The Director
By social convention, people who were said to be “bad at reading the room” were often understood to be the type who simply didn’t care when the atmosphere changed.
But if you looked just a little deeper, it was easy to see the flaw in that logic.
What it really meant was that, strangely enough, the people least skilled at sensing the mood were often the most sensitive to sudden shifts in it.
Wasn’t that obvious? Deep down, they knew they were slow to pick up on social cues, so when the air turned cold enough that even they could feel it, there was no escaping the conclusion that this was, without question, a we’re fucked situation.
That was exactly how it was for Min Byeongki.
He had a knack for getting so carried away talking on his own that he frequently ruined the mood.
Like the time, back in school, he’d gotten so absorbed in his own argument while debating with friends that he’d ended up tearing the other side down too hard and eating lunch alone.
Like the time in college when he’d publicly confessed to Lee Seul, who was kind to everyone, only to hear her ask, “What did I do wrong to make you do this?”
Like the time at a company dinner when, drunk on alcohol, he’d fired off a “Aren’t my skills better?” at his superior and then found himself quietly frozen out by his peers from the next day on.
And now, once again, the same thing was happening.
“I’m not sure if my comprehension is failing me, but there are a few points I just can’t quite understand. I’d like to hear your answer.”
Contrary to the rough, ill-tempered look he gave off, Jaekyung’s tone, which had been gentle throughout the conversation, suddenly turned stiff.
He still seemed to be being polite, but something about it made me feel uncomfortably uneasy.
W-what is this?
With his fingers interlaced and his mouth half-hidden behind his hands, the faintest trace of irritation showed on his face as he stared at me.
Min Byeongki wondered whether that was just his imagination or whether Jaekyung was truly annoyed, and if he was, then why.
But if he had the ability to find the reason and deal with it, he would never have been called bad at reading the room in the first place.
Huh? B-but why am I the one who has to read the room???
He tried to straighten his shoulders again, but—
“May I ask a question?”
“Ah, yes! Of course!”
Already beaten down by the momentum of the exchange, his attitude had grown considerably more respectful.
The alarm bell rang in his head, and before he knew it, he was ready to listen.
In other words, he’d gotten scared.
“First, I found the discussion interesting. But there were a few parts that were a bit uncomfortable to hear.”
“Ah—yes, which parts would those be...?”
“As you said, Director, in the end a video is only complete once it passes through the director’s hands. But if we’re talking specifically about a drama, then until that video comes out... I have no doubt that the narrative role I’ll be taking on will be extremely central. We are working together, aren’t we?”
And then he added, almost as an afterthought—
“The way you were talking, Director, made it sound as though I’d become someone unnecessary. Ah, if that’s an unfair interpretation, I apologize. I don’t mean anything bad by it, but since we’re working together, there are parts where we need to understand each other’s positions in order to coordinate properly...”
“N-no, no, no! It’s not like that at all!”
I hurriedly denied it and scrambled for an explanation.
“I mean, I just want to protect the director’s unique authority! Yes! And I’d be very grateful if you also listened carefully to what I have to say! So, um... ah! That’s it! The mutual understanding you were talking about, Writer-nim! Yes! Understanding!”
“Ah, I see. So the director had thought this through after all?”
“Of course! I understand the importance of a writer too! There’s a reason people say drama is run by the writer, isn’t there?”
“Ah, I’m sorry. I must have overinterpreted.”
That subtle caution made Min Byeongki even more tense.
He was slipping sharp keywords under cushions, hiding the edge of them so neatly you might miss the blade. And then, the moment someone raised a shield, he’d draw back the attack as though nothing had happened.
Some people might have sensed intent in those words, but Min Byeongki only felt the other man’s displeasure.
It was a miracle created by the confirmation bias born of experience.
It felt like being mid-celebration and suddenly dropping into the scene of an accident.
Like bumping into someone on the street and ending up dragged into an interrogation room because they sued you.
His breathing grew difficult, his heart began to pound, and just then—
The other man lowered a lifeline.
“...No, of course not. A person capable of such good direction would naturally be thoughtful too.”
An acknowledgment accompanied by reconciliation had never looked so welcome.
That one sentence felt almost like salvation.
Relief and delight flooded his system like dopamine and wrapped around him all at once.
And then, as if to drive the point home—
“I’m sorry. I’m just the kind of person who’s been writing alone in a corner all this time, so I’m not very good at socializing. I can only imagine how unpleasant this must have been for you...”
It was an industry magic word.
Strictly speaking, it was just an apology that excused its own rudeness, but in the industry it meant something different.
A writer with a sharp tongue?
That was common sense.
But a writer who openly said, “I’m not socially adept,” and apologized for it?
At that point, he was already in the top 0.1 percent.
And regardless of that, to Min Byeongki it was a signal that said, our relationship will be fine from here on out.
It was a line that put the finishing touch on his relief.
“N-no, not at all! That’s not it! Yes, there was just some misunderstanding between us, so what’s the point of making a big deal out of that?”
“Haha, thank you for your generosity. As expected, a ‘director with real skill’ is different.”
“I’m still lacking in so many ways! I have a lot to learn! I’m the one who should be honored just to meet someone like you, Writer-nim! Please take care of me again!”
“I’ll be in your care as well.”
Jaekyung held out his hand.
He remained seated, and Min Byeongki, taking that hand, jumped up and bowed from the waist. Not once did anyone in the room find this strange.
Aren’t humans amazing?
It had taken only a few words to get this far.
