6:50 a.m. By the time my morning alarm rings, my wife has already left for work on her bike. I’d like to stay in bed longer, but my day awaits. I listen to the news on my phone while preparing my son and daughter’s breakfast. My daughter is twenty years old, and my son is in his last year of high school. Once everyone is ready to go, we get in the car and I pull out of the parking lot.

        Every morning on the way to work, I call my father. He tends a small farm in the countryside. There are spinach and potatoes in his greenhouse, beehives at the end of his mid-sized crop field, and ten chickens in a coop by his shed. I call him on the way to drop off my kids, putting him on speakerphone so he can hear his grandchildren’s voices. When I ask how his annual health exam went, he responds flatly. “It doesn’t make any difference anyway.”

        The road is busier than usual, and I’m getting nervous that I’ll be late. Luckily, the traffic signals are on my side. I drop my son off at his high school and my daughter, who’s severely autistic, at the station, where she’ll take the subway to the community welfare center.

        Finally, it’s time to go to work. At the stoplight, my mind drifts to the novel I couldn’t finish yesterday. The protagonist is a high schooler preparing for a debate that will be broadcast on a radio show. Today, I have to make the final touches to the debate scene. Will it end with a triumphant victory, or without a clear winner? I imagine the protagonist’s nervous expression as she climbs the stairs to the radio station. She’s going to win, I decide as the traffic light turns green.

        After passing the intersection, I drive for another ten minutes until I reach the vicinity of an apartment complex, and a run-down elementary school building comes into view. Pouring out of the crosswalks, a herd of elementary school children moves toward the school’s front gate. I cautiously pull into the parking lot. This school building is where I teach a class of twenty-four sixth graders.

        Readers who come to my author meet-and-greets sometimes ask me which identity is more important to me, teacher or author. I respond that both identities hold equal importance, even adding one more to the mix: I’m not only an author and a teacher, but also the parent of a child with a disability.

        I enjoy writing. I also enjoy being around kids. And I enjoy spending time with my daughter. I’ve been an author for nearly nine years now, an elementary school teacher for twenty-three, and a parent to my daughter for twenty. Writing never gets any easier, but I’ve grown more seasoned through the years. My morning commute is easy enough, and when I step into a class full of students, every day is different.  And while my wife and I have had some hard times while caring for our daughter, we made it through the worst of it a few years ago. Sometimes I think about all I’ve been through up until this point. Over the years, there have been times when I’ve gotten overwhelmed by the stress of writing novels, teaching, and even parenting.

        When I step into the classroom, I immediately spot one of my male students sitting in the front row, writing something in a workbook.

        “What are you up to?” I ask him.

        He looks up a bit awkwardly.

        “Homework.”

        “Homework? I didn’t assign any.”

        “It’s from cram school.”

        He’s working on a problem sheet meant for middle schoolers.

        “Isn’t it a bit early for homework?”

        “I have a lot to do.”

        I set my bag down on my desk and glance back at the student. His puffy eyes tell me he didn’t get much sleep.

        “That can’t be easy,” I say, trying to sound comforting.

        “I’ve been doing this for two years, so it’s not so bad now,” he replies coolly.

        I see.”

        My response feels hollow. I get settled at my desk and scan the rest of the classroom. Thankfully, more students seem to be playing than studying. Ten years ago, there might have been a handful of students in each class who attended cram school. Now, all but a few spend their evenings and nights sitting through afterschool classes. Some of them even study middle and high school material while still in elementary school. All this is done in the hopes of getting good grades and getting accepted to prestigious universities. Whether up close or from a distance, it’s always saddening and frustrating to observe the way South Korean society pressures elementary school kids to prepare for the college entrance exam.

        Polarization is occurring on all fronts of South Korean society. Nine out of ten students attend high school with the goal of going to college. While an overwhelming majority hope to be admitted to a university in Seoul, only a small percentage are. Parents are frustrated with curricula that overemphasize the college entrance exam, but pressure their children just the same because they’re worried about their futures. I’ve heard that English-immersion kindergartens for children three and up are booming, and heard of dual-income households in which one spouse spends their entire month’s wages on private education.

        Triggered by looming anxiety about the future, parents of elementary schoolers push their children to start studying for the entrance exam as soon as they enter middle school—regardless of whether they’re any good at studying. Once their kids reach high school, they burn through their savings paying for private tutoring and compete fiercely with other parents to ensure their child’s success. High schools practically revolve around the top ten percent of students with the highest grades. While not all students experience the worst of this cut-throat culture, countless youths across the country grow up under the pressure to perform well academically and be accepted into prestigious universities.

