020. Light Novel Library

Jiang Yu stood up, wiped the water droplets from his body, put on his pajamas, and walked out of the bathroom. He went to the refrigerator in the living room, took out a carton of fresh milk, and took a big gulp. Then, carrying a bottle of barley tea, he headed back to his bedroom, ready to resume the writing he had just interrupted.

Now that he had made up his mind about the type of game he wanted to develop, the outline of a project proposal had already begun to take shape in his mind. It so happened that, back in his previous life during his first year at university, a casual remark during self-introduction—“I have a way with words”—had led to four years filled with all sorts of writing tasks, both useful and otherwise, and he had learned how to craft proposals that might or might not ever be useful again. Because of this, Jiang Yu had a good grasp of how to write a game proposal.

Clearing his mind of distractions, Jiang Yu devoted himself to his writing; soon, the only sound left in the room was the gentle tapping of his fingers on the keyboard. Before long, after finishing the sixth chapter of the original work “Oregairu” and starting the seventh, Jiang Yu stopped typing, picked up the barley tea from the desk, drank deeply, and exhaled a long sigh.

“Who knew playing the piano could be this exhausting?” With his back against the chair and head tilted up at the ceiling, he muttered to himself. The three hours he had spent at the piano had already surpassed his expectations, and now, after two more hours staring at the computer screen writing light novels, his fingers felt almost too stiff to move.

After a short break, seeing that it was nearly midnight, Jiang Yu decided not to keep writing. He turned off the computer and took out his phone to research how to get a light novel published.

Unlike online fiction, most light novel authors submit their work to various competitions; if they place well, publishers will reach out to arrange publication. Alternatively, authors submit directly to light novel imprints, and after passing editorial review, the work can be published. Recently, however, it has become common to first gain popularity online before submitting and publishing, but this method was not suitable for Jiang Yu, who needed to get published as soon as possible.

A quick Google search showed that the light novel market here in the island nation was still lush and thriving, but only a handful of top imprints stood out—familiar names from his previous life. Dengeki Bunko, Kadokawa Sneaker Bunko, and Fujimi Fantasia Bunko were the three largest light novel imprints in the country, often referred to by enthusiasts as “The Big Three.” Others, like Shogakukan, Kodansha, and Fushikawa, also enjoyed broad recognition, but compared to the Big Three, they lagged behind in public awareness, number of bestsellers, and international publishing channels.

All three major imprints were similar in scale; their main distinctions lay in the genres they preferred to publish.

Dengeki Bunko, for instance, published a wide array of genres, though their mainstay remained coming-of-age adventure stories for young boys. They also received the highest number of submissions, making them the hardest imprint to win an award from. Notably, Dengeki Bunko had begun by publishing novels adapted from ACG (Anime, Comics, Games) works, but had since become the imprint whose novels were adapted into ACG works most frequently. Their eagerness to animate and adapt novels into games was a defining trait. Well-known works like “Shakugan no Shana,” “A Certain Magical Index,” and “The Irregular at Magic High School” were all published by Dengeki Bunko.

Kadokawa Sneaker Bunko had a similar focus, also targeting young male audiences, but its emphasis on youth-oriented works was even more pronounced than Dengeki Bunko. Series like Gundam, the Haruhi Suzumiya novels, and “The Testament of Sister New Devil” all hailed from Sneaker Bunko.

Fujimi Fantasia Bunko, on the other hand, specialized in fantasy novels set in other worlds. Jiang Yu’s impression of this imprint was weaker, perhaps because fewer of their works had been adapted into anime. Even so, he was aware that both “Date A Live” and “Amagi Brilliant Park” were published under their banner.

As Jiang Yu read the summaries of each imprint, he frowned. Since “Oregairu” was a light novel aimed at young readers, the best options for publication were clearly Dengeki Bunko and Kadokawa Sneaker Bunko. He was confident that if he entered the newcomer awards for either imprint, “Oregairu” would stand out—it might not take first place, but a top ranking was virtually assured given its quality.

While its “unfortunate comedy” label might not be groundbreaking, in a market flooded with generic harem and slice-of-life stories that had become stale and formulaic, it still felt fresh. Moreover, the protagonist Hachiman Hikigaya stood head and shoulders above the crowd of passive or overpowered male leads; his self-deprecating remarks and deeply philosophical lines would surely win over countless fans. (Not to mention the angelic Saika—scratch that.) Jiang Yu himself had been drawn in by the protagonist’s quotable lines and had gone on to watch both the anime and read the original novels.

Later in the series, “Oregairu” even drifted away from its initial “unfortunate comedy” premise, transforming into an emotional rollercoaster that left countless readers hooked—painful, yet impossible to put down.

Here, allow the author to sincerely wish the protagonist and his group a spectacular downfall (just kidding). Well, let’s move on…

Right now, the light novel industry—and the broader ACG community—was saturated with clichéd works with similar settings, plots, and even character designs. You could often predict the entire story just from reading the beginning.

Meanwhile, works with genuine creativity often failed to attract enough readers due to less engaging plots, resulting in premature cancellation. Jiang Yu had heard Erina Akiyama complain more than once about how formulaic recent light novels had become, making it hard for her, as the famous blogger TAKI, to even write reviews.

That was why, last year, when Erina stumbled upon Shizuko Kasumi’s debut “Love Metronome,” she was ecstatic—not only did she binge-read it overnight at home, but she also raved about it to her otaku friends, and even heavily promoted it on her blog to help prevent it from being axed. After being recommended “Love Metronome” five times by Erina, Jiang Yu’s curiosity was finally piqued, so he bought and read it himself—and became a loyal fan of Kasumi.

Come to think of it, Jiang Yu vaguely remembered attending a signing event for either the second or third volume of “Love Metronome” with Erina. The memory was blurry, and he quickly gave up trying to recall the details.

In any case, both the former and current Jiang Yu had to admit that “Love Metronome” was a remarkable work, especially in its portrayal of the tangled emotions between the male lead and the two heroines.

However, what left Jiang Yu at a loss was that the two biggest youth-oriented light novel imprints had just recently wrapped up a newcomer award contest—less than a month ago, during spring break. If a novel wasn’t published through the newcomer awards, even if the editors and editor-in-chief believed in it, it wouldn’t receive much promotional support. Most light novel readers prioritized purchasing award-winning titles, since those works had already been vetted and clearly stood out.

Jiang Yu didn’t expect his debut to become an overnight sensation, but he didn’t want such an outstanding work in his eyes to be neglected because of the platform. Especially now that, ever since Umaru Doma had moved in, his finances had become increasingly strained. Although his part-time job brought in an extra 6,000 yen a day, he couldn’t expect to support both himself and his sister on that alone.

Never mind whether it was enough to support two people; setting aside the issue of how part-time work ate into his free time, there was also the matter of enjoyment. For Jiang Yu, making games and writing novels were far more enjoyable than playing the piano. Even if it was just for the sake of his ultimate dream—to one day live off a few successful works and do nothing else—he needed to (clench fists) produce something great as soon as possible (half-joking)…