The Pen God: My Mentor in the Film and Television Industry

The sky outside the window was beginning to lighten with a pale, fish-belly white hue.

A faint light peeked through the sky.

The entire city is about to awaken from its slumber.

Inside the rented room, I was wide awake.

The computer screen was still lit.

I sat in the chair.

His back was ramrod straight.

His gaze was so focused it was almost burning.

From midnight to dawn.

I didn't say another word to the Arctic shrimp.

All my energy is focused on this manuscript.

Following the approach of Arctic sweet shrimp.

I completely rewrote the first chapter from beginning to end.

Remove large sections of trivial daily background information.

Remove meaningless environmental descriptions.

Eliminate the sluggish and loose emotional transitions.

The very first sentence puts the protagonist in a desperate situation.

Rent payment reminder.

Work is not going well.

Life is so stressful it's suffocating.

Just a few hundred words.

The characters' resentment, frustration, and desperation are all laid bare.

In the middle section, the protagonist's inner struggles and desires are amplified.

It's not that I don't want to work hard, it's that I can't find the direction.

It's not that I'm content with mediocrity, but rather that I have no other choice.

The emotional buildup was well done.

I changed the subject.

At the end of the first chapter, the life-changing message arrived as expected.

Without any hesitation or delay.

There is not a single word-filling nonsense.

Type the last punctuation mark.

I let out a long breath.

My back was slightly sweaty.

My arms are also a little sore.

But in my heart, I felt clear-headed and relaxed like never before.

I stared at the brand new first chapter on the screen.

I watched it several times.

Compared to the previous version.

It's like two completely different novels.

The pace is fast.

There is enough conflict.

The characters are believable.

The ending leaves you wanting to click on the next chapter.

Did I really write this?

I was a little dazed myself.

I took a deep breath.

Resend the revised first chapter to Arctic Sweet Shrimp.

[Charcoal-grilled tomato]: Senior, I've fixed it.

The message was sent.

I actually felt a little nervous.

Like a student handing in their homework to the teacher.

They crave recognition, yet fear having more problems pointed out.

It didn't take long.

The dialog box displays "Typing...".

Arctic sweet shrimp's reply came quickly.

[Arctic sweet shrimp]: Much better than before.

Just seven simple words.

It instantly made me feel relieved, and my heart warmed.

The structure is smooth, the characters have desires, and the ending hook is well-established.

Once a reader opens the first chapter and finishes reading it, there's a high probability they'll want to click on the second chapter.

He received affirmation from a mysterious senior.

I was completely confident.

[Charcoal-roasted tomato]: Should I... post it now?

【Arctic sweet shrimp】: to send.

I no longer hesitated.

Back to the author's backend.

Replace the old version's first chapter.

Upload the new version and click Publish.

Click that moment.

My fingers even paused slightly.

This book carries so many of my expectations and disappointments.

The first few hundred thousand words were written.

Few responses, cold, hard data.

And now.

This is a short revised chapter.

Like a pebble thrown into stagnant water.

Whether it will create ripples, I don't know.

But I know the answer in my heart.

This time, things are different from before.

Published successfully.

The chapters are refreshed on the work's page.

I stared at the screen, momentarily too afraid to move.

I am very familiar with the website rules.

The core data of a newly published chapter will not be updated immediately.

Updates are usually delayed until noon the following day.

Now check your favorites, clicks, and follow-up reading.

These are all old data and have no reference value.

But I still couldn't help it.

Refresh the page again and again.

It was already fully light.

The sound of traffic in the early morning can be heard outside the window.

The sounds of pedestrians talking gradually came from downstairs.

Another new day.

For others, it was just an ordinary workday.

For me, it's a gamble to start over.

I stood up.

I walked around the cramped rented room a few times.

I drank a few sips of cold water to force myself to calm down.

Since the data won't be available until tomorrow.

The only thing you can see now is the readers' real-time comments.

I took a deep breath and opened the comments section.

For the first few minutes, the page was completely silent.

My heart sank little by little.

Could it be... that even after making the changes, no one is reading them?

Just when I was about to lose my patience.

The page refreshed abruptly.

The first comment appeared quietly.

"??? The first chapter was rewritten?"

The ID is for a regular reader, and the profile picture is gray by default.

My heart skipped a beat.

A reader has come in!

I stared intently at the comments section.

My fingers hovered over the mouse, and I even held my breath.

Less than two minutes later, a second comment appeared.

"Wow, this adaptation is absolutely brilliant! The beginning was so suffocating, but the ending completely captivated me!"

The third one, updated immediately.

"The pacing is much better now. Before, it was so slow I couldn't keep watching, but now I finished it in one go. Looking forward to the next update!"

"Let's crouch together for Chapter Two! This is how a story should be!"

"Has the author finally figured it out? Keep up the quality, I'm following!"

One after another, they sprouted up like bamboo shoots after a spring rain.

No rating.

There was no abuse.

These are all genuine recognitions and expectations.

As I looked at those vibrant words, my eyes welled up with tears.

I wrote a book for three years, and it flopped for three years.

It's not that there have been no readers, nor that there have been no comments.

But never before has it been like today.

It was sent out less than half an hour ago.

Readers started urging for more updates.

Praise the rhythm, praise the hooks, praise the writing.

It turns out that if you write it correctly, readers can really feel it.

It turns out I am not without talent.

They just haven't been on the right path.

I forcefully suppressed my surging emotions.

I took screenshots of each of these comments and saved them.

This is the most precious encouragement I have received in the past three years.

I hesitated for a moment.

I sent the screenshot to Arctic Sweet Shrimp.

[Charcoal-grilled Tomato]: Senior, it's been posted. The data won't be updated until noon tomorrow, but readers have already commented, saying it's a good revision.

The other party replied almost instantly.

[Arctic sweet shrimp]: Normal.

It was as if they had foreseen all of this.

If the story is right, readers will naturally stay.

[Grilled Tomato]: So... what's next?

I asked cautiously.

I am now completely convinced.

I believe whatever the other person says.

[Arctic Sweet Shrimp]: Complete the revisions of Chapters 2 and 3 following this logic.

Keep the pace steady, don't slack off, and don't add unnecessary chatter.

[Charcoal-grilled tomatoes]: Good.

I agreed without hesitation.

[Arctic sweet shrimp]: Also, remember this feeling today.

Readers don't like formulaic plots; they like engaging stories.

Looking at those words, I silently memorized them.

I glanced back at the portfolio page on the screen.

The number of comments is still increasing slowly but steadily.

Every single one is positive feedback.

Although it is still incredibly far from being a fire or a god.

Although the crucial data on favorites and follow-up reading will not be available until noon tomorrow.

But at least.

This dark, endless road of writing.

Finally, a faint but real light appeared.

The sunlight outside the window is gradually becoming stronger.

Sunlight streamed into the room through the gaps in the curtains.

It landed on the keyboard, and on the back of my hand.

I gripped the mouse again, my eyes resolute.

I will not sleep tonight, and will wait for dawn.

I'll be waiting for an answer by noon tomorrow.

An answer that belongs to me.