        The classes I teach, however, have very little to do with the entrance exam. First period is language arts. Last week, we had a class on poetry. I prefer to teach using fiction instead of textbooks, and this week I’m going to be sharing a novel I wrote. I hand out one copy to each student, then read aloud from the front of the class. I read with feeling and emotion, switching voices when the characters change. I try to capture the rhythm of each sentence. The students see the words, listen to my voice, and quietly ponder the occasional questions I throw in as they recreate the scenes and characters in their mind’s eye. Since I use the novels I write in my classes, I don’t consider my writing and teaching to be completely separate from each other.

        A bell tone plays from the ceiling speaker, announcing recess. I give my students extra break time as a reward for their good attitude during class, and the rigid classroom atmosphere instantly turns bright and airy. I take a cool sip of water to soothe my throat, which is sore from reading.

        My gaze settles on my class of twenty-four students, all reclining in their seats and enjoying the break. I scan the room to see if the students are getting along with one another and whether anyone looks gloomy or under the weather. Hardly a month has passed since the new semester began. The boy who was doing homework earlier is now sitting on the floor playing a board game with his friends. The girls are gathered in a circle, playing duck-duck-goose. There isn’t a single student in my class who doesn’t strike me as adorable. It hits me that I’ll be spending the rest of the year with these kids. How will it feel to send them off on graduation day?

        I’ve turned my attention to the schoolwide messenger app on my computer when a student approaches my desk.

        “That was so fun,” she says.

        “What was?” I ask, knowing full well what she means.

        “Reading your book.”

        “Really? It wasn’t too difficult?”

        “Yeah. I like your books.”

        South Korean youth literature, comprised of young adult and children’s literature, is neatly categorized by the age of its target readers. First and second graders read elementary children’s books, third and fourth graders read intermediate children’s books, fifth and sixth graders read advanced children’s books, middle and high schoolers read young adult novels, and so on. But kids who enjoy reading seem to disregard those guidelines entirely. High-level sixth grade readers tend to pick up young adult books, and occasionally I’ll see one of my students bring in a book written for adults.

        After finishing my classes for the afternoon, I quickly pack up and walk to my car. I’m anxious to get back home to my daughter, who will be home alone after coming back from the welfare center. I drive home as fast as I can and swing open the front door.

        “I’m home!”

        My daughter rushes over and squeezes me in a bear hug. We both break into laughter, relieved to see each other home safe. The next thing we do together is prepare dinner. We’d spent the night before excitedly discussing what we wanted to eat and prepping ingredients for dinner. Two nights ago we had shrimp cream pasta, and yesterday we enjoyed some dumpling soup. Today’s menu is dried pollack tofu soup with an omelet on the side.

        By the time my daughter and I are finished setting the dinner table, my wife and son arrive back home. My son’s looked much more relaxed ever since admitting that he didn’t plan to go to college. Studying for the entrance exam just wasn’t for him. He said once he graduates high school he wants to become a firefighter. There have been moments when I worried about his decision to forgo college, but my feelings have changed since then. Ever since he set out on a career path that didn’t entail a college education, he’s regained an air of warmth and kindness I haven’t seen in him since he was a kid.

        “I’m going to get some writing done, so hang out with your mom in the meantime,” I tell my daughter, who is washing dishes alongside her mother. She nods in response, and I’m relieved to see that her face looks peaceful and content. Leaving my daughter in my wife’s care, I step out of the house.

        At a local café, I sit down and open my laptop. I left the house at 6:30 p.m. Now, it’s time to write. The protagonists of the novel I’m working on are siblings of children with disabilities. These kids come of age seeing their siblings grapple with disabilities while simultaneously navigating the world of people who are not disabled. It’s a story about young people beginning their adolescent years while coming to terms with conditions that are outside of their control.

        After I submit this book to the publisher, my next novel will center on the competitive culture surrounding the college entrance exam. For the past two weeks, I’ve been flipping through research material and conducting interviews on the topic. But all the while I’ve been unable to fight off a feeling of heaviness in my heart, like I’ve been staring into a dinosaur’s cold, reptilian eyes.

