As someone who spins Korean into song, I have often worked with translators. Depending on the scope and timing of my ventures, my lyrics have been translated into English, Japanese, Mandarin, and French. While reading and writing in these languages is difficult for me, working abroad has taught me to understand and speak them, which I attribute to having good ears as a musician. I mostly use text-to-speech (TTS) technology when digesting documents that have been exchanged for work overseas, since I can understand what is being said even if I cannot understand what has been written. When sending responses, I use speech-to-text (STT) technology, converting the sound of my voice into words. (This does mean that, sometimes, words that sound similar to the ones I used but carry different definitions are sent instead.) 

I now use on a daily basis the TTS and STT technologies I began to utilize to listen to and speak foreign languages, even when using Korean. After I was diagnosed with a rare eye condition in 2023 and underwent three surgeries, it became impossible to correct my vision, and STT technology became indispensable to me. I now must rely on my ears for tasks I used to tackle with my sight. My vision wavers greatly depending on my condition, so sometimes I find myself reading one-third of a book before my eyes glaze over, making the letters blur. To find out what happens next, I have to rely on an audiobook. However, listening to an automated TTS instead of a human voice is very different from reading a book on your own. Imagining the voice of the author while mechanical tones are relentlessly driving into your eardrums does take some training and getting used to. Gone are the pauses that would exist if the author were reading their work to you, or if you were reading it yourself; gone are the lengthy stops you would make when coming across certain words and the space you would give yourself to inspect the pregnant gaps between each word. Everything that the author and editor would have painstakingly considered vanishes, such as the ease with which you would have turned the page or started a new paragraph, and all you are left with are short beats that hang briefly between each letter. TTS models lack lungs. So, without the need to breathe, all they do is faithfully carry out their duties. However, even when assailed by words that are tossed toward me at breathtaking speed, I am moved to let out exclamations of surprise. Dazzling words elbow their way through the sounds of functionality and reach my body. I am no longer perturbed by the grating and stiff texture of the sound by which the words are being conveyed to me; instead, the images that have blossomed in my head comb through my consciousness and take me to places I have never explored before. Some stories will, whatever the obstacles, command your attention. Some books are marvelous that way. 

Hoyoung, the author of Never Mind, is the translator who worked on the English lyrics for my three studio albums, and the translator with whom I have conversed the most. Working with them made me acutely, painfully aware that translating is not merely a technique, but an act of art and literature. Even before meeting Hoyoung, I commissioned various translators to work on short passages, longer pieces of writing, and lyrics. When I was still inexperienced in the art of commissioning translations, all I would do was gratefully use the work the translators had completed. However, after cultivating a knack for languages, I wanted to collaborate with a translator with whom I could speak in depth. That search led me to Hoyoung, who had contributed to chogwa, an e-zine that featured one Korean poem and several English translations. 

As a child, Hoyoung spent some time living in the US. But—or perhaps for that very reason—the Korean they use in their writing is exceptionally beautiful. When they paint detailed pictures of their past experiences, I lose myself in those beautifully precarious words. The reader is presented with a veritable feast of carefully constructed sentences that evoke the physicality and voices of a younger Hoyoung, whose identity revolved around ambiguity and imperfection, and of the people in their orbit. As those sentences weave into Hoyoung’s stories, drawing vivid scenes from their life, one continues to run into beautiful phrases that challenge one’s preconceived notions of the Korean language. 

Most of Hoyoung’s life, except their time as a youth, remains opaque. I do not know if it would be accurate to say that this is because they are transgender. In Never Mind, “trans” is mentioned over 150 times. The words “woman” or “female” appear approximately 160 times, while “men” or “male” can be spotted around 100 times. “I” makes 260 appearances. Probably what Hoyoung wanted to explain best by writing this book was their own identity. Even so, the book is titled Never Mind. There must have been days when they did not want to be perceived by others, days when they had to say, “Never mind,” and disregard the words and pronouns used to explain themselves. 

Many of the people whom I have met who have a delicate way with words became expert wordsmiths in order to explain themselves. They wished to explain their thoughts and bodies, which, in conventional society, were categorized and perceived as “odd.” They respected the ever-surprising power of language while also remaining wary. In a world full of sexers who are quick to label others’ genders in less than three seconds—“Ma’am, the women’s fitting room is over that way”—some people with ambiguous and odd bodies mull over which words would best describe themselves, but the time they are given is far too short. Depending on how much energy or attention they wish to expend, they may choose to remain silent in those moments.

“Why do you make life hard for yourself?” Hoyoung answers this question by saying, “Because this is how I become more defined.” If you wished to fit Never Mind into certain categories, you could say that certain chapters are more like poems, while others are like plays, essays, or prose poems. If you wanted to put labels on the book, you could say that it is an amalgam of various genres. Whatever its genres, this book flows naturally, its content gently permeating its readers. Days when Hoyoung follows their grandmother’s recipe to steam pumpkin leaves to make namul; when they, as a child, wanted to pummel the life out of their friends for refusing to eat soy milk noodles; when they danced in their favorite spot in a club; when their cat, Q, bit the tender skin of their ankles; when they wished that they lacked physicality; when all they wanted to say was never mind; when they wanted to define themselves. All these days are days owned by Hoyoung. 

What is certain is that Hoyoung is alive and exists right here, right now. And there are readers avidly hoping that Hoyoung will continue to live in ambiguity and safety, penning many more books of fierce beauty.