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A tea room.
Wisps of smoke rose from the small red clay stove, yet the room temperature was pleasantly warm and not stuffy.
The middle-aged man sitting at the wooden table took a sip of tea, slowly put down his teacup, and said, "Old Zheng, what's the matter that you called us here today? I heard from Old Liu that you want to use our script?"
"We're not trying to be sarcastic," a bespectacled man with a rather long face said, "Old Zheng, you're at the peak of your career right now, you have no worries about food or clothing. Why would you need to come to us?"
The fat man sitting next to him also spoke up: "Old Zheng, among us old guys, you're the youngest and the most famous. What, have you run out of ideas too?"
As soon as the fat man spoke, everyone burst into laughter. However, the laughter was more bitter than mocking.
All the screenwriters present are veterans with decades of experience in the industry. Each of them has at least one representative work that they can be proud of.
Take, for example, the fat man who just spoke. His surname is Jing, and his full name is Jing Fengnian. Don't let his plump appearance fool you; he's actually a master at writing heart-wrenching love stories. Ten years ago, his novel "The Lonely Palace" brought tears to the eyes of countless young girls.
For example, there's the long-faced man with glasses. His surname is Fu, and his given name is quite down-to-earth, Fu Yu (meaning "rich"). Although he looks miserable, he's actually known for writing sweet and innocent romance dramas set in ancient times. His representative works, "Double Marriage to a High-Ranking Family" and "The Story of Green Plum," are both incredibly sweet old-fashioned idol dramas that were popular throughout China and even overseas more than a decade ago.
And the screenwriter who spoke first, his surname is Jiao, and his name is Jiao Xiachun. His specialty is adaptation—adapting classic works into dramas. Some say he rewrites stories, some say he makes them up; in short, opinions are mixed.
The other screenwriters who haven't spoken up also have their own works, and some even had their moments of glory. But those are all stories of the past.
Not everyone is Zheng Bohan, possessing seemingly inexhaustible creative inspiration, able to keep up with the times and constantly write best-selling new books. Most people are hard-working individuals, or even mediocre ones.
These old guys present have all faded into obscurity in recent years. If you mention their names, probably not many viewers would recognize them. That's the harsh reality of the entertainment industry; you need constant exposure to maintain your fame. One instance of being forgotten often means permanent oblivion.
Screenwriters already had a low social standing, and after losing power, these old guys quickly fell out of their original circles. Some even had to resort to writing novels for third-rate magazines to make a living.
This doesn't mean they haven't produced new works. On the contrary, most of them have created television dramas in recent years. However, the storylines are outdated, the pacing is out of step with the times, the values clash with the new era, and they lack commercial appeal, among other things. For these reasons, their stories have suffered a sharp decline in both critical acclaim and viewership, leading to their abandonment by the market and their oblivion by audiences. Their efforts to catch the train of the new era have only resulted in a tarnished reputation in their later years.
Sitting here are a group of remnants of the old era, abandoned by the market and the audience.
It's no wonder that Jing Fengnian and the others spoke to Zheng Bohan with a hint of sarcasm. After all, Zheng Bohan is the only one here who hasn't been forgotten by the audience.
“Old Jing,” Zheng Bohan said, “don’t curse me. We’re all under sixty, what kind of old guys are you calling old men?”
Every profession has its "circles," which are essentially small groups. This is especially true in the arts and culture scene. Screenwriters like Zheng Bohan naturally have their own small groups of screenwriters.
Veteran screenwriters have their own pride, and it's very difficult for up-and-coming screenwriters to break into their circle. Zheng Bohan is considered a prominent figure in this small group.
It's just that writers often look down on each other, a phenomenon that has existed since ancient times. Screenwriters are no exception. Although Zheng Bohan has some status, he doesn't actually have enough influence to completely convince everyone. For example, this time, he actually sent invitations to twenty screenwriters, but only fifteen of them showed up.
Zheng Bohan was already quite satisfied with the number of people who had come. He clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention to himself. Then he spoke, "Everyone, do you know what these things in front of me are?"
A stack of A4 papers was piled up in front of Zheng Bohan, which everyone noticed when they arrived.
"What is that?" Liu Hong asked. He was the screenwriter Zheng Bohan had first called to harass him last night.
Zheng Bohan smiled without saying a word.
"Old Zheng, stop keeping me in suspense," Fuyu said. "I'm busy rushing home to finish my manuscript. I haven't even finished the story I submitted to 'Every Family Story Club' this month!"
"Alright, I'll reveal the answer now." Zheng Bohan said with a wry smile, "Old Fu, you're still the same as before, not even letting go of the meat in a fly's eye."
Zheng Bohan stood up, picked up the stack of papers, and slowly walked out of his seat.
"Let me see... these are Lao Jing's..."
Zheng Bohan walked over to Jing Fengnian and placed a few sheets of paper on the table in front of him.
"This belongs to Lao Ke."
Zheng Bohan walked over to a screenwriter named Ke Fu and placed a few sheets of paper in front of him.
"Old Liu's..."
"Old Du's..."
"This belongs to Old Li..."
The screenwriters took the papers in their hands, glanced at them a few times, and their expressions changed drastically.
"Zheng Bohan, what do you mean by this?"
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