1 Your Golden Touch Has Activated
When Yu Zhi suddenly got linked to the Screenwriter App, she was in the middle of an argument.
Two months ago, she had sold the web drama rights to one of her ancient historical novels.
A few days prior, her editor reached out, asking if she was interested in participating in the web drama’s production as one of the screenwriters.
Qingzi (on Friday leave): “Here’s the thing, their team said that if the original author is involved, they can delve deeper into fleshing out the protagonist’s character, ensuring the quality of the production.”
Yu Zhi thought about it and figured, why not?
Qingzi: “Just give it a try. If it doesn’t work out, you can at least gather material and inspiration for your next book. Oh, by the way, some people have also inquired about the rights for your other novels. Just giving you a heads-up!”
Yu Zhi was thrilled: “Does that mean more money?!”
And they even wanted her, the original “mother,” to come along—how thoughtful and sincere of the production team!
She was overjoyed, searched online for screenwriting courses, and even ordered a few books.
Soon after, with her packed luggage in hand, she went to meet the production team at the appointed time.
There were many steps to take before filming officially began, and the script needed constant revisions. Having the IP didn’t guarantee smooth sailing; the gap between novels and scripts was significant.
A colleague from the production team told her, “Well, the difference between a screenwriter and an online novel author is like that between symphony and pop music!”
It wasn’t about who was more sophisticated, but about how different the two were.
Both told stories, but with different focuses and forms of expression.
Yu Zhi spent three grueling days devouring screenwriting courses, her eyes blurry from exhaustion.
She worked hard, afraid to disappoint the recognition she had been given.
But reality proved she was overthinking it!
The novel had already been adapted into script format by professional screenwriters. The first six episodes were completed, with more in progress.
Six episodes were the benchmark for the project’s approval.
When Yu Zhi took a look, skimming through the pages quickly, her smile faded until it disappeared entirely. She felt as if she had been hit by a hailstorm.
She forced herself to calm down. “How did my heroine get changed like this?”
Several people were smoking inside, the room thick with smoke.
Yu Zhi held back her irritation but finally couldn’t help asking, “Could you not smoke? Do you know secondhand smoke causes cancer?”
The others, long annoyed but used to it, remained silent.
Yu Zhi’s younger self was more daring.
About a third of the people inside were men—the director, assistant director, and producer—all male.
They were the heaviest smokers.
The director, hearing her plea, didn’t stub out his cigarette. His rough, dark face was obscured by smoke.
He sat casually, exuding an arrogant “this is my turf” vibe, squinting toward Yu Zhi.
Suddenly, he smiled: “How can anyone work without smoking? Smoking keeps you sharp. Hey, you’re young; you don’t understand.”
Ignoring her first question, he continued, “Look, let’s refine the male lead’s character more.”
His tone was condescending, utterly disrespectful.
Yu Zhi: “???”
Are you crazy?
My heroine was changed like this, and you’re telling me to polish the male lead’s character?
Such absurdity left Yu Zhi not angry, but in a state of shattered worldview and hopelessness.
She didn’t even know how to communicate with this person.
Communication is for people, not monkeys.
The novel she sold the rights to was called The Fallen Kingdom’s Eldest Princess.
The title alone revealed it was a time-travel novel: the female protagonist traveled from the modern era to ancient times, becoming the eldest princess of a doomed kingdom.
To save the kingdom, she volunteered to marry the son of a rebel, hiding weapons in her dowry. Accompanied by a regiment of soldiers, they eliminated the rebels.
From there, she seized power and eventually became the empress.
No matter how you looked at it, this was a strong, career-driven heroine.
But the script changed the plot from “the heroine, having arrived during the late emperor’s illness, volunteers to marry into a trap to begin a decapitation mission” to “the emperor dies, the rebel challenges the throne demanding the eldest princess marry, the crying princess is forced to leave the capital, and is rescued by the male lead at the wedding.”
It was a mess—utterly chaotic!
In the original, the heroine arrived a year before the kingdom’s fall. The six months during the emperor’s illness were key to her preparations for mustering troops. She then aided her younger brother’s accession as regent princess and planted her people in the court.
The timeline was changed, the time travel element deleted, the young emperor ascended immediately, and the eldest princess was promptly forced to marry the rebel.
What nonsense was this?
It might as well be an original story!
Nothing matched the novel.
An original script could even save on copyright fees.
They hadn’t even respected the plot, yet now they wanted her—the author—to polish the male lead’s character?
Yu Zhi lost her temper: “Are you crazy, or am I?”
The director blew out two smoke rings: “Hey, little sister, why are you so rude?”
Yu Zhi slammed the script on the table, shouting, “You’re insulting me?”
The director looked confused: “When did I insult you?”
Didn’t I hear swear words? Aren’t you the one insulting me?
Yu Zhi had never experienced the brutal treatment of a production team. Before coming here, her editor had told her, “They just want to create something people love.” She truly believed it.
She really did!
Yu Zhi: “You’ve never respected me from the start!”
The other screenwriters remained silent.
Sis, you really are our sister.
It had been so long since anyone had called them that.
The screenwriters, dark-circled and weary, looked at Yu Zhi with awe.
