For the past month, I had secretly been waiting for Han Yu-ju to finish the script.
I did not trust her one hundred percent when she said she would bring a completed draft, yet I had no choice but to wait because since then, I had seen absolutely nothing else worth doing.
In the month after I turned down Yu-ju and Cha Il-nam’s first casting offer I received countless proposals.
But what was the point of receiving them when there was not a single project I wanted to appear in?
Every drama came with an unfinished script, which irritated me.
During that time, several movie offers arrived through Kim Sang-cheol; I eagerly opened the screenplays only to be bitterly disappointed.
Each film wanted nothing more than a simple “kid character,”. It had no appeal at all, so turning them down became routine.
So when word came that Han Yu-ju had finished her script, expectation naturally sprouted and now that expectation is turning into something greater than I hoped.
Because I have written plays myself, the moment I opened the manuscript I could feel Yu-ju had done far more than simply avoid laziness.
Just as she had boasted, the script ran steadily all the way to the last episode.
I began reading in a fairly good mood.
Oh… oh-ho.
The farther I read the faster my heart pounded.
“People are healed by people.”
—The production note printed on the first page plunged straight into my heart.
After spending ten years alone in a tower, I had realized the preciousness of being “together,” and in this reborn life I was being perfectly healed. No one could empathize with that line more deeply than I.
I closed the script. Before I could even wipe the tears spilling down my face, words burst out:
“I’ll do it… I’ll do this show.”
I wanted to add The piece is wonderful, I must do it, and more, but my throat clogged and nothing else emerged.
“Really?! Senior Cha, we did it!”
“Good work, Writer Han!”
“So I’m finally doing a drama? We’re making a drama now?”
“That’s right! Hey, I’m taking this one. This will definitely be a hit!”
Kim Sang-cheol and Han Yu-ju hugged each other at my answer, stifling tears of joy.
While they celebrated, Kim Sang-cheol turned to me, wearing a dazed expression.
“Siwoo, kid, do you even understand what all this means? Is that why you’re crying?”
“Mm-hmm, of course. It’s incredibly moving… People opening their hearts to each other and drawing close. How overwhelming that is…”
Sniffling, I wiped streaming tears with my sleeve.
The final afterglow was so strong the tears would not stop easily. Uncle rolled off a length of tissue and handed it to me.
Honk, honk. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose soundly.
“Good grief… a six-year-old understands all this?”
“Honestly amazing, Director,” Uncle agreed, equally astonished.
Kim Sang-cheol shook his head, unable to comprehend.
“This will be awfully hard to act, too.”
He seemed both impressed and incredulous as he watched me wipe away tears.
“Dong-uk, were your sister or brother-in-law top students?”
“My sister was… pretty good, yes, and my brother-in-law graduated a Seoul engineering college.”
“Then is it genetics? Talent in acting is one thing but understanding a story like this at six… without life experience.”
“Maybe because we let him watch lots of TV?”
“So are all the other TV-watching kids prodigies?”
With a serious tone Kim Sang-cheol resurrected his “genius Siwoo” theory.
I could hardly admit it was because I had spent ten lonely years trapped alone.
I fiddled with my now-clear nose and feigned ignorance.
“H-ha-ha… Siwoo, I’ll be counting on you.”
After a long spell of awe, Cha Il-nam wiped his jacketed hand and offered it.
I beamed and shook it firmly.
“Yes, please take care of me.”
“Clever fellow. You and Yeon-su acting together will be perfect. Perfect!”
Cha Il-nam was already grinning as though he heard ratings soaring.
Meanwhile Han Yu-ju pulled a small shopping bag from under the sofa.
“Since we’ll be working together, here’s a little gift, Siwoo.”
“Thank you.”
Inside was a cactus bearing a vivid red bloom.
“Wow.”
“I spotted it and thought it matched our title. Let’s do our best, okay?”
She smiled; though dark circles framed her eyes they sparkled with life.
I felt no small anxiety. This would be my first venture into on-camera acting, but with these people I thought it would be all right.
At least they seemed the most earnest about creating a truly good piece.
“Yes, I’m counting on you too, Writer.”
I shook her hand and smiled.
PD Cha, what about the time slot?
Whenever you offer a role to a top star, that is the inevitable question.
More than co-stars or the writer, scheduling can decide a drama’s fate.
Actors may accept on the promise that a slot “will be secured soon,” only for the network to cancel.
