Song Zhizhi received a strange email. The sender claimed to be “Ying Shi Entertainment,” a film and television production company that wanted to produce a sweet romantic drama and was looking to hire a screenwriter. They asked if she had time to meet and chat.
After reading the email, she quickly went online to look up “Ying Shi Entertainment.”
This production company had only been established yesterday.
No matter how she looked at it, it seemed utterly absurd…
But Song Zhizhi just couldn’t let go of this email. She kept thinking about it.
She was already thirty years old. She had spent her most energetic years in the role of an assistant screenwriter.
Usually, she wrote scripts for well-known, well-connected screenwriters. If she was lucky, she’d get a credit; if not, she’d just take the money and have her rights bought out.
She used to think this was a necessary path for every successful writer. Only later did she realize it was merely the road successful people had traveled—failures never even reached the end.
Song Zhizhi wasn’t young anymore. She no longer had the passion to keep struggling and was hesitating about whether to return to her hometown and find a more stable job.
The pressure of living in a big city was overwhelming, and in the entertainment industry, there was no light at the end of the tunnel.
But right at this moment, an email inviting her to be a screenwriter appeared before her eyes.
It felt like one of those storylines—a perfectly timed turning point in life.
Anyway, it’s not like I have anything left to be scammed out of.
Song Zhizhi thought to herself.
Besides, the meeting place they’d suggested was a bustling coffee shop in a busy downtown area.
The café was quite well-known, so safety was guaranteed.
Maybe she should just go and take a look—treat it as a ceremony to bid farewell to her youthful dreams.
…
On the day of the scheduled meeting, Song Zhizhi arrived at the coffee shop early.
Since she had already added the other party on WeChat, she spotted a young girl sitting by the window at a glance based on the messages.
At this point, Song Zhizhi was already having second thoughts.
The other party was too young—it was clear at first glance that she had no relevant experience, which only made this collaboration feel more like putting together a makeshift operation.
But there’s a saying ingrained in the Chinese character: “since you’re already here…” So she still walked over to the table.
“Hello,” Song Zhizhi greeted.
The girl looked up at her, her eyes curving into a smile. “Hello, I’m Ying Shi—Ying Shi from Ying Shi Entertainment.”
Song Zhizhi froze. So, the other party wasn’t just some staff member casually sent to handle the meeting.
After sitting down, she cautiously studied her counterpart.
From her attire to her makeup, this Miss Ying didn’t look like a wealthy second-generation heir dabbling in entertainment for fun.
“I want to put together a production crew and shoot a sweet romantic drama,” Ying Shi said, unconcerned by Song Zhizhi’s scrutiny. She slid the tablet in front of her. “It’ll be an adaptation of this novel, and I don’t want major changes to the plot.”
Song Zhizhi was a bit taken aback. Jumping straight into the project? Wasn’t this supposed to be an interview?
She hesitantly took the tablet and saw a familiar novel platform on the screen.
These days, adapted dramas mostly sourced their original novels from two platforms—Green River and Final Stop.
But typically, with novel adaptations, the screenwriters would roughly follow the source material for about five episodes.
Once the approval came through, the roles would be adjusted based on the actors cast. This stage was when actors’ backers would start jockeying for influence, and screenwriters would end up in endless meetings and overtime sessions, just to produce a script that satisfied all parties.
“What… what are your requirements for now?” Song Zhizhi asked tentatively.
Ying Shi smiled. “I’ve already stated my requirement—I don’t want major changes to the plot. But novels and scripts are different after all, so simply copying everything wouldn’t be practical either.”
Song Zhizhi thought for a moment. “Are you completely not considering input from investors and actors?”
If she wrote something only for it to be heavily revised later, she’d be furious enough to spit blood.
“I’m the sole investor, so you can rest assured,” Ying Shi said calmly. “As for the actors, I plan to find newcomers who won’t interfere with the scriptwriting process.”
Song Zhizhi was certain now—this girl had to be a wealthy young lady chasing her filmmaking dream in the entertainment industry.
“Are you saying all this because you’ve already decided to let me take charge?”
Ying Shi looked into her eyes. “I’ve already made my decision. If you agree, just come to our office building tomorrow to sign the contract.”
Song Zhizhi had gone into the meeting feeling anxious and uncertain, only to leave in a daze.
It all felt like a dream.
After taking a taxi home, she quickly pulled out her phone, opened the Green River app, and searched for the novel she had just seen.
The title was Little Sweetheart. It had decent popularity, but it wasn’t considered a major hit IP.
Song Zhizhi spent the afternoon familiarizing herself with the general plot.
The story wasn’t complicated. The male lead was the youngest son of the emperor, doted upon and granted the title Prince Kang. The female lead was the niece of the empress, allowed to accompany the empress in the palace from a young age, and through these visits, she grew familiar with the princes as well.
When they came of age, the emperor arranged a marriage between them. Prince Kang was displeased because the female lead was somewhat airheaded, soft-tempered, and came across as rather silly.
But as they got along after marriage, Prince Kang gradually found himself falling for her. Yet he could never quite discern her feelings for him, leading to a series of amusing misunderstandings.
Overall, it was a classic “marriage first, love later” story. Neither the male nor female lead secretly loved the other before marriage—their feelings developed afterward. It also contained mild “wife-chasing crematorium” trope and a “reluctantly smitten” dynamic for the male lead.
The subplots were interesting too. Whether it was the emperor’s lingering affection for the male lead’s deceased mother or the playful “bickering couple” dynamic occasionally shown between the female lead’s parents, everything was just hinted at but left a lasting impression.
Though the novel was set in a fictional ancient dynasty with nobility as the main characters, it didn’t dwell heavily on power struggles. Most of the plot revolved around daily life, making it well-suited for adaptation into a sweet romantic drama.
Now, Song Zhizhi’s mind was overflowing with adaptation ideas. Excited, she opened her computer and began furiously typing away.
It wasn’t until late at night that she finally slowed down and stopped. Looking at the document on her computer, she felt a sense of satisfaction she couldn’t quite put into words.
How long had it been since she’d felt this kind of excitement while writing a script?
Ever since she entered the industry, all her creative ideas had been controlled by others. Inspiration was like the branches of a tree—any deviation from the path was swiftly pruned away.
Some colleagues chose to bow their heads, and there was no shame in that. Living in this society, everyone needed financial support.
But whenever she saw peers blaming and condemning the audience to justify themselves, she felt the world had truly gone mad.
If a screenwriter isn’t at the mercy of investors and writes a flop, as long as they’re capable of taking responsibility for wrapping up the failed project and haven’t dragged other investors down with them, they have every right to complain.
They can certainly criticize the audience, because they’re writing scripts purely for their own enjoyment.
One could say such screenwriters no longer need an audience—they’re simply indulging in their own personal celebration.
But most screenwriters still need viewers. Blaming the audience for a show’s failure is just their way of escaping criticism.
They’re unwilling to admit failure is their own fault—it would affect how investors perceive them and hurt their chances of getting the next job.
To survive in this circle, you could only force yourself to become a mindless ghostwriter—writing whatever others wanted.
Song Zhizhi scrolled her mouse, gazing at the electronic text on the pure white interface, feeling an endless sense of joy.
Oh well, even if this drama flopped, she would have truly created a script of her own. At least her time in this industry wouldn’t have been for nothing.