Who dares talk to the director and producer like this?
The director laughed, not taking her anger seriously: “So young, a post-2000, huh?”
The producer lit his second cigarette, cheerfully: “Lively—we’re just missing this kind of fresh energy in our team. Learn from her.”
Suddenly, Yu Zhi calmed down.
People always said she was fiery and straightforward, but she wasn’t a fool.
From the moment she entered this production team, there was no kindness or camaraderie. They had ignored her from start to finish.
Yes, ignored.
They didn’t value her, didn’t care about her, didn’t answer her.
Their words ignored her questions. When exposed, they even asked back, “When did I insult you?”
That was worse than outright curses.
Because they didn’t recognize her as an individual.
All the talk of youth and liveliness carried a tone treating her like a decoration, condescending throughout.
Yu Zhi hated secondhand smoke.
Maybe when she saw the state of the room, she should have been prepared, realizing this was the exact opposite of the utopian production team she had imagined.
She mocked her own ignorance in her heart—how could she have believed the editor’s polite words, thinking the production team was so wonderful?
Covering her nose and mouth, Yu Zhi directly asked, “Does this have anything to do with my novel?”
The director snorted: “Why do you think we bought the rights?”
Yu Zhi didn’t expect such a retort and instinctively said, “What?”
The producer appraised her up and down, eyes mocking.
“Of course, it’s because we liked the male lead’s character,” he said.
Yu Zhi felt like her ears were malfunctioning.
I wrote a grand female-led novel about an empress, and you tell me you bought the rights because you liked my male lead’s character?
Ha, laughable.
Are you idiots?
From the secondhand smoke-filled room to the pile-up of these conversations, the polluted environment and trampled dignity made Yu Zhi unbearably agitated.
Finally, she burst out, “Are you sick?”
A nearby girl tugged her hand: “Don’t argue with them.”
Yu Zhi looked down: “Look what they turned my novel into! My heroine isn’t a heroine anymore!”
So brilliant! Radiant! Dazzling!
The treasure in my palm!
The producer said the drama was meant to spotlight the male lead.
So for the male lead to shine, the heroine couldn’t steal the show. The so-called highlights and character traits had to be adjusted accordingly.
The director said, “You’re the author, but you don’t understand. There’s a wall between screenwriting and online novels. You don’t know the market. You just don’t!”
Nowadays, TV dramas seemed designed only to make the male lead famous.
No matter the IP adaptation or famous female actors invited, it was all about the “male lead.”
The entertainment industry called this “carrying the sedan chair,” stepping on the heroine to promote the male lead.
They chose Yu Zhi’s novel because the rights were cheap and the male lead’s character was outstanding—smart, brave, and devoted to the heroine. That’s what audiences loved.
Their male lead actor was bigger than the heroine in star power and was heavily promoted by the company.
So the script had to make way for him.
The heroine dropped from first to second place.
But during promotion, since Yu Zhi’s novel was about an empress, they could use that topic to market the show.
A currently popular romantic costume drama featuring a fierce empress had received heated feedback. Despite some criticism, its popularity was undeniable.
Everyone envied that.
It was clear the empress trend from twenty years ago was back.
Industry experts predicted this genre would remain attractive for at least five years, with three empress-themed dramas recently registered.
Thus, using Yu Zhi’s novel saved considerable marketing expenses.
Choosing a novel for adaptation involved multiple considerations; everyone’s motives differed.
After hearing their explanation, Yu Zhi thought they were truly insane: “You reject so many male-led novels, but insist on turning my female-led one into a male-led story?”
Wasn’t that just begging for trouble?
The director clicked his tongue: “See, you don’t understand.”
Yu Zhi’s heroine was dazzling; the male lead’s character was designed to complement her.
Perfect character, coherent plot.
The only problem was he wasn’t stronger than the heroine, but that could be fixed by stealing some of her spotlight.
That would make him stronger.
A big male-led online novel? No way. Those adaptations flop.
Only novels written by female authors could produce male leads that audiences truly liked.
Their actors could leverage that to gain popularity disproportionate to their status.
Marketing firms had turned fan refinement into an assembly line.
Besides, big male-led novels often featured vast worlds and grand plots, which were often shallow. The high-quality ones were too expensive to buy, and average ones had vague characters.
They were hard to adapt and costly.
Unlike female-oriented novels, which not only had character settings that matched female psychology but were also easier to adapt, with many elements ready-made.
Especially Yu Zhi’s novel—it was very easy to adapt.
For example, the opening scene: the heroine volunteers to marry, actually to kill. That could easily be changed to the male lead’s suggestion, leading the army, rescuing the beauty!
Anyone could see that would be a highlight scene!
Fans would definitely hype it up!
If funds allowed, they’d prefer a 30-50 episode series over a 24-episode web drama with lower production requirements.
After hearing all this, Yu Zhi stepped back in disbelief, her leg hitting a chair with a harsh noise.
The director, feeling magnanimous and self-righteous, thought he was very patient talking to such a junior.
He said earnestly, “You’re young and inexperienced. But it’s okay—now that you know, just revise as required!”
Yu Zhi was nearly PTSD from the phrase “inexperienced”!
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