"It's about time to get up."
Kazir yawned lazily, then glanced at his watch.
To be honest, he hadn't slept soundly last night; his mind was a mess, with all sorts of things swirling around.
Somehow, he felt an inexplicable excitement bubbling inside him.
He was currently staying at a motel, having just checked in last night. As a freelance director not affiliated with any company, his original self had been striving for years to land a major project and showcase his talents.
He was 26 this year, with three films already on his resume.
'However, if I count the future memories I carry, then I've made far more than that.'
His original self's unique experience gave him immense confidence and assurance.
"First, I'll go to the Writers Guild of America."
As a director and a seasoned film enthusiast, Kazir already had several films in mind he wanted to make. His mind was filled with countless box-office hits, some of which were original screenplays that were currently unclaimed, allowing him to fully display his abilities.
'These days, Hollywood often has blockbusters with budgets over 100 million, but that's not my goal.' He was well aware that no one would be foolish enough to entrust a nameless nobody with a hundred million dollar investment to squander.
But this didn't deter him; instead, it ignited his fighting spirit.
'What setbacks didn't I encounter in my past life? These current difficulties are truly nothing!'
He secretly encouraged himself.
His goal was clear: first, try out a film with a budget between 3 and 4 million US dollars. Even if this plan fell through, he had backup options, so he didn't have to worry about being at a dead end.
After a quick shower, Kazir walked out of the motel invigorated, hailed a taxi, and headed straight for his destination.
Upon arriving at the Writers Guild, he walked straight in—after all, he was already a member of the Guild, so entry and exit were unimpeded and smooth.
A few minutes later… "Thanks."
As he left the Guild, Kazir smiled and greeted the doorman, feeling exceptionally pleased.
He had just confirmed something with someone inside: the script he was interested in had not yet been registered.
This meant either it hadn't been written yet or it was still in progress, which was undoubtedly fantastic news for him.
The Writers Guild, to put it simply, was a "safe" for screenplays, providing a layer of protection for writers' works.
Writers would all come here to register and insure their works.
After all, in Hollywood, films with similar concepts and plots are not uncommon, such as deep impact and Armageddon, as well as White House Down and Olympus Has Fallen, all of which are living examples.
With the Guild's protection, writers' rights were assured, and they didn't have to worry about their works being plagiarized or misused.
"Great, now I have a plan!" He couldn't help but chuckle softly, his excitement almost getting the better of him, causing passersby to turn their heads and look at him as if he were crazy.
Kazir rented a typewriter and immediately got to work. Scripts, proposals, budget sheets—not one could be missing. Without these, if he went to a Hollywood company, people would just think he was causing trouble and wouldn't take him seriously at all.
His fingers flew across the hard keys of the somewhat old typewriter, which emitted a monotonous and repetitive "clack-clack" sound.
But to Kazir, this sound was more pleasant than any music, as if it were the footsteps of his journey to success.
"Ha…"
He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked down at his progress.
Three hours had passed, and he had only written about 2,500 words, making several mistakes along the way. His efficiency was really low.
"At this rate, it will take at least three or four days to finish," he muttered to himself, but he didn't care; his drive was strong!
The unpleasantness of his original self's divorce and the frustration of losing the house had long been thrown to the back of his mind.
After all, to him, those were trivial matters, not worth his continued worry and trouble. Having lived a lifetime, one always becomes more mature, more composed, and more able to look past the world's disturbances… Meanwhile, in the offices of New Line Cinema, a meeting about next year's release schedule was in full swing.
For them, which films to release next year had to be carefully calculated and considered.
This matter allowed no sloppiness; one wrong step could lead to the entire company falling into difficulties, or even collapsing.
"As of September 16th, The Mask's North America box office has already surpassed 106 million, and it looks like it can still climb higher. This film has strong momentum, Jim Carrey's performance is highly praised by everyone, and audience response is enthusiastic."
Hearing this, the conference room was filled with cheer; everyone simply applauded, a small celebration.
"Everyone has worked hard."
As the CEO of New Line Cinema, Robert Shaye looked at the company's achievements, a smile he couldn't hide on his face, his eyes gleaming with pride.
Although New Line had been acquired by Turner Broadcasting System, the company's real power remained firmly in Robert's hands; he was still the helmsman of the company.
"Alright everyone, let's talk about today's main topic." He scanned the directors and executives present, his tone becoming serious as the meeting officially began… "It fell through again…"
Kazir twisted open the mineral water bottle, tilted his head back, and took several gulps. He had been arguing with a producer from 20th Century Fox for a long time, almost talking himself hoarse, his throat dry and smoky.
As he walked out of the building, his face still showed a hint of helplessness and disappointment.
He had chatted with the producer for a few minutes, but the other party hadn't really listened much, their mind elsewhere.
In the end, the person just said, "Submit the script to management; if there's interest, we'll contact you," and dismissed him with a very perfunctory attitude.
Kazir knew very well what this routine meant.
The producer's words sounded polite, but they were actually a polite refusal—they had no interest in his script at all and didn't want to waste time on him.
'Contact me? Wait for it, it'll never happen.' He sneered inwardly, 'They have thousands of scripts piled up in their warehouse, and less than a fraction of them ever get made into films. What is my script?'
"Alright, on to the next one. I still have three targets!"
He encouraged himself, not disheartened by a single failure.
Kazir had already visited all six major Hollywood studios, and the results were the same—always that phrase, "submit it and wait for news," followed by no further contact.
"I hope this one works out. After all, the original was made by them," he thought, full of anticipation. From the moment he was reborn, he knew the future would definitely change, but he still wanted to try to keep things on their original trajectory as much as possible, so he could better grasp opportunities.
"If this doesn't work either, then I'll have to activate Plan B."
He secretly made up his mind, hailed a taxi, and prepared to head to his next destination.
His own old car had broken down long ago and was still in the repair shop; it wouldn't be fixed anytime soon.
'No wonder Cassandra didn't even bother to fight for that old car; after all, it's old and rundown, embarrassing to drive, and besides, she has her own car and wouldn't even look at that old wreck.' He laughed self-deprecatingly. Now, that old car, which made noise everywhere except the horn, was his only possession, but he didn't care about such things.
Half an hour later, Kazir stood in front of the New Line Cinema building, looking up at the majestic structure, his heart filled with expectation and longing.
—In the future, the distributor of that film would be here.