Chapter 72: A Company for Writers

A “Day Without Hands”—the ‘hands’ here refers to the evil spirits that roam the four cardinal directions, tormenting people.

A day without these evil spirits is called a “Day Without Hands,” and for Koreans influenced by shamanistic beliefs, it’s an auspicious day for moving if the lunar calendar ends in 9 or 0.

I’m not the sort to seek out or believe in things like fortune-telling, face reading, or shamanic predictions.

But I remember the first main writer I assisted as a drama assistant writer was obsessed with saju, so I had my fortune read back then for the first time.

Looking back, the person at that fortune-telling parlor was actually pretty accurate.

They said that in my mid-thirties, I’d hit my stride and life would start flowing smoothly.

At the time, I just took it as the kind of advice a senior might give: "Just endure through the hard times; good days will come."

Anyway, even later, during the process of joining the Jeon family, my personal information got thoroughly picked apart—face reading, saju, the works.

I realized, more than I’d thought, that even people with great wealth and success believed in these unscientific things.

“Saju is a science. It’s statistics, Writer. That’s not all! This teacher specializes in geomancy, so you have to give them the address and season when you move.”

I could almost see Hong Joohee’s serious face through the receiver.

“She was the one I consulted when you got The Sharp in Yeouido. After that,  and —didn’t they all do so well?”

‘Isn’t that thanks to Godflix?’ I only thought to myself.

Now that the 20-pyeong workspace at The Sharp felt cramped, I was thinking of registering as a proper business and finding a new studio, so I called for a bit of advice—and instead got an earful of the master’s legendary track record.

“Hm. That place is good, too. There’s a shaman I visit.”

This time it was a shamanic reading, suggested by CEO Jung Sehee, who runs .

She didn’t talk about the past at all, only rattled off my future, and didn’t even need face reading or saju—just a single phone call, and she would nail everything with uncanny accuracy.

I couldn’t wrap my head around how spiritual powers could let someone see a person’s future like a panorama over the phone, but I kept those doubts to myself.

On top of that, when I mentioned these two to Im Sunghee and Jung Taemi, they wanted their own lives peeked into and got the phone numbers too.

Pyeong Taeksu, who was nearby, seemed to be quietly searching things up on his phone.

Even I couldn’t quite brush it off after hearing all this.

After all, wouldn’t it be best if things went well?

And so, on 20XX.09.18, I mashed together the advice from the fortune-teller and the shaman: move into a building over ten floors high in a northern Seoul neighborhood containing ‘ㅎ,ㅈ’ on a Day Without Hands.

“Wow. Hapjeong Mecenatpolis? Writer, you’ve really made it.”

Jung Taemi craned her neck upward in amazement as she got out of the taxi.

The things from The Sharp had already been sent ahead by the moving company, and we’d just brought our laptops and contracts.

“But Writer, are you leaving The Sharp?”

“Oh, The Sharp?”

No way. Hong Joohee found that place based on my saju and a lucky date; the geomancy there is perfect. I’d be a fool to give it up.

“I bought it.”

“What?!”

“No way. You bought the place?”

“Wow. The market price there must be crazy.”

Again, Pyeong Taeksu quietly checked the listings for The Sharp on Naver Real Estate next to me.

I could see him mutter to himself in shock, “Fif-fifteen hundred million won!”

Having spent over a year there, I’d grown attached to the space and its surroundings.

I figured it’d be perfect to live there and work with these people here, separating life and work.

“As expected of our star writer.”

“As expected of our writer.”

“Haha. Shall we head in?”

Hapjeong Mecenatpolis, Building A, Room 1203.

The space was a 60-pyeong office structure, with two rooms combined into a large main area and three rooms lined up further in.

One room was mine, complete with a private bathroom.

From the living room’s south-facing floor-to-ceiling windows, bright sunlight poured in.

“Wow, it’s so clean and nice!”

We’d called in a cleaning service before moving in, so the workspace was spotless, and the moving professionals had set everything up perfectly.

The office desks and chairs, recommended by Hong Joohee, had already arrived, so we could start work right away.

Im Sunghee wanted to cook for the housewarming, and Jung Taemi was rolling up her sleeves, confident she’d finish the cleaning the pros missed—I barely stopped them both and ordered jajangmyeon through the delivery app.

“Nothing beats jajangmyeon for a move!”

Pyeong Taeksu quickly set the food on the big table.

Jajangmyeon, jjamppong, tangsuyuk, palbochae, fried dumplings, and fried rice—a delicious feast was laid out.

I poured the black bean sauce over the noodles and stirred it up.

As I was about to take a big bite, Pyeong Taeksu asked,

“So when are the new staff joining us?”

“They’ll start tomorrow. Let’s keep it low-key today, and do a proper introduction tomorrow.”

“Got it.”

I twisted the glistening noodles onto my chopsticks and half-filled my mouth when Jung Taemi asked,

“But it’s really strange. Remember how, for the historical drama , the casting board we made ended up being the exact final cast? I’ve never seen a team where the casting board comes true like that. Has that ever happened to you, Writer?”

“Hmm. It’s my first time too. I guess the production company got serious funding and made the actors’ agencies an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

“Come on. With your work, those actors would do it anyway!”

“That’s right. You’re too modest.”

Chuckling, I reached for the fried dumplings.

“But Writer, since the Blue House is an investor, how does the contract work?”

