I am Hollywood

Chapter 2: Inspiration from Argument



[Chapter 2: Inspiration from Argument]

Eric gently set the somewhat clunky secondhand typewriter on his desk, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and felt a deep nostalgia for the sleek laptop he once had. It was the second day since he discovered his peculiar memory bank, and after a day of reflection, Eric had started to sketch out a preliminary plan for his future.

He had deliberately taken the day off from Jeff, spending most of it browsing around and purchasing this typewriter, which was essential to realizing his vision.

After handling Ralph's affairs, Eric found himself with only a few hundred dollars in cash left. Thankfully, since Eric had already paid off the mortgage on this house, he felt relieved; otherwise, unable to manage the payments, he might have found himself homeless. He ended up using a month's advance on his paycheck from Jeff to afford the typewriter.

To achieve his aspirations, Eric knew he needed to break into Hollywood. Directing was out of the question for now, and acting wasn't a suitable path for him. After considering his options, he concluded that screenwriting was the way to go. While many claimed that screenwriters had a low status in Hollywood, the truth was different. Considering that Michael Crichton's novel, clocking in at just over a hundred thousand words, had been published in 1990, it was unlikely that Crichton had started writing it yet. Eric felt justified in claiming it as his own -- after all, if one didn't take a risk, they'd miss out on opportunity.

He chuckled at the thought of Crichton, who had an almost fantastical life experience. Without the likes of Jurassic Park, there wouldn't even be a concept of "Jurassic" anything.

As he reminisced, a slight smile crept onto Eric's face while he tapped on the keyboard. He wasn't drafting the screenplay for Jurassic Park; he was writing a novel. Having watched the film out of curiosity, he sought out the book to read it thoroughly. He figured it would not be that difficult to write this novel.

The reason he refrained from writing the screenplay directly was twofold. First, if he submitted a screenplay to a movie studio, it would likely end up in the trash, as Hollywood studios received scripts in bulk every day. Second, Eric aimed to retain control over the film rights to the series. Even if he wrote the screenplay and some perceptive studio took notice, they would inevitably reap the most significant profits, while Eric would merely receive a handful of script royalties.

Publishing the novel would allow Eric to keep the film rights firmly in his grasp, ready to sell at the right moment and maximize his potential earnings.

...

Time always flew by when engrossed in work. As darkness fell and he could no longer see the letters on the keyboard, Eric realized he had been writing for four or five hours straight, and his stomach began to grumble.

Standing up, Eric looked at the thick stack of manuscript on his desk, satisfied as he stretched his arms overhead. At this rate, he estimated he could finish the manuscript in about a week, especially since he still needed to work at Jeff's restaurant, or else he would starve.

Making his way to the kitchen, Eric prepared himself a simple dinner with scrambled eggs. The remaining bread and peanut butter in the fridge usually served as his snacks these days.

After his simple dinner, Eric stepped onto the balcony on the second floor, leaning against the railing while taking in the night scenery.

His apartment occupied a small yard of under two hundred square feet or twenty square meters, with a two-story house that randomly hosted some unknown flowers and plants. Without a woman in the house, Eric's father, Ralph, had never displayed much attention to detail, leading to a rugged lifestyle for the two of them.

In his memories, they had moved from London to Los Angeles when he was around seven or eight. Eric couldn't quite recall why Ralph chose to do so -- his young age had left him oblivious, and the clues remaining in his current memory didn't offer clarity, so he dropped the matter.

Once in Los Angeles, Ralph dragged young Eric around for only two days before buying this chaotic little abode through a real estate agent.

After spending some time on the balcony, just as he was about to return to his study to continue working on Jurassic Park, he heard a sudden crash, the sound of glass shattering. He turned his gaze towards his neighbors to the west -- the Ronkels. They were in their forties, with three children: the eldest in college, a daughter at a boarding school, and a seven-year- old son.

The couple had been arguing a lot lately, perhaps a sign of midlife crisis. Though he had a good rapport with the Ronkels, Eric didn't plan to get involved; they were generally quite reserved and had never resorted to physical altercations. Rushing in would only create an awkward situation for everyone.

After a flurry of rapid, muffled shouting and the sound of things breaking, the Ronkels' front door swung open. Charles Ronkel, dressed in a shirt with tousled hair, stormed out and turned back to shout inside, "Enough! I've had it with you, damn it! If I hadn't moved to Los Angeles to marry you, I'd probably be a top executive at General Motors by now! Look at you now, for crying out loud!"

"Go to hell," replied Mrs. Ronkel, usually calm, now sounding sharp and high-pitched. "Out of the three guys who pursued me when you did, one's a California senator and another is making millions selling oil in the Middle East! Do you have any idea how much a shipload of oil is worth? It's worth more than your salary in a lifetime! I'm the one who should be regretting things! Now, sleep in your 'General Motors high-rise,' dear!"

With that, Mrs. Ronkel flung a black coat out onto the stoop and slammed the door shut. Charles picked up the coat, dusted it off, and then noticed Eric standing on the balcony. "Sorry to bother you, Eric," Charles said sheepishly, offering a nervous smile.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"No problem, Charles. Do you want to... come over for a bit?" Eric offered.

Charles shook his head. "No, thanks. I... I think I'll hit a bar for a while. Maybe by the time I return, Mary will have cooled off."

After a nod at Eric, Charles got in his car and drove off into the distance.

Back inside, Eric reflected on the Ronkels' fiery argument. A sudden thought struck him, and he sat at his desk, inserted a blank sheet into the typewriter, and the idea began to take shape in his mind.

For the past few days, Eric had been mulling over what his first screenplay should involve. Now, he finally had his answer. The script felt like it was custom-made for him. Sure, given the era's differences, many details would need revisions, but that posed no real challenge. The real selling point wouldn't hinge on those minute specifics.

*****

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