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

I sat up straight again.

His eyes were bright and determined.

I opened a new document.

Ready to continue to the next chapter.

Fingertips landed on the keyboard.

That moment.

I suddenly stopped.

In my mind.

Without any warning.

Arctic sweet shrimp emerge.

I recall her cool and direct tone.

Without a trace of unnecessary emotion.

Yet every word pierced the heart.

I recall her incisive and unsparing comments.

Every word hit me where it hurts the most.

I recall her brief words of guidance.

That pulled me back from the brink of collapse.

They pulled it back from the brink.

The person is clearly not online.

The profile picture is grayed out.

No news.

There was no movement.

But her shadow.

Yet it is everywhere.

Every structure in the outline.

Every conflict.

Each hook segment.

It's all the result of our collaborative efforts.

As soon as you put pen to paper.

Those sharp and insightful words.

It will automatically pop into your mind.

Lingering.

I took a deep breath.

My chest feels slightly tight.

Following the agreed-upon plan.

He slowly put pen to paper.

This time.

I put extra care into writing it.

Every single plot point.

They all carried a serious attitude of not daring to let others down.

I used to write.

It's just to make a living.

For the sake of data.

To grit my teeth and persevere.

numbness.

exhausted.

No hope can be seen.

But things are different now.

Every word I write.

It all carries an added layer of profound meaning.

That was an obsession with not wanting to disappoint the seniors.

It's a stubbornness that doesn't want to be looked down upon, and doesn't want to be a failure again.

They didn't want to waste this unexpected opportunity to change their destiny.

I no longer experience lag.

No more hesitation.

The outline is in my mind.

The structure is in the brain.

The words of my senior echoed in my ears.

The words flowed from my fingertips.

Clean, efficient, and powerful.

There is no water radical.

There was no delay.

There was no self-pity.

The plot continues to unfold.

Tensions are high.

The hook was placed perfectly.

Writing once caused me immense pain and torment.

Now it has become a comforting and reassuring solace.

Time passed little by little.

I was completely absorbed in the story.

Everything outside was cut off.

All that's left is me and the world I create with my pen.

When it stops.

The complete content of the two chapters.

It's already lying quietly in the document.

I read it through once.

Even I was slightly moved.

My heart skipped a beat.

Is this really something I wrote?

Rhythm, tension, emotion.

They're all online.

Compared to the very first book, which was as bland as water.

It has already undergone a complete transformation.

And all this.

It wasn't that I suddenly had a breakthrough.

There is someone.

In my darkest night.

They gave me a lamp.

In my heart.

One warm, one sour.

Gratitude is like a tidal wave.

It gently spreads upwards.

My eyes felt slightly warm.

I wrote books for three years.

I persisted for three years.

I was lost for three years.

For three years, no one paid any attention to it.

Countless late nights.

Typing alone.

Nobody understands.

No one offered encouragement.

No one ever has.

They were willing to enlighten me and lend me a hand.

There was no one else.

It can be summed up in a few sentences.

It completely overturned my understanding of writing.

Arctic sweet shrimp did just that.

I didn't delay.

Release the new chapter immediately.

The moment you click.

I wasn't nervous.

Only piety.

I am not updating.

It's like submitting an answer sheet.

A copy is given to the reader.

This is also the answer sheet given to Arctic sweet shrimp.

I opened the comments section.

New comments are still slowly increasing.

Every single one of them came from the heart.

"The author has completely changed in these last few chapters!"

"The pace is so captivating, I don't want to quit."

"Please update regularly, I'll keep following!"

"The writing style hasn't changed, but the storytelling feel is completely different!"

I looked at each one carefully.

My fingertips trembled slightly.

This time.

I didn't just silently glide by.

I opened the reply box.

I started replying to each message seriously.

"Thank you for your support. I will continue to maintain a steady pace."

"Thank you for your recognition. I will work hard to live up to everyone's expectations."

"Don't worry, I'll keep updating and keep writing."

Just a few words.

Yet it was written with extraordinary seriousness.

Me in the past.

The data is dismal.

There were very few comments.

There were almost no opportunities for interaction.

Like a solitary performer.

Nowadays, some people are willing to watch, stay, and wait.

I used the most sincere attitude.

Respond to every act of kindness.

The reader saw my reply.

I was pleasantly surprised and left a follow-up review.

"The big boss actually replied to me!"

"Then I can use the toilet without worry!"

One trip back and forth.

A small comments section.

Gradually, it warmed up.

I've been writing for three years.

This was the first time I had experienced it.

The feeling of being in sync with the readers.

original.

To be expected of.

It's such a hot topic.

But the warmer it is.

The more I think about that invisible person, the more I realize it.

Arctic sweet shrimp.

She wasn't there.

Without that, I wouldn't be who I am today.

She wasn't there.

I'm probably still going in circles.

He had even given up writing long ago.

I looked at the chat box.

The profile picture remains grayed out.

It is not online.

No news.

There was no movement.

But I don't feel disappointed at all.

I understand.

People like my seniors.

They don't need to be there all the time.

To prove its existence.

All she needed to do was leave a single sentence.

That's enough for me to go very, very far.

I smiled softly.

A warm sensation filled my eyes.

I no longer try to guess the other person's identity, past, or reasons for retirement.

I'm no longer in a hurry to find the answer.

something.

No need to ask.

No need to pursue it.

As long as you move forward steadily.

enough.

I closed the page.

Reorganize the detailed outline.

Fingers move on the keyboard.

I took every step with extra care.

I need to refine the plot to make it more stable.

To make the characters more believable.

Capture the emotions and rhythm of each chapter.

They were all positioned at the most precise location.

To meet the expectations of every reader.

They caught them all safely.

Not for the sake of being a bestseller.

Not for the purpose of deification.

Just so that we wouldn't let that late-night encounter go to waste.

Not for data.

Not for traffic.

Just to be worthy of that person.

The person who quietly helped me out.

Night was falling.

The house was quiet.

I sit upright.

His gaze was focused and gentle.

The sound of fingertips tapping on a keyboard.

Gently undulating.

That wasn't the sound of mechanical typing.

It's in the heart of a young person.

The most sincere response.

I don't know where the Arctic shrimp are right now.

What are you doing?

But I'm willing to believe it.

There was a quiet gaze.

We're separated by a screen.

He watched me silently.

Looking at what she taught me.

Little by little, it transforms into light.

Watch me fall out of the quagmire.

Step by step.

Stand up steadily.

And that's all I can do.

There is only one thing.

Write.

I keep writing.

I wrote until one day.

I can stand proudly on the stage.

To be able to sincerely say something to that perpetually aloof ID:

Senior, I have not let you down.

The night grew deeper.

The only sound in the room was the soft clatter of a keyboard.

I lowered my head.

His eyes were calm, yet a fire was burning within them.

The pen tip never stops.

The faint light never fades.

This time.

I will not lose again.

[End of Chapter]