Some writers seem to have all the luck. Loved by tens of thousands, if not millions, of readers, they sometimes appeal not only to publishers but also to broadcasting networks; they land screen adaptation rights, along with a handsome advance. Exciting news for the writer and the publisher alike. If they show potential, some of these lucky writers are invited to write the script themselves. I happen to be one of them.

        A year after signing the scriptwriting contract, however, I sit at my desk, face grim, stomach churning with acid reflux, asking myself the question: am I really lucky to be writing my own script?

        To be honest, I thought I’d get it done in no time. I considered my writing popular. Of course, in an era flooded with short-form content, my choice to write books, one of the oldest forms of media, may not have been the most popular choice. Nevertheless, at least in print, my writing worked—my books sold. But the reports of declining print readership continued to haunt me every year, and with it, the question of whether I could sustain a livelihood just by writing books. Even if my books appealed to the masses, if the act of reading itself was becoming unpopular, it felt very necessary to consider alternatives, which included opening a banchan store. “Writer” is a job title, not a lifetime guarantee of employment.

        I broadly categorize my fellow writers into “literary writers” and “literary-literary writers.” “Literary writers” write to negotiate the distance between themselves and the world. Even if they write about feeling alienated from the world, they write toward the world. In this effort, they sometimes revise their book titles to something that will help drive up their sales or agree to have their faces appear on the cover of their books. But “literary-literary writers” allow no such negotiation. They live in their own artistic realm. They do not allow their faces to appear anywhere on their books; they don’t consider it a failure if the reader doesn’t get the point of their works. They choose not to publish at all if it means having to change their chosen titles; they loathe clichéd phrases, rebel against capitalism, patriarchy, heteronormativity, anthropocentrism, ableism, and many other problematic -isms of the world, indifferent to stories that go viral or draw the attention of the masses. They are the most literary of the literary writers.

        I said yes to writing my own script because I’m a literary writer. I too have issues with the world, but perhaps due to my mild temperament, I could never become that radical. Instead, I’m good at compromising and mediating conflicts. So, on the one hand, I remain flexible and open; on the other, I’m a coward. If I were a literary-literary writer, I would not have responded positively to being invited to the world of TV in any capacity. Literary-literary writers don’t even watch that much Korean TV. Many of them are my good friends. In a sense, I turned my back on my admirable, principled best friends, and took broad, confident steps toward a compromise that would bring me closer to the masses. It happened in the summer of 2023.

        The truth dawned on me shortly after: I knew nothing about scriptwriting. Writing for TV, at first glance, seems easy. TV shows are meant for everyone, how difficult could it be? But that was exactly the point: I had to write something that could appeal to everyone. It’s easy to dissect and criticize TV shows, but it’s so freaking difficult to write, edit, and complete one. Very few manage to do so at all, let alone successfully. Think again before shouting “I could have written that!” at that scene full of clichés. TV writing has turned out to be a completely different beast from book writing.

The Difference in Scale

If writing my novel The Age of Filiarchy was like planting three trees in my backyard, adapting it for TV felt like building an entire forest. And I had to start by tearing down a mountain that stood there before. “I have to amplify the conflict by this much? And add this many subplots?!” To my stunned face, the producers and the network director nodded yes as if I were asking the dumbest questions. I was writing a twelve-part series; each episode had to carry its own weight. That meant I had to add conflict and plot twists that didn’t exist in the original novel; I had to create more characters, new love interests, add backstories about the main character’s family, define the heroine’s desires as well as what keeps her from achieving them. I can’t be too specific here since the script is still in progress, but it’s fair to say I have written it as a completely new work. The general essence of the original novel, as well as some well-known lines from it, has stayed, but the rest had to be rewritten from the ground up.

