The saying that everything in America is big felt real.
The cars were big, the roads were big, the food was big, and even the assistant writers for the dramas were massive.
"Now, this is no time to be spacing out, rookie."
Immediately after joining TBO, the largest broadcasting station in the United States, as an assistant writer, the first task I was given was none other than...
"From now on, clean up all these messy tables."
Cleaning.
Before I knew it, Kay had pulled up a cleaning cart and was handing me a pair of rubber gloves.
On the tables lay a mess of leftover hamburger wrappers, ketchup bottles, soda cups, and the like.
Without a word of complaint, I grabbed the cleaning cart and began picking up the trash scattered across the tables.
Although I had joined as an assistant writer for TBO, it was entirely my own choice to experience things from the very bottom.
What Grace had requested from Darren was to give me an opportunity to watch and learn at TBO.
At first, Darren suggested I experience the set as a visitor, observing from an outsider's perspective.
But I refused.
Based on my long years of working as an assistant writer in Korea, I knew I wouldn't learn anything from simple observation.
Why would a group of Americans tell some stranger everything just because he was standing around with his hands behind his back, asking, 'Excuse me, why are you doing it this way?'
According to my experience, seasoned by my time in the military, you have to show that you aren't afraid to do the dirty work.
'Wow, that guy really works hard.'
'We finally got a useful rookie.'
'Hey, kid, want to go to the snack bar?'
That was the only way to get positive evaluations and naturally learn the inner workings of the ecosystem.
In fact, by stepping in to clean as the youngest rookie rather than an outsider, I was able to observe the assistant writers engaging in heated discussions just as they normally would.
As expected of writers belonging to the largest broadcasting station in America, the level of those discussions was very high.
Fortunately, many of the words they used were common in mass media, so I had no trouble understanding them.
"F*ck off."
"I’ll kill you, you motherf*cker!"
In every direction, they were kindly telling each other to eat sh*t, checking in on each other's elders with colorful language, and calling one another sons of various things.
Furthermore, they expressed deep concern for each other's gastrointestinal health, reproductive organs, and mental capacities, calling each other fat, r*tarded, geeks, idiots, and so on.
In the midst of this truly sophisticated conversation, I felt the thick scent of the rough construction sites back in Korea.
"Hey, damn it! Why are you dragging out the development at this timing, you frustrating old man?"
"You have to solidify the story's progression so that no plot holes happen later, you idiot!"
"What? Idiot? Are you done talking?"
"Yeah, I’m done, dumb*ss! You got a problem?"
Watching the two assistant writers grabbing each other's collars and scuffling, I nodded in admiration.
'America definitely is a developed country.'
The reason I thought so was that the two people involved in that fierce fight, which looked like it would lead to a fistfight within ten seconds, were of different genders.
Look at that sight—putting aside gender to settle things with their fists like true assistant writers.
How equal!
"I don't care, screw you! The character comes first!"
"Great! Let's split this pig's belly open and have a barbecue party!"
"Are you finished, you geek who only cares about the plot?"
"Yeah, I am, you moron who only cares about the characters!"
Just as I was about to discreetly move a plastic knife that was lying between them, fearing something truly gruesome might happen...
*Ding-ding-ding-ding!*
A solid bell, the kind you would hear in an Octagon ring, rang through the room.
"Let's eat~!"
It was the bell announcing lunchtime.
At the same time, the two people who looked like they were ready to kill each other over their conflicting opinions just moments ago began laughing heartily as if nothing had happened.
"What do you want to eat today, Helen?"
"I had a light breakfast, so I want something hearty for lunch."
"How about hot dogs? You love those."
"Sounds good. Let's go quickly before the cafeteria fills up."
Watching the man and woman leave the room side by side with their arms around each other, I couldn't help but be amazed.
'What is this? Are they all psychopaths?'
As I stood there slightly dazed, Kay approached me with a smirk.
"It's overwhelming, right? Let's go eat. I'll show you the cafeteria and show you around."
"Oh, uh, okay."
We stepped out of the conference room and headed up the stairs to the second floor, where the cafeteria was located.
The interior of the cafeteria looked like a typical American family restaurant.
The sounds of R&B music that had been popular about ten years ago drifted through the air.
The menu included everything from hot dogs to hamburgers, steaks, nachos, and various other dishes. Any writer on staff could order whatever they wanted for free.
After receiving a large cheeseburger and fries, I followed Kay to an eight-person table where a group of people was sitting.
"Move over a bit so the rookie can sit, Michael. Thanks."
Kay, who had secured a spot in the middle of the crowded table, briefly introduced me.
"This is the new rookie who joined today, Junghyuk Lee. He's from Korea."
"I'm Junghyuk Lee. I'm from Korea. I look forward to working with you."
A Latino man and a Black man with stylish dreadlocks at the table reached out to shake my hand.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Michael. I'm from the UK."
"My name is Gabriel, from Mexico."
Once the introductions were finished, Kay continued.
"Everyone here is a writer working under Samantha, the showrunner. They’ll be your colleagues from now on."
In the American drama system, there is a showrunner, followed by second and third writers.
Under the second and third writers, dozens of staff writers work in teams to create the scripts.
"I’ve worked here for about five years. Who's been with the team the longest? Was it Michael?"
The British-African man with dreadlocks nodded cheerfully and answered with a grin.