When that happens the actor loses much: face, pride, even opportunities for other work.
For top-tier stars especially, failing to get airtime after being cast is a blow to their prestige.
The actors who would play Yeon-su and Siwoo’s parents were not ultra-A-list, but neither were they newbies Cha Il-nam could treat lightly.
Child actors had been secured with great difficulty, so this scheduling had to succeed.
Thus Cha Il-nam, trembling, opened the programming chief’s office door.
“Director, I’m here.”
“Oh, right. Sit down.”
Cha Il-nam and Programming Director Yoo Myung-ju were close; they had been senior and junior since rookie days at KMB.
Yoo was not a particularly authoritarian type, more like a neighborhood uncle. They had often shared drinks at a snack stall near the station.
But he was also famous for being merciless at work.
Silently, Cha Il-nam reviewed the cards in his hand: a terrific story from a new writer whose only credits were single-episode dramas; a child actor famous recently yet untested on TV; another child called a genius yet likewise still an enfant; leads who were not top-tier names.
Still, I have to try.
“Director, did you read the whole script?”
“Sure did. Every page.”
His brisk reply made Cha’s eyes light up.
A fully completed script through to the ending is rare; normally only synopsis, proposal and a few early episodes exist before production begins.
But The Cactus Flower Has Bloomed was complete.
That Yoo had read it all was a sign, almost a public declaration that the script was good.
“How was it? Really great, right?”
Naturally great, otherwise Yoo would never have read to the end.
Relieved, Cha began to sit only to freeze.
“It’s good. Definitely good, it’s clearly Han’s work. But about the slot… that’ll be tough.”
Removing his glasses, Yoo rubbed his furrowed brow.
Cha shot to his feet.
“What? You just said it was good! Why tough? This is when you should push it hard—”
Yoo snorted and waved a hand.
“Cha, have you lost your feel for the market? Everything’s racing to the farthest extremes of makjang1 these days. Who’ll watch something this bland, like water downed with more water?”
“Director, that’s exactly why viewers need a palate cleanser like this. You know how it gets heavier toward the end. It’s definitely not bland.”
Agitated, Cha pleaded.
“You must hook the audience first. If they drop off before the tears, there’s no use. Trends are trends. Right?”
“Come on, Director, I’ve got Nam Yeon-su and you know Han Siwoo, right? Once these kids’ top-notch acting hits, we’ll grab ratings from the start.”
“Still just child actors! Do you know what draw they have? Who tunes in just to watch kids?”
Frustrated, Cha thumped his chest. Who? They had.
After seeing Siwoo act once they could not forget and kept returning.
He was sure: if Siwoo appeared on screen viewers would gasp and keep the channel fixed.
“Director, give me some credit. I’m telling you it will work.”
“You’re not the only one with vision. I say it won’t work.”
Staked on names, neither would yield.
Cha felt petty, cheesy, childish but had no comeback against the programming chief.
“Director, no, hyung! Are you really doing this to me? Think of what I’ve done for KMB. Would I push a show meant to fail?”
“And I’m staking my name to block it. It’s a pity. Too bland. Should’ve added just a little MSG.”
Exactly what he used to tell Han Yu-ju; Cha now regretted it.
Hearing it himself made resentment surge inside. Why couldn’t good work be recognized?
He took a long breath.
“Fine. Then what slot can you give? Cast is locked, ads are talking. Give me something decent.”
“Friday nights, two episodes back-to-back.”
“Director!”
Even Yoo expected that reaction; he flicked his ear, unmoved.
“Stop shouting.”
“Director, hyung! After all the revenue I’ve brought KMB!”
“Did you hand that cash to me? No? Then shut it and leave.”
Think I won’t? Cha muttered inwardly, leaping up.
“I won’t take that slot. If that’s it, the project is dead, and I’ll hand in my resignation!”
He slammed the door behind him.
Left alone, Yoo blinked at the door, then shouted:
“Look at this brat—go ahead, quit!”
With a bitter heart Cha headed for the smoking room, Yoo’s yell, “Write it then!”, echoing behind him.
- In Korean TV slang, “makjang” refers to ultra-melodramatic dramas packed with outrageous twists—secret births, amnesia, hidden chaebol heirs, sudden murders, and endless revenge plots. Logic and realism take a back seat to shock value; each episode tries to outdo the last in scandal and emotion. Viewers tune in for the addictive, over-the-top spectacle even while admitting it’s “so bad it’s fun.” ↩︎
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