Reader vs. Viewer

Readers read with caution. They savor their books slowly before deciding if they are good or not. They choose to leave the clamor of the world behind and dive into the pages, and I love them for it. But TV viewers vastly outnumber book readers. It broke my heart to learn how minuscule my book sales figures were in comparison to TV show viewers. Still, no time for heartbreak. Once a writer decides to work for the small screen, there’s no time to feel sorry for oneself. Your audience is now a viewer, not a reader. A viewer does not have time for you. The average human attention span for visual content is less than 15 seconds. People choose to watch even the most celebrated masterpieces in edited summaries. To hold the attention of a dopamine-addicted viewer, you have to write something that keeps them on their toes.

        The viewer who is completely different from my reader; the viewer who has no qualms about never reading any book at all; the viewer who comes home tired from work and watches YouTube on their phone; the viewer who turns on Netflix while unpacking their takeout meal; the viewer who may not even know the word “patriarchy”, let alone “filiarchy”; the viewer who’s likely a stranger to me, though they have the potential to become my friend. That’s the viewer I am writing the script for. I watch people on the bus, on the subway, on the street, asking: what do you want to watch? What moves you? How can I reach you? How can I convince you that my story can be yours, too? As a prose writer, I struggled to define my style. As a script writer, I struggle to understand the people I live among. The secret is for me to understand the viewer.

The Plot Thickens. . . through Verbs

In my novel, there’s not much of a plot. A self-made woman hires her parents to work for her and reigns as a filiarch. This is the premise of the novel, and things happen around it—quiet, everyday things. When it comes to writing, how it’s written can carry the story, not what happens. The language itself can make the whole book. In dealing with language, I sensed my talent. But in constructing a scene for TV, I felt lost. My ability to investigate the inner lives of characters through language? Useless! I had to lose beautiful adjectives and adverbs. I had to lose the well-constructed narration. Scriptwriting is an art of verbs. I had to make sure everything was written clearly so that the dozens of staff reading it could understand and follow directions. It took me a year to lose all the frills and ribbons of my language. I also wasn’t good at creating comprehensive plots that continued to evolve, keeping the viewer hooked. Most of my plots were short episodes that didn’t have the strength to develop themselves throughout the entire season. I had to learn to do this while acquiring other basic principles of scriptwriting. But it was fine. I like learning. The most valuable principle I learned about plots? It’s not a plot if you’re not curious to see how it develops.

Edit, Re-Edit, Then Edit Some More

In publishing, manuscripts go through edits. I usually look forward to developing a manuscript with my editor and going through multiple editing rounds with them. However, I quickly discovered that feedback in publishing is the polite, gentle kind. TV, not so much. TV people are direct, practical, and will not hesitate to tell you when the script isn’t working. It takes the work of many sailors to keep the ship afloat. The writer may write the script, but feedback comes from all directions from all those involved. The scope and the frequency of edits in TV shows far surpass those in publishing. I wrote a tremendous amount over the past year and a half—between 10 to 45 pages every week. I had to write more than usual because so much of what I wrote was rejected. And for good reasons, too. . . or so I tell myself (let me take a moment here to wipe away my tears).

        Editing also takes place with the producers and the network director. I trust them as my coworkers and teachers. But it’s not easy work. The personnel may vary according to each production company, but the women on my team are all pros at diagnosing issues in a manuscript. They’ve watched way too much TV. They can categorize and summarize most plots within ten seconds. If prompted, they can recite all the clichés ever uttered in the history of television. They’ve been on all kinds of production sites. They’ve dealt with countless writers and yelled at them, too. To these pros, my very first attempts at scriptwriting must have seemed laughable, and for that I feel bad. But after receiving negative comments one after another for the whole year and feeling my stomach churn each time, I finally had to tell them: “Please try to say one nice comment for every ten negative ones. That will really help me keep going.” Perhaps they took pity on me, but they now include a positive comment or two in their feedback. It makes me so happy. While I take note of their comments, the director (who has been working in TV for twenty-one years) slides in, even bringing a tasty pastry the following week as if giving me a special treat. I gobble it down like the hungry child that I am as she silently watches me with a look that says, “Good girl. . .” 
To sum up, no matter how many books I’ve sold or literary accolades I’ve collected, I’m nothing but a red-faced infant just delivered into a completely new world.