"Probably? I’m in my tenth year now. I’ve been writing scripts only here at TBO Studios the whole time."
While eating, I was able to hear about the overall situation at TBO Studios.
*Kingdom Game*, which had been running for a very long time, was currently filming its sixth and final season.
The cost of labor, production, and other expenses for filming just one episode per season was a staggering $100 million.
In Korean currency, it was an astronomical sum of 115 billion won.
Because such massive capital was being invested, they were able to build a studio of this incredible scale.
They called it a studio, but it contained all sorts of infrastructure, including communal housing for the writers, restaurants, shops, bars, and a movie theater.
The reason for creating enough infrastructure to live inside was also to prevent any leaks regarding the production status.
Since they all lived, ate, and slept together, they were able to form a bond as tight as a family.
'This is definitely different from Korea.'
In Korea, there are many assistant writers who eat and sleep together, but it is rare for a team to exceed five or six people.
Even then, they usually commuted between an office and their homes.
Naturally, cases where meals, housing, and leisure activities were provided were almost non-existent, so it was rare for someone to work at a single studio for nearly ten years.
'You can't work for ten years on such low pay in the first place.'
But TBO Studios was different.
From what I had heard through Darren and Grace beforehand, their labor income was at least ten to twenty or even thirty times that of Korean assistant writers.
It wasn't uncommon for them to earn annual salaries in the hundreds of millions of won.
Even if the work involved chores like cleaning or organizing data, anyone would be happy to work long-term if they were being paid that much while enjoying such abundant welfare benefits for free.
As we were finishing our meal, Kay handed me a heavy plastic case.
"From now on, Junghyuk, your main job will be writing the meeting minutes."
"Meeting minutes?"
"Yes. These are the minutes from yesterday, so you can use them as a reference. By the way, as you saw earlier, there are no set meeting times; they happen every moment of every hour."
I opened the case to find a vast amount of A4 paper, easily exceeding a hundred pages at a glance.
"There's no real summary. Just record every word spoken during the meeting. Especially when the second and third writers speak, you mustn't miss a single syllable."
I briefly recalled the "meeting" I had seen before lunch.
'I heard a few things about characters and plot development, but they call that a meeting?'
It certainly looked more like a rap battle intended to diss the opponent than a meeting.
In Korea, writers didn't usually keep meeting minutes like this.
That was because meetings with assistant writers in Korea were essentially a process of the main writer conveying their opinions and directing research and detail construction.
However, in TBO's scriptwriting process, they fought—rather, they met—so fiercely that it could take all day just to write a single scene.
In the end, the scene would be composed of the strongest—or rather, the most persuasive—content.
The second and third writers who managed and coordinated all those writers were at a different level than anything in Korea, so their skills were likely incredible.
'It would be impossible without the same level of capability as Ms. Park Eunsook.'
They were surely people with the charisma and intelligence to oversee all the writers who had been involved in the story for such a long time.
"Who are the second and third writers?"
"Oh, did I not introduce them? They happen to be sitting over there together."
Where Kay pointed, a man and a woman were sitting together.
"The one on the left is Ted, the second writer, and next to him is Helen, the third writer."
The two of them were laughing warmly, wiping sauce off each other's faces.
They were the same two people who, just a moment ago in the conference room, had been shouting the foulest insults at each other at the top of their lungs.
The two who had seemed the most ignorant, vulgar, and violent.
"By the way, those two are married."
"Married? They looked ready to trade blows earlier."
"Haha, that's just work. Believe it or not, those two are famous for having a great relationship. They already have three kids."
Fighting like they want to kill each other during the day, yet maintaining a lovey-dovey marriage at night.
They weren't just ordinary weirdos.
"Alright, let's head back down. Don't forget to grab your laptop, Junghyuk."
"Oh, right..."
And so, we returned to the large conference room on the first floor.
"Let's settle this today once and for all! You damn bald man!"
"Do you think your hair won't fall out when you get old? Let's see who survives this!"
"Waaaaagh!"
As soon as we arrived, I shook my head as the writers began growling and fighting again as if nothing had changed.
At the center of the storm, as expected, were the same two people.
Ted, the second writer, and Helen, the third writer.
As I recorded the minutes, the point of conflict between the two became sharp.
It was a debate over what concept to use for the death of a major character.
"Cedric was a powerful candidate for the throne with noble blood. You want to have a character like that get stabbed to death by some commoner nobody has ever heard of? Do you think that makes any sense?"
Ted, the second writer, was firm in his opinion.
"How many times do I have to tell you? The charm of our series is that even noblemen can die from a single blade."
"I absolutely cannot accept that. It will ruin all the development we've built up so far. Cedric needs a noble death befitting a man like him."
Similarly, Helen, the third writer who emphasized character narrative, showed no sign of backing down.
"A noble death befitting a noble man? Even a passing dog could come up with a cliché idea like that."
"Even a passing dog would laugh at a production that just kills anyone off with a random stabbing."
"Are you finished?"
"What are you going to do if I am?"
Just as I was typing their insults into my laptop...
"..."
Suddenly, a strange silence filled the room.
When I looked up at the two of them, their gazes were fixed on me.
"You're the new rookie, right?"
"Seeing as he's writing the minutes, he must be."
"Hey, rookie. You say something."
"Tell us whose opinion is more dog-sh*t."
At 38 years old...
In a distant foreign land, I had been designated as the "passing dog."
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