The courage to speak of oneself

One of the commonalities shared by Kim Byeongwoon's novels is the feeling of lying to oneself, harboring a kind of dissonance. The protagonists, who are putting up an act or writing a novel, feel powerless because they believe they are hiding their true selves. They are disgruntled with the complacent portrayal of the LGBTQ that surrounds them. To escape this sense of powerlessness and frustration, they need to bring their own lives into the story. They need to express themselves and say what is wrong out loud. As anger, anxiety, liberation, fear, and endless self-censorship intertwine, the narrators decide not to hide, run away, or avoid any longer, but to step out into the light. They decide to say, "Not like this. It can't go on like this." (from "Left Behind in the Night") And when in self-doubt, they do not avoid it and "choose my place to lie down.”. (from "Yoon Kwang-ho") The author's words become one with the persistent courage of these characters: "I couldn't just watch novels becoming increasingly irrelevant to life, so I put more of myself and my life in the novel."

“It would be good if you’d write about us”

My story becomes our story. As someone who writes and speaks about LGBTQ+ identities, I am not free from ignorance and hatred towards LGBTQ+ people. Just as it is difficult to write about myself, one has to be careful when speaking about others. However, when this hesitation is met with the resolute response that the novel you will write is a story about an encounter relevant to all of us and therefore not just yours, ("Things We Say While Waiting"), the question of who gets to write ceases to matter, and only the writer's courage and intense contemplation remain. The connection between me and us becomes evident over time. A letter addressed to Mr. Yoon Kwang-ho, who predicted that I would write a novel revealing my identity, is a belated thank you to the man who provides me with courage by the fact of their mere existence ("Yoon Kwang-ho"). The journal recording the death of a friend I couldn't even mourn is a letter of condolence for those who live on in my story ("September is a Prayer for the Distanced"). These intimate forms of novels are stories that help us remember whose gone by- both mine, and ours.

Humor that sits amidst a close-but-distant relationship

Family is the closest and, at the same time, the most distant relationship. The characters in the novel fulfill their duties by attending a relative's wedding and exchanging jokes with their mother, but they have never been completely honest in front of their family. The relationship is as intimate as it is difficult. The charm of Kim Byung-woon’s family stories lies in the sly humor that arises from this contradictory distance.

When the protagonist makes a slip of the tongue in front of their mother, who seems to guess their sexual identity but pretends not to know, saying, "I like Namja (men) better than sweet potatoes. No, I mean gamja (potatoes)..." ("Some Novels End Like This"), or when they retort to their cousin who advises them not to get married, "What are you saying? I'm going to get married too." ("From 11 to 1 in Daegu"), or when they reflect on how much of a privilege it is to be able to choose not to marry after hearing their mother complain that she doesn't want to be tricked again into marriage ("Nights That Seem Familiar and Most Ends"), readers laugh at the casual conversations and then ponder about the meanings.

The stories sensitively detect differences and conflicts with others without ignoring them, depicting them with humor and laughter, which gives the stories their own strength. These stories reliably convey comfort to readers in proportion to the warmth of the laughter they evoke, and they ultimately bring about change through the gaps that humor opens.