But now Min Byeongki was craving the other man’s favor far more intensely than when they’d first met.
Did I say something wrong? No, wait. We both said things wrong! Right! The writer apologized too, didn’t he? But if he’s just holding back... No, no! Stop thinking about it! We can just do better from here, can’t we? Yes! We met for work, after all! If I prove myself through work...!
It was, in a way, a process of sorting out the hierarchy.
One of the ironies of human society.
The ranks built on titles and vested interests for the sake of order often fell below the emotional hierarchy, depending on who the other person was.
“Then shall we get serious about discussing our project?”
“Oh, of course! Writer-nim!”
That was the state of things when, in the middle of Min Byeongki’s relief and his desperate need for approval, Jaekyung’s mind was drifting through the most memorable conversation he’d ever had with a senior in his life.
-You have to beat guys like that down a little if you want them to work well. Five lashes, one carrot? That’s when the carrot starts tasting the sweetest, right? Or maybe it just makes them more motivated?
-I’m realizing this now, but you really are trash, senior.
-Still got results, didn’t I? Star writer, right? Everybody’s scrambling to get you, right?
-Ugh.
-So what? You’re a writer.
-That’s not the kind of excuse you use in that situation.
...And then he’d felt a stab of conscience, born from self-disgust.
Jaekyung made up his mind.
Still, he would do better than his senior—enough to give one carrot for every three lashes.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The director meeting ended without incident.
Not because I had him on a leash... well, not exactly.
Looking back on my past experience, the conversation had gone remarkably smoothly, even from a business standpoint.
People can be strange, but their skill really is solid.
I glanced again at the storyboard Min Byeongki had brought me.
The drawings were set up with rather dynamic compositions. At first I wondered if they could even be recreated in a drama production environment, but once I heard Min Byeongki’s explanation, I was surprised to find that every scene could be realized on a low budget.
When it came to video work, there was nothing I could really pick apart.
The finished work would definitely come out properly.
Bringing a storyboard to the first meeting was obviously motivated by something less than pure intent, but whatever. It ended well.
A chuckle escaped me.
Once I thought about Min Byeongki as a person and remembered how he’d acted at the start, it was obvious what he’d been trying to do.
He’d probably expected me to look at the storyboard in awe, send him admiring glances, and then hear him puff himself up with some line like, “Just trust me and follow my lead.”
In other words, each of us had brought our own weapon to claim the upper hand.
Mine was simply stronger.
Anyway.
After the meeting, Chief Go Yeongchan joined us to discuss the finer points of the schedule.
Since this was a fire-fighting job, we had a little over fourteen months to finish preparing the drama for broadcast.
The immediate step ahead of us was...
Pre-production.
Securing locations for filming, preparing props, hiring people, and coordinating schedules.
This stage alone determined more than half the drama’s quality.
...No, by my standards, it was ninety percent.
People are the problem. This damn drama industry.
Director setup, production staff setup, and actor setup.
And among those, actors.
The actors who could fill more than ten roles in a single production, even when the lead was the only one the audience would remember.
Those bastards are the biggest problem...
Bad memories started creeping up on me.
And no wonder—except for a few cases, the majority of the problems in my career had come from actors doing stupid shit.
It wasn’t just an issue with certain individuals; it was part of the job itself.
Going from being nobody yesterday to becoming everyone’s idol today was enough to rot the brain with a vicious hunger for validation.
Excessive certainty in one’s own specialness warped judgment, and moral standards began to shift.
To put it more plainly, what bloomed was that bottomless, ridiculous sense of superiority: Why should I have to live like those worthless losers?
There were also people who simply couldn’t withstand the sheer volume of attention and cracked under the shock of it.
Unfiltered judgment from an unlimited number of strangers could become a mental illness.
Of course, unlike writers, most actors were perfectly normal people.
The problem was simply that the floor beneath them was too deep.
I just have to sort them well.
Fortunately, I had a list of names in my head.
The anxiety born of experience was held down by the knowledge of the future.
I know. You know which ones are decent human beings, which ones are worse than human, which ones will become someone and which ones won’t. You know all of it.
So there was no need to raise pointless worries before anything had even happened.
More than anything, I had the right to be sure of one thing.
I’m the final decision-maker for casting.
Under normal circumstances, that would be absurd.
But the production environment for this project was moving on an impossibly tight schedule, one that could hardly be called normal at all.
Usually, a drama’s success depended on which actors appeared in it. That was just how the market worked.
So they would bring in the most famous actors they could and adjust the production schedule around those people’s availability—but this time, that wasn’t an option.
The only choice left was auditions: finding the right person for each role among the available candidates.
And among the CP, the director, and the writer responsible for making that call, I was the writer—and the director was someone I could control.
Chief Go Yeongchan wasn’t blind, either. As long as the personnel risk was packaged well enough for him to accept, that would be enough.
In other words, nothing worth worrying about would happen.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Meditation was an effective way to erase the unpleasant possibilities floating around in my head one by one.
Once I’d settled myself, I thought, Let’s write.
I’d done everything I could.
The preparations I was capable of making were complete, and that was all that remained.
Several days had passed since I’d entered the full-scale production phase when a call came in from Chief Go Yeongchan.
“Hey, Writer Han! How’s the writing coming along?”
“Yes, I haven’t really hit any major roadblocks so far.”
“Hahaha! That’s great news! I’m calling because we’ve got the audition schedule locked in!”
The stage for choosing the gems from the stones had finally been set.
It was the news I’d been waiting for.