When people ask what I do, I tell them I work in publishing. The predictable follow-up is almost always, “Isn’t publishing a tough business?” Everything they say is fair enough, but I find myself sizing up how much the relationship matters before deciding whether to give a real answer or just nod along.
The statistical view outsiders take of the industry resonates with me on plenty of points. But is there any industry that isn’t hard? Talk of a downturn, and grumbling about one’s own work, surely came out of someone’s mouth even in the boom years. Still, writing off a line of work before asking whether you’re actually a fit for it may be a hasty call.
A generalist’s curiosity turned out to suit publishing
I work in publishing because I genuinely believe it suits me—not because I love reading, and not because I love books as objects. It’s because I’m the kind of person who would rather range across many fields than dig deep into one. I get a real thrill out of exploring different subjects, learning them firsthand, and meeting the experts and creators behind them. Editing manuscripts from people wrestling with their fields on the ground, observing their industries and trying to forecast where they’re headed—through all of it, I feel my own knowledge expanding and converging, and I feel myself becoming a better person. There’s a particular joy in that.
Aquascape Class began with a simple curiosity: in a bleak urban environment, wouldn’t everyone want a “garden in a tank” inside their home? The FPV Racing Drone Bible started in December 2016, when I discovered a whole new domain beyond toy drones and first met the author at the Gwangnaru airfield on the Han River. Seeking out the author, signing them on, building up the knowledge, shaping it into a book, and then promoting it—through that entire process I learned a great deal myself. And each of those authors is now firmly building a league of their own within their field.
What woodworking taught me
Beyond making books, I’ve taken up a few crafts on my own—a year of pottery, six months of woodworking. But I gave them up, unsettled by a strange unease in these creative pursuits that demand your hands, your stamina, and your whole self poured into making something.
Woodworking was exactly that. Three hours once a week for two months, and all I had to show for it was a single wooden mallet. In tuition, that came to roughly a million won (about $750) for one wooden mallet. You could call it a learning cost, of course, since I did pick up the skill—but I’m someone far more interested in producing efficiently by machine than in carving things out one at a time. That’s when I learned this about myself: I value productivity and efficiency, and I can’t feel satisfied when the output is small relative to the time and effort it took.
I care less about making the book than about what comes after it
This temperament shapes how I approach publishing, too. I don’t think of making a single book as creating a work of art. What I want, far more, is to watch a book change a reader’s life.
So when I meet an author, we discuss not just structure and concept but everything that comes after publication. I’ll send you all the review copies you want, I tell them—just please, get famous. It’s not that famous people should write books; publishing’s job is to make people famous through their books. If a book comes out and the author’s life changes, and readers who read it go on to meet the author, and people start moving and connecting around knowledge-based content—without the joy of watching that unfold, I’d go so far as to say publishing loses its meaning entirely.
That’s why I inevitably drift apart from authors who don’t share this view. The standard by which a publisher keeps supporting an author is clear: is this someone who shares a common vision and works tirelessly to build activity around the book? I try to judge whether the book’s publication ends as a personal life souvenir, or whether it becomes a vital axis for continually widening relationships through that knowledge.
I want to make tools, not art objects
Some people won’t agree with this view, and I understand that. There are clearly domains that call for craftsmanship, and I know there’s value in making things one at a time. I also understand that publishing fields like literature run on exactly the opposite philosophy from mine.
That said, when something has only aesthetic value and no practical use, it belongs to the realm of art. What I want to make isn’t an art object for the few, but something many people can find useful. So I want the books Libretto publishes to become tools that change people’s lives. Seeing that transformation firsthand, and absorbing it for myself, is the reason I’m in publishing—and the direction Libretto is trying to move in. So to anyone who dreams of publishing a book, I’d urge you to think first not about the book itself, but about what comes next. A souvenir is a one-time pleasure, but the experience of expanding your relationships becomes an investment that opens up the next opportunity.
