Chapter 3: Unemployed Shut-In. Becomes a Writer? (3)
A week after his call with Kim Dong-su, the production team leader at W Film, Kim Si-woo arrived at the designated café for their meeting.
“Hello, I’m Kim Si-woo.”
“Hi! Kim Si-woo, the writer. I’m Kim Dong-su, production team leader at W Film.”
They exchanged greetings, and Kim Dong-su handed over his business card. But Kim Si-woo, a freshly minted writer still living the unemployed life, didn’t have one to offer in return.
“Haha… I don’t have a business card…”
“That’s fine. Please, have a seat. What would you like to drink? My treat, so feel free to order something expensive.”
“Oh… I’ll have a blueberry smoothie, then. Coffee doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Alright, just give me a moment.”
Kim Si-woo felt a bit flustered by Kim Dong-su’s excessive kindness as he sat down. Meanwhile, Kim Dong-su was growing anxious, worried that Kim Si-woo might have received offers from other production companies.
“I’ll take one blueberry smoothie, please.”
As the café staff prepared the order, Kim Dong-su was relieved he’d chosen a quiet place with few customers. Returning with the smoothie, he sat down and spoke to Kim Si-woo with a warm smile.
“I really enjoyed reading your script. Not just me—the other production team members and even the president agreed.”
“Thank you.”
“If it’s alright with you, we’d like to discuss terms and proceed with a contract. What do you think?”
“I… I’d like that.”
“Here’s the contract. Feel free to read through it and ask me about anything you don’t understand.”
Kim Si-woo took the contract from Kim Dong-su’s bag and began reading it carefully.
The first thing that caught his eye was the advance: 5 million won. Compared to the budgets for films or actors’ fees, it was a paltry sum. But for Kim Dong-su, it was significant.
A script written In just two months selling for 5 million won.
That was 2.5 million a month—more than minimum wage. Better yet, since the advance was 10% of the total, as long as the film wasn’t canceled, he’d earn 50 million won. For a rookie writer, that was a hefty price. After all, countless scripts went unsold. Still, a small spark of ambition flickered within Kim Si-woo.
‘I’ll make it big and make them compete for my work next time…’
But for now, he was firmly in the weaker position. He needed to take what was offered and focus on building his career. The contract didn’t contain any shady clauses, like claiming ownership of the script’s copyright or secondary rights.
With the moment to sign approaching, Kim Dong-su swallowed hard.
But instead of signing, Kim Si-woo’s pen paused, and he spoke up.
“Um, can I ask one thing?”
“Yes, of course!”
“It’s about the advance…”
At the mention of the advance, cold sweat began to trickle down Kim Dong-su’s back.
“Is it not to your satisfaction? It’s the average for new writers, but…”
“No, I understand that. But… could we possibly increase the profit-sharing percentage?”
The mention of profit sharing made Kim Dong-su sweat even more. He couldn’t read the intent behind Kim Si-woo’s steady gaze.
‘What? Has he already gotten a better offer from somewhere else? One with a higher profit share?’
Jumping to conclusions, Kim Dong-su stood up abruptly.
“Just a moment. Can I step out to call the president?”
“Oh… sure.”
Seeing Kim Dong-su’s expression harden, Kim Si-woo wondered if he’d made a mistake bringing up the profit share.
“Hyung! I mean, President, we’ve got a problem.”
Kim Dong-su hurriedly discussed the situation with Park Chan-young over the phone. If Kim Si-woo had received a better offer elsewhere, they couldn’t afford to lose a promising project—especially not when the company was already on shaky ground. As filmmakers, they couldn’t let this slip. After their discussion, Park Chan-young made a decision.
- Five percent… No, up to seven percent max. No more than that.
“Got it, President.”
With permission to raise the profit share, Kim Dong-su returned to Kim Si-woo with a smile.
“How much were you thinking?”
Kim Si-woo could tell Kim Dong-su’s smile wasn’t entirely genuine.
This was business, after all. If he gained something, someone else lost out. It was time to negotiate. How much he asked for could either please or trouble the other side. From his online research, the average profit share ranged from 5% to 10%.
‘So…’
“Five percent. Is that possible?”
“Alright.”
“What? Oh… okay.”
Surprised that his request was accepted so quickly, Kim Si-woo amended the contract to reflect a 5% share of net profits and signed it.
Five percent of the movie’s net profits.
If the film flopped, it’d be worthless, but if it succeeded, the payout could be massive.
“Well then, I look forward to working with you.”
“Yes, just trust me.”
“Oh, and one personal request…”
“Go ahead.”
With the contract signed, Kim Dong-su felt at ease.
“Is it possible to visit the set?”
“The set? Hmm…”
“I’m just curious about how filming works. If it’s a burden, it’s okay.”
Seeing Kim Dong-su’s hesitant reaction, Kim Si-woo quickly backtracked, but Kim Dong-su clarified.
“No, it’s not that. You can visit if you’d like. In fact, you should probably check out as many sets as you can.”
“Oh… alright.”
“I’ll be in touch soon.”
After parting ways with Kim Dong-su, Kim Si-woo felt a strange unease.