Im Sunghee asked carefully.

They were just starting out as new writers, no longer assistant writers, so they were understandably curious.

I set my chopsticks down and briefly explained the contract with Art Company, the production firm.

This time, it wasn’t just a writing contract—I’d share the overseas sales profit of the work with the production company.

That’s why I expanded to a corporation instead of just a personal business, and why I set up a proper studio.

Historical dramas have lots of episodes, so getting 150 million won per episode like for  was too much, and the 90 million per episode from my last project with Ten Enter and Ma Boksoon was agreed to be split—Ten Enter handled the episodes, Art Company the profit shares.

A 50-episode historical drama meant just the base profit was 4.5 billion won plus whatever extra came in.

I couldn’t give all the financial details, but I gave them a basic idea of how the contract worked.

“Oh no! Writer, your jajangmyeon will get soggy. We’ve been asking too many questions—hurry and eat.”

Luckily, jajangmyeon doesn’t get too soggy thanks to the oil.

Or maybe I was just feeling full from all the talking.

I didn’t even need to eat—I felt satisfied.

“Haha. Eat up, everyone. If you need anything, just say so. Shall we open a bottle of gaoliang liquor or something?”

It was a joyful moving day, starting the journey toward that 4.5 billion+ with my companions.

---

Im Sunghee and Jung Taemi finished their scripts for  and  at the workspaces their respective production companies provided.

Despite my saying it was fine, they packed up immediately and moved to the new Hapjeong office.

“After all you’ve done for us, Writer. We’ll support you in every way on this historical drama.”

“Yeah. Cooking, laundry, cleaning, just say the word.”

They both had their own dramas about to air, so they could have used a break, but rolled up their sleeves to help me. I was just grateful.

“Oh right. These are our assistant writers I mentioned before.”

Behind Im Sunghee and Jung Taemi stood a woman with red horn-rimmed glasses, a woman with a permed poodle-like hairstyle, another with a razor-sharp bob, and finally, a man in his mid-twenties with dyed yellow hair.

“Hello.”

“Nice to meet you!”

“Looking forward to working with you.”

“Wow, I’m a fan, Writer!”

Each introduced themselves in their own style, but I have to admit I didn’t catch the names at all.

“Ah, and this is Seo Sunae, our CEO who will lead .”

“Gasp! Aren’t you the Head of HS Studio?”

Seo Sunae, dark circles heavy beneath her eyes, smiled at Im Sunghee, who recognized her.

“The Writer invited me to a great opportunity, so I jumped at it. Believe it or not, I’m pretty ambitious.”

Seo Sunae pushed up her gold-rimmed glasses, speaking as if it was nothing.

The biggest consideration when setting up  was people.

Hong Joohee and Jung Sehee, who had given me such easy advice about where to find office space, couldn’t answer easily when I asked who I should bring in.

It was Hong Joohee who, after some thought, first recommended Seo Sunae.

She’d been at HS Studio with Hong Joohee for over four years, and knew this industry better than anyone.

A person who didn’t speak unnecessarily and handled her tasks perfectly.

Someone who’d proceed smoothly without me having to spell everything out.

I needed someone who could handle the operation of  in my stead.

‘I had briefly thought of Head Seo Sunae.’

But I couldn’t just poach someone working steadily as a director at someone else’s company.

To that, Hong Joohee said, “You’re just planting your person now so you can’t pretend you don’t know her when your company grows.”

It couldn’t have been easy for Seo Sunae to leave a long-term job, but in our first meeting she accepted my offer without hesitation.

“Being CEO… sounds fun.”

With that signature glint in her eyes, Seo Sunae pushed up her glasses again.

At the third meeting, Seo Sunae prepared a PPT to brief on how she’d run .

I hadn’t even thought that was necessary, but was so impressed by her presentation skills that I got up and applauded.

After she came on board, things moved fast.

She said the basics of a company were managing money and people, and brought along an accountant and a planning team member, quickly establishing a proper company structure.

“All right, now that introductions are done, shall we start the briefing?”

Gathering everyone into the meeting room, CEO Seo Sunae seated me at the head, with Im Sunghee, Jung Taemi, Pyeong Taeksu, the head of planning, and the head of accounting to my left, and the four new writers lined up to my right.

“Our , led by Head Writer Lee Junghyuk, has contracted three existing writers and four new writers to form a ‘writer label’-based company producing dramas, movies, and media. Many production companies have signed writers, but none have put writers at the center of production and given them a voice against unfair practices. I—and Writer Lee Junghyuk—intend to make  a company for writers at the forefront of the media industry. Thank you.”

She took my clumsy comments—“The more writers… the better, I guess,” “Do writers… get four major insurances?”—and polished them up beautifully for the briefing. I couldn’t help but admire her.

Seo Sunae signaled to the head of accounting, who swiftly placed the prepared contracts in front of the four new writers.

“Rule number one: read your contract carefully! We’re on your side, but never trust any company too easily.”

Such cool-headed advice, too.

I watched the red horn-rims, poodle perm, razor bob, and yellow hair poring over the contracts with satisfaction.

‘What were their names again…’

It really was starting to feel like a company, which I liked, but with so many people now, and my memory for names always bad, I was starting to sweat a little.

‘Let’s learn them slowly.’

Making that small promise to myself, the launch of  wrapped up quietly.