Money Matters

The relative freedom and respect I had while writing books were tied to the costs that hinged on the process. Producing a TV show often costs 100 or even 1,000 times more than producing a book. The number of people involved is also many times larger. A TV production unfolds across a much longer span of time, as it involves securing larger capital, major networks, and well-known actors. At its fastest, a show is completed at least two years after the script contract is signed; at other times, it can take up to three, four years, and sometimes even longer. I’m used to publishing two books a year. This extended timeline felt foreign. “When does your show air?” “Has the cast been announced?” “When will it launch?” Each time these questions come my way, I avert my eyes.

I simply don’t know. I am working on my script day and night; but it is beyond the writer to know when the show will see the light of day.

        While I struggled with this new experience, my literary-literary friends finished their books and sent them my way. I would open the package, hold the book in my hand, turn a few pages, then close it shortly after. There were beautiful words. The literary quality of their writing, the beauty of their language, almost gnawed at me. The books seemed to whisper: Don’t forget, we are your home. Come back, come back to us. I had to shake my head, stack the books in a corner, and turn back toward another pile of how-to-write-for-the-screen books with my own script next to it. I’ve read Robert McKee, Blake Snyder, Ronald Tobias, No Hee-kyung, Kim Eun-sook, Park Hae-young, Lim Sang-choon, Song Jae-jeong, Moon Ji-won, Park Chan-wook, Bong Joon-ho, Jeong Seo-kyeong, Lee Jong-beom, Seongsu Park, Ki-hwan Oh. . . I took notes religiously from masters in film and TV writing, as well as in webtoon writing. Having done this, I’ve now come to admire all the TV shows in the world. Even if they don’t seem like much, the fact that they’ve been written, produced and aired, leaves me in awe.

        I now watch every TV show while kneeling to show my deepest respect.

        My dream is to become a writer who has completed a full TV script.

        I hope I get a lot of negative feedback when my show airs. I am afraid of writing something that gets none at all. That would mean that no one has watched it.

        I’m a writer of books through and through, and I won’t lose that part of myself. But I do want a second life as a scriptwriter. I want to experience the thrill of watching how my sentences construct a scene on screen. When The Age of Filiarchy wraps, I will have learned to do it better. If I’m given a chance to write another one, I’m sure I can do it so much better!

        The desire to do better—this stays the same, be it for books or for TV. It wakes me up at 5 a.m. I go up to my study as if possessed by a spirit and continue to write and rewrite. I have been lifting weights so I can keep up with my writing routine better. I lift heavier and heavier weights as the days go by. I wouldn’t be able to go through hundreds of editorial rounds without physical strength and endurance. I don’t drink coffee or alcohol. I don’t smoke. Like my grandma, I go to bed at 10 p.m. and wake up at 6 a.m.

        When I’m up too early, I go hiking on the mountain in my neighborhood. When I’m there, I hug a tree. When I find a handsome tree, I hug it and pray: Please let me finish my script. The tree spirit looks down upon the newbie scriptwriter, stuck between the masterpiece she yearns to write someday and what she is capable of writing at the moment. The writer who stands on the long road of transition into a full-fledged scriptwriter, steadily becoming a better writer in the process.

        When the show airs, I will thank the trees.

Translated by Dasom Yang

YSRA is a writer, publisher, and scriptwriter. She writes essays, columns, interviews, and song lyrics and is the author of more than thirteen books, including Body and Mind Training, Pure Reverence, and An Awesome Life. She placed first in the YES24 Young Writers Award in 2023. She is currently working on the screen adaptation of her novel The Age of Filiarchy.

Korean Work Mentioned:

The Age of Filiarchy (Promunhak, 2022)  

『가녀장의 시대』 (이야기장수, 2022)