Chapter 43: First Time with Actors Who Can’t Act? (3)
“Hello, Writer-nim.”
The newcomers greeted.
“Hey.”
Si-woo replied, relieved to see familiar faces from Don’t Forget’s supporting cast.
“You helped us last time, so now it’s our turn.”
Said Lee Joon-il, the eldest among them.
“Thanks,” Si-woo said.
The practice room buzzed with the new arrivals.
“So, these are the lucky ones you picked?”
Joon-il asked, eyeing the rookie actors.
“Yup,” Si-woo nodded.
“Lucky kids. Shall we start?” Joon-il said.
“Yes, please,” Si-woo replied.
Joon-il approached the nervous rookies with a cryptic remark.
“If Writer-nim chose you, what’s there for us to worry about?”
“Huh?”
The actors blinked, confused.
Si-woo caught a hint of oddity in Joon-il’s tone.
‘Did Ji-young not brief him?’
An hour later, Joon-il’s heavy sigh echoed through the room.
“Ugh…”
Soon, a wail followed.
“Argh! Shim Ji-young!”
Joon-il had been told by Ji-young to simply run lines, but he quickly realized he was stuck teaching from scratch.
“Writer-nim, I need to make a call.”
He said, stepping out.
“Uh… sure.”
Si-woo replied, feeling awkward.
Ten minutes later, Joon-il stormed back, fuming.
“Alright, I’m here, so I’ll do my best. But Writer-nim, you didn’t pick these guys while drunk, did you?”
“Haha… it’s partly to save on the drama’s budget.” Si-woo deflected.
Joon-il rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Resigning himself, he asked,
“Can I teach them my way?”
“As long as their acting improves, I’m fine with it.” Si-woo said.
“Got it.”
Joon-il rolled up his sleeves and turned to the actors.
Lee Joon-il, 40, was once a celebrated theater actor in Chungmuro before becoming a beloved character actor in films, nicknamed “Little Tiger.” His small stature belied a commanding presence and booming voice that intimidated students.
“Freeze!”
Joon-il’s voice rang out, halting the rookies.
“Come here.”
“Yes, sir!”
The three scrambled to him, brimming with nervous energy.
“Attention! From now on, forget every useless thought in your heads. Do it!”
“Do it!” they echoed.
As Joon-il drilled the actors, Si-woo, with nothing to do, scrolled YouTube on his phone.
“Maybe I should bring my laptop tomorrow.” he muttered.
A supporting actor approached.
“What’re you watching, Writer-nim?”
“Oh, this? ‘Pig-ical 100’,” Si-woo said.
“Pig-ical 100? That’s huge right now. You’re into it too?”
“Haha…”
Si-woo nearly blurted that it was his stolen idea but held back. The timing wasn’t right to stir things up.
The grueling acting boot camp ended, and the rookies, more exhausted than the previous day, dragged themselves home.
***
The next day, the actors arrived at the practice room, barely upright.
“Did you solve Writer-nim’s homework?” one asked.
“Nope…” another sighed.
In just two days, shared suffering had bonded them.
“I read the script ten times yesterday, but I’ve got nothing,” Kim Moon-sik said.
“Ugh… who’s coming today? Shim Ji-young sunbae? Lee Joon-il sunbae?” Lee Hye-jin wondered.
“Whoever it is, it’s gonna be brutal.”
Jeon Byeong-doo concluded.
As they pored over their scripts, Si-woo walked in.
“Good morning, Writer-nim!” they greeted in unison.
“Hey. Did you do your homework?” Si-woo asked.
Their faces fell.
“Sorry…”
They mumbled, bowing.
“It’s fine.” Si-woo said, waving it off.
“Let’s keep working on it until Ji-young-ssi arrives.”
The actors dove back into their scripts, but Si-woo shook his head.
‘They’re still missing the point.’
Three hours later, with no progress by lunchtime, Si-woo gathered them.
“So, any answers?”
“No…” they admitted.
Si-woo sighed.
“You couldn’t find them, right?”
“Yes,” they nodded.
“Of course not. The answers aren’t in the script.”
The actors exchanged puzzled looks, confused by his words.
The actors looked at Si-woo as if to say, ‘How could we know something not in the script?’
“I once heard someone say you can tell a good actor by how they approach the script.”
Si-woo began, explaining his intent.
“A good actor looks beyond the script.”