        Whenever I write fiction about young protagonists, the first emotion that hits me is guilt. Although school life in South Korea has improved in certain ways, other aspects have only become more severe. Thinking about the state of our society now always makes me feel sorry for the kids born into these troubled times. Yet, I still want to offer them encouragement. I want to tell them that no matter how dismal the world around them may seem, they have ownership over their lives. Sometimes when I’m writing my novels, the word “wild” comes to mind. I often want to see moments when my protagonists are possessed by a fierce, untamed resoluteness. Because even if a kid can somehow get through their troubled adolescent years, they’ll undoubtedly face more challenges in the future. We know all too well that life doesn’t get any easier as an adult.

        I remember the day of last year’s graduation ceremony. I was watching the graduating students’ pre-ceremony performance. As each graduating class ascended the stage to perform a ukulele ensemble, one male student next to me stayed glued to his seat. His mother was next to him, holding his hand and crying. Her son was on the autism spectrum, and he was refusing to go on stage. Seeing this reminded me of my daughter during her own sixth-grade graduation. At the time, I desperately wished that she could somehow live her life without autism, but as time passed it became clear that she was always going to be a bit different from others her age.

        I knew what that crying mother was feeling in that moment. As cheerful ukulele melodies and rhythmic clapping resounded throughout the ceremony hall, I approached the mother and her son.

        “I teach at this school. My daughter attended the special education class here, and she graduated six years ago. I can imagine how you’re feeling right now.”

        The mother put her hand over her mouth and nodded. She seemed to be saying something in response, but I couldn’t make out the words. I told her to hang in there, assuring her that our kids would grow up to be as happy and healthy as any others, and that great things awaited them. When she started to break into sobs, I couldn’t help but do the same.

        To me, life is frightening and uncertain. I never expected to become a parent to a child with a disability. I’m certain that was the case for that mother as well. Our children will face so many uncertain events and unpredictable hardships in their lifetimes. I can’t help but think to myself: what kind of fiction would be meaningful to those children?

        I finish writing for the day and head home. Upon my arrival, my daughter rushes to the door and pulls me into a hug. She’s evidently been waiting for me to come home. She tells me how glad she is to see me and how happy she is. After changing into her pajamas, she jumps into bed and waits for me to say goodnight before going to sleep. After getting ready for bed, I go into her room. I check which classes she has at the welfare center tomorrow and make sure she doesn’t forget anything at home. We decide on tomorrow’s dinner, search for recipes, and watch cooking tutorials videos together—our daily bedtime ritual.

        After everything is settled, my daughter looks up at me with contentment in her eyes.

        “Kiss my forehead, please.”

        Each night when I press my lips to her smooth forehead, I say the same thing.

        “I love you.”

        “Love you, too.”

        Her sweet response makes me smile. When I close her bedroom door behind me, it’s 11:30 p.m. This is how every one of my days ends. I open my laptop on the dining table in hopes of wrapping up a scene I started at the café, but find I don’t have any motivation left.

        “That’s enough now, let’s go to sleep,” my wife calls  from our bedroom.

        With a single yellow lamp turned on, the living room looks especially cozy. I try to focus on the manuscript open onscreen, but I just can’t. I briefly think about tomorrow, when I will repeat the same routine. My mind reflects on tomorrow’s classes, tomorrow’s dinner, tomorrow’s novel. Suddenly, I remember something my dad said this morning.

        “People are born into this life to live as hard as they can.”

        I realize that his words describe the life I’m living now. I’m very fortunate. I’m lucky enough to do work I like and that I’m good at, and I’m surrounded by people I love. I love working—and sometimes the work I do even gives me strength. No neat borders separate my jobs of teaching, parenting, and writing. Like artwork made with paint marbling, each component of my life blends into the others to form a single pattern.

        I don’t mind this way of living. I get the feeling that the novels I write tomorrow will be informed by what I experience today. I sometimes wonder how many more stories I’ll write, whether I’ll still be writing past the age of sixty, whether my stories will stand the test of time and for how long—all pointless worries.

        The everyday is enough for me. I write about life the way I live it.

Translated by Julie Wi

Moon Kyeong-min won the JoongAng New Writer’s Award for his novella Mr. Bear’s Cave. He was awarded the 2023 Honbul Literature Award for Worlds We Must Protect, the Munhakdongne Young Adult Literature grand prize and the 2022 Kwon Jeong Saeng Literature Award for his novel Flutter, and the grand prize in the Bang Jeong-hwan Foundation’s Dasaesseu Writing Competition for his full-length work Uturi Hanarin.