A producer holds a far more pivotal role than a screenwriter.
A producer oversees every aspect of a project: from pre-production planning to assembling the crew, budgeting and controlling costs, supervising filming, managing post-production, assisting with distribution, and even applying for awards. Every step requires their involvement.
What did Wang Shuang have?
At best, he was involved early, endorsing Wen Ying’s script.
But that might not reflect his judgment—it could just be blind loyalty to Wen Ying out of friendship.
Could Wang Shuang assemble a crew or manage a budget?
He knew nothing about post-production or distribution channels.
As for award submissions, he wouldn’t even know where to begin.
His only advantages were being the son of a major Tianjiao Film shareholder and, at a stretch, Li Mengjiao’s childhood friend. Without those, Yuan Fenghui wouldn’t bother with him.
When she asked if he wanted to be a producer, Wang Shuang nodded.
Yuan Fenghui outlined the producer’s responsibilities and asked what he could handle, “Even the basics, like overseeing filming, you probably can’t do. You’re not going to skip school for Mengjiao’s drama, are you?”
Of course not.
Wang Shuang recalled Li Mengjiao teasing him as a slacker student. He couldn’t admit to that. Skipping school was unthinkable—his dad would break his legs.
Seeing his expression, Yuan Fenghui pressed, “What qualifies you to be a producer?”
After much thought, Wang Shuang countered, “Teacher Yuan, does thick skin count?”
“…”
Yuan Fenghui wanted to shoo this shameless kid away, but Wang Shuang grew more animated, “I’ve never been a producer. Unlike screenwriting, which needs talent, I can learn with my thick skin. It lets me ask questions shamelessly, and I’ll tackle things others shy away from. I’m adaptable—why can’t I learn to be a producer?”
He summed it up: a producer is a drama’s overseer and nanny, managing and worrying about everything.
What to say to big-name actors, directors, or difficult crew members requires experience—and flexibility.
For the project’s sake, a producer does whatever it takes.
Experience can be gained, but isn’t his thick skin a natural gift?
Young Master Shuang had ridden a beat-up tricycle on the street-food strip and washed countless crawfish. Other students might balk at such hardship, but he endured. Why should Yuan Fenghui underestimate him?
She glared, and Wang Shuang switched from bold to cheeky, “Teacher Yuan, just give me a chance. Unlike Wen Ying, I’ll intern for free.”
His thick skin was undeniable.
Wen Ying vouched for him, and Yuan Fenghui reluctantly agreed.
Since he wasn’t taking a salary, and Wang Jun indulged his son, she couldn’t object.
Besides, after a few days with the crew, Wang Shuang would see he wasn’t cut out for producing and likely quit.
Young and naive, Wang Shuang didn’t catch Yuan Fenghui’s skepticism. Wen Ying did but stayed quiet to preserve his confidence.
A producer needs to know filming and people skills. Even if Wang Shuang couldn’t hack it, the experience would be valuable.
Yuan Fenghui urged Wen Ying to revise her script quickly.
Switching from Zhang’s script to Wen Ying’s meant the previously selected actors were unsuitable. Yuan had to find new ones—talented but not so dazzling as to overshadow Li Mengjiao, and not too attractive for supporting roles opposite her.
Yuan was still prioritizing Li Mengjiao.
Wen Ying revised her script over three days, now consulting Zhang freely since his script was sold to Tianjiao.
Li Zhentao hadn’t planned to produce Zhang’s script right away, intending to prioritize Li Mengjiao’s drama, as Tianjiao was built for her.
But Wen Ying persuaded him to shoot Zhang’s first, “Uncle Li, good things are worth waiting for. Tianjiao lacks production experience, and the crew needs time to gel. Zhang’s script has a short shooting cycle, ideal for quick returns.”
The company existed for Li Mengjiao, but an unprofitable film company couldn’t survive on shareholder funds alone.
Even a shell company needs office space. Tianjiao, though lean, had a workplace and staff—real costs.
“While Tianjiao produces its first idol drama, Mengjiao can hone her acting. What do you think?”
Patience yields quality.
Li Mengjiao’s debut shouldn’t be rushed, nor should she. Her youth was an advantage, with ample time to rise.
Wen Ying convinced Li Zhentao.
She felt Zhang’s script suited a Taiwan crew to avoid feeling off. She knew Taiwan’s idol drama style, but mainland actors delivering those lines felt awkward.
Hiring the original Taiwan cast would be ideal, but could Tianjiao afford the fees of Taiwan’s top stars, and were they available?
Zhang’s script wouldn’t fetch 500,000 in Taiwan but gained value on the mainland, as did Taiwan actors.
Wen Ying worried about costs. Li Zhentao laughed, “We might need your mom’s help.”
Wen Ying’s eyes lit up. Companies can take loans—she’d been too naive to consider it.
But Li Zhentao was joking. His banking connections outranked Chen Ru’s. Tianjiao wouldn’t need her for a loan.
Though Li Zhentao invested in and managed Tianjiao, he wasn’t a shareholder on paper.
Last year’s *Provisional Regulations on Integrity for State-Owned Enterprise Leaders* made him cautious. Despite Tianjiao being unrelated to his state enterprise, he avoided being a shareholder.
As Tianjiao grew, he’d hire professionals and step back from daily operations.
For optics, seeking a loan through Chen Ru instead of his usual contacts wasn’t odd.
Wen Ying wouldn’t refuse, nor would Chen Ru.
Mutual help sustains friendships; one-sided giving kills them.
After Wen Ying’s revised script was approved, Li Zhentao discussed her pay: a 500,000-yuan royalty fee.
As a freelancer, her income was “royalties.” Li Zhentao wouldn’t let her evade taxes—a young girl shouldn’t have such a blemish.
Mainland entertainment often used “post-tax pay.” A 2-million fee meant the actor took home 2 million, with the production covering taxes. If unchecked, few stars had clean tax records.
Li Zhentao could have offered Wen Ying a post-tax 500,000 but didn’t want her accustomed to it, risking future missteps.
“You can’t skip taxes. For 500,000, you’ll net just over 400,000…”
He began explaining, but Wen Ying understood.
Her script, however good, wasn’t worth 500,000 in this industry without a hit to prove her. Li Zhentao’s offer was support, elevating her to Zhang’s level. Future clients wouldn’t dare lowball her at 50,000.
Netting over 400,000 after taxes, Wen Ying was satisfied.
With more savings, buying a house in Modu was within reach!
As Wen Ying secured high pay, Li Mengjiao’s debut album’s weekly sales results came in.
