his coworker and punched his straw desk with his fist.

"Can you work any more under the kind of guy who gets his hands on the manuscript to kick me out! What book are you going to create by throwing away the pride and conscience of the editor!? Fire me, I'm leaving now! But before you do, return the manuscript! That's not mine or yours, it's a writer's work! Don't you think I'm sorry for the writer you trusted and deposited!? Give it back!

"- Hey."

Regardless of Paul hitting his wrath anymore, the editor ordered the other men to crouch their chins.

"Kick him out."

"As long as you return the manuscript, you don't have to bother kicking me out. I'll get you out of here! So get the manuscript."

"Po, Paul, tell him not to do it anymore."

"Theo, can you forgive this!? Does your conscience not hurt!? Bliss, Daniel, everyone too......"

Paul looks indoors and complains to his colleagues. But the gaze that returns was just terribly cold.

Nobody but Theo right next door looks at it with a white face without showing upset or anything. Instead of showing suspicion and disgust with the editor, Paul is the one who just says it's bad. Everybody thinks Paul lost the manuscript? Even so, it seems a little surprising and confusing. This is also cold, calm and unpredictable. A few sober thoughts also returned to Paul's head, who was mad, making him understand that one editor was not the enemy. It is not. Everyone in this editorial department - even if Theo wasn't, everyone else thought well of Paul.

Following the editor's instructions, all two of them come close to Paul. I didn't even speak up and dragged him with my arms from both sides without question. Paul's protests and so on were completely ignored.

The editor's voice throws fun at Paul, who is taken out.

"It's only natural for me to get a retirement pension. It's your fault, so why don't you take responsibility for paying off the writer? You think I'm sorry, don't you? If you have a conscience, you won't refuse, will you? I'll make you an invoice, so get your money and wait."

"- Fuck you, you shameless!!"

Those who marvel at Paul being dragged in a twitch, those who look strange, are taken out as they gather different gazes. A visitor who happened to witness added to his awkward face.

"I don't know about that."

It was the president of this publishing house who was walking down the hall with me. He was the one who wanted to hear what it was.

"No, I'm sorry for the noise. Probably the one who came to complain."

Hide your inner rush and say the right thing. I snuck eyes on my men and sent them to look into it.

"I make magazines and stuff, and sometimes people complain about the content. Mostly it's just an argument."

…………

The well-dressed old gentleman silently drops off a distant noise about what he thought of the president's excuse. The president would then be informed of the circumstances, but he did not order a detailed investigation and of course did not reprimand the editor. I just heard that you fired one of the employees at the bottom of the line, and I can't keep him off the hook. Paul's disposition was left to the clerical side, which was forgotten early from the president's head.

Only the bag I brought today can be thrown at Paul, who was thrown out on the road outside. Paul was not allowed to take what he had left at his desk, but made a noise in front of him and tried to bite his lips with a cold, closed door.