‘Will the movie actually get made? Why do I feel so off? Did I mess up by mentioning the profit share…? No, in this cutthroat world, if I don’t stay sharp, someone else will snatch my bowl.’
Through mutual misunderstandings, a remarkable deal for a rookie writer was finalized.
***
Two weeks later
While serializing a web novel from home, Kim Si-woo was stressed about his increasing hair loss.
“Man… I’ve always shed a lot, but not this much…”
Was it because his sleep schedule had been disrupted by sitting and writing all day? Or was it a vicious cycle—stress from seeing his hair fall out causing more hair to fall out?
Sighing at his increasingly pronounced M-shaped forehead, Kim Si-woo tried to console himself. ‘No one in my family has baldness, but my forehead’s definitely M-shaped…’ With that thought, he resumed typing.
With about 20 episodes of his web novel stockpiled, he was preparing to start serializing when his phone rang.
“What’s this?”
Seeing a Seoul area code, he thought it might be a production company and answered.
“Hello?”
- Hi! Is this Writer Kim Si-woo?
“Oh… yes.”
- This is Studio Tiger. Would you have time to discuss Revenger?
“Uh… I’ve already signed a contract with another company. I’m sorry.”
Over the next few days, Kim Si-woo received about ten more calls and had to explain that he’d already signed a contract.
“What the… I got way more calls than I expected. Should I wait longer next time?”
Had he been too hasty in signing the contract for his first work?
“No, they were the first to recognize my writing. Just keep writing.”
Filling 5,000 characters a day never got easier, even after three months. Thinking up the plot and flow took far longer than the actual typing.
The web novel he was working on was a modern fantasy regression story—one of the popular tropes of regression, possession, or reincarnation. He’d infused the protagonist with his own quirky personality, blending in some satisfying elements.
“People will like it, right?”
With high hopes, he uploaded five episodes between 9 and 11 p.m., the peak traffic hours. But a day later, the view count remained stuck at 1. The reason? Lack of exposure. He’d hit the wall of discoverability right from the start. With countless novels uploaded daily and no established writer status or previous works, his story was buried. There were three serialization categories: the writer’s section for established authors, the general section for works with at least 15 episodes, and the free section for new works like his, with only five episodes.
With hundreds of stories uploaded daily, readers had no reason to pick an unproven, potentially abandoned novel.
“Well… once I get to the general section, views will pick up. But seriously, one view in a day?”
Feeling the harsh reality of web novels, he kept uploading daily.
***
“Writer, how have you been?”
“Oh, you know, writing this and that.”
“What? You’re already working on your next project?”
Kim Dong-su’s eyes lit up at the mention of writing. If Kim Si-woo’s next work was as good as Revenger… One hit could be a fluke, but two would prove his talent. Building a good relationship with a rookie writer who lacked industry connections was crucial.
“Oh… not a next project. I’m writing a web novel.”
“A web novel?”
Kim Dong-su seemed slightly disappointed that it wasn’t a movie script but quickly adjusted his expression and continued.
“Haha, well, web novels are all the rage these days.”
“Thanks. So, what’s today’s meeting about…?”
Kim Si-woo was currently in the reception room of W Film’s office.
“You mentioned wanting to visit the set, right? Today, we’re holding auditions for supporting actors, and you’ll be joining us as a judge.”
“What? That’s so sudden…”
Kim Si-woo had been called to discuss something important about the project, only to be thrown into judging auditions. This wasn’t just observing—it was participating.
Seeing Kim Si-woo’s flustered reaction, Kim Dong-su grinned.
“No need to feel pressured. Except for the female lead, Park Min-hye, the main roles have already been decided in consultation with the investors, all cast with proven actors. Today’s auditions are for supporting roles. You’ll find the main cast’s info and the roles being auditioned today on the papers at the desk.”
In a way, choosing the main cast without the writer’s input could seem disrespectful, but Kim Si-woo didn’t mind. He was just thrilled his movie was being made.
The contract had stated they’d choose the actors anyway, and complaining wouldn’t change anything.
‘As a powerless rookie writer, how could I expect to pick the main cast?’
Still, maybe one day he’d become a famous writer who could choose actors. With that hopeful thought, he waited.
In no time, the staff transformed the ordinary reception room into an audition space, complete with a sign outside.
Ten minutes before the auditions began, a man with a scruffy beard entered, bantered with Kim Dong-su, and approached Kim Si-woo.
“Hello, Writer Kim Si-woo. I’m Park Chan-young, the president of W Film.”
It was none other than Park Chan-young, the company’s president.
“Hello.”
“I read your script. Both this guy and I are worried—what if we can’t do justice to such a great script? Haha.”
Park Chan-young’s first impression was that of a warm, neighborhood uncle—nothing more, nothing less. He spoke kindly, clearly trying to put Kim Si-woo at ease.
“Anyway, would you be available to join us for the script reading?”
“Of course, I’ll come if you call.”
As their conversation wrapped up, the audition start time arrived. Park Chan-young, Kim Dong-su, and Kim Si-woo took their seats at the judges’ table.
“Alright, let’s start with the first candidate for the female lead.”
“Yes, sir.”
At Park Chan-young’s signal, a staff member opened the door and called in the first participant.