“Beyond the script?” Lee Hye-jin echoed.
“Does saying lines well mean you’re acting well? To me, acting is about understanding and embodying the character. That means looking at what’s not in the script—how your character grew up, what they feel, why they make certain choices. That’s why top actors spend days, even weeks, studying their roles. Memorizing lines or stage directions? That’s nothing for veterans. The real challenge is when they can’t understand their character.”
The actors stared, dazed, as if struck by a revelation.
“Do you understand your characters?” Si-woo asked.
“But what if our interpretation differs from what you envisioned?”
Kim Moon-sik asked, worried they might ruin Si-woo’s intended character arcs.
Surprisingly, Si-woo replied calmly,
“As long as it’s not wildly off, it’s fine. The moment I cast you, the role became yours. I just ask that you give it your all, as much as I believe in you.”
His trust boosted their morale, and their eyes reddened with emotion.
“Don’t cry now,”
Si-woo teased.
“Ji-young noona’s almost here.”
Right on cue, Shim Ji-young arrived, arms laden with food.
“What’s this? Why are they crying? Si-woo, did you hit them or something?”
“What? Why would I hit them?” Si-woo protested.
“Ugh, tone down that temper. Alright, everyone, let’s eat. You need energy to act.”
“I didn’t hit anyone!” Si-woo insisted.
After lunch, Ji-young’s Spartan coaching resumed.
“Oh, Si-woo,” she called.
“Yeah?”
“Mind if I bring some of our agency’s trainees? The CEO asked me to train them alongside, for motivation. They’d love learning from me.”
“I don’t mind. It’s not my practice room, and you’re the one helping me. Do what’s comfortable,” Si-woo said.
“Cool, I’ll bring them.”
Her words were half-true. The CEO, Han Seung-jin, had instructed her to showcase their trainees to Si-woo, hoping to impress him early. But the plan backfired. Si-woo barely noticed the trainees, engrossed in writing on his laptop.
Ji-young sidled up.
“So, what do you think of our trainees? Pretty good, right?”
“Uh… yeah.”
Si-woo replied, not even glancing at them.
He added, “It’s getting noisy with all these people.”
The 20 trainees were chaotic—only about 10 were practicing seriously, while the rest giggled and chattered.
“Noona, you brought them to catch my eye, didn’t you?” Si-woo said pointedly.
“Uh…?” Ji-young faltered.
“Problem is, it’s backfiring,” he said, frowning at the noisy trainees. “I hate distractions. And cigarette smoke.”
“Cigarettes? It’s just you, me, and these three rookies who are adults here.” Ji-young said.
“Then it’s them.”
Si-woo said, nodding toward the trainees.
Ji-young approached them and caught a faint whiff of smoke.
“Ugh…”
She groaned, exasperated. Every attempt to impress Si-woo for the agency seemed to go wrong.
“Get out!” she shouted.
The trainees froze, confused.
“Out, now, while I’m being nice,” she snapped.
They scurried out, and Ji-young stormed off to make a call. What happened to those trainees afterward, no one knew.
***
A week later, Si-woo earned a new title: Youngest Back-to-Back 10-Million-Viewer Writer, as ‘Don’t Forget’ crossed 10 million. Naturally, a celebratory dinner followed.
“Drink! Drink! Eat till you drop! Crawl home!” The rented-out pub roared louder than usual. The atmosphere was electric, and even Si-woo, despite his tenth dinner, joined in with genuine joy. The weight of 10 million was monumental.
“Gather up! Writer Kim’s giving a toast!” Park Woong-deok announced, grinning mischievously.
“What? Since when—”
Si-woo began, but all eyes were on him. He stood reluctantly.
“Everyone having fun?”
“Yeah!” the crowd cheered.
“Today, I became the youngest back-to-back 10-million writer, all thanks to you,” Si-woo said.
— “Kim Si-woo! Kim Si-woo!”
The crowd chanted, hyping him up.
As Si-woo prepared to name everyone—Park Woong-deok, the directors, staff, actors, managers, over a hundred people—Park threw a curveball.
“So, who’re you taking to the awards?”
“Awards?” Si-woo asked.
“Yeah! Revenger and Don’t Forget will both get invites. Which team you going with?”
“Oh…”
Si-woo hesitated, caught off guard by the tricky question.
As he fumbled, the crowd leaned in, swallowing hard, awaiting his answer.