Chapter 2 - Inspiration

Eric lightly placed a bulky second-hand typewriter on the desk and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He missed his extra thin and light notebook. It had been a day since he discovered his photographic memory. After careful thinking, he had drawn a preliminary plan for his future.

He deliberately took a day off, and spent most of it shopping and bought this second-hand typewriter. This is essential to realize his plan.

After arranging for Ralph's funeral, Eric had a few hundred dollars left in hand. The USA has a comparatively generous welfare system, thus it has always been a no savings policy here.

Fortunately, the house was his property. Otherwise, with his lack of funds, he may have had to sleep on the streets. Even to buy the typewriter, Eric had to ask Jeff for a month's salary in advance.

To realize his dreams, he first had to break into the Hollywood circle. After much deliberation, the most suitable role he could think of for this task was a screenwriter. Although people always said that this era's screenwriters had a low standing, it was simply not true. It was just that a lot of the best screenwriters switched to directing and producing.

Placing a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter, Eric started typing the following words, Jurassic Park. That's right, the most profitable film series of the 1990s.

Eric still remembered buying Jurassic Park from peddlers selling pirated discs in his past life to watch with friends. That moment when the lifelike dinosaurs appeared on-screen would always be an unforgettable experience.

In his memory, the novel Jurassic Park was published in 1990 and contained about 150,000 words. So Michael Crichton most probably had not yet started to write it. He would be shamelessly taking the credit for it without worrying about a plagiarism lawsuit.

Eric's mouth curled up slightly as he recalled the movie's events while pounding on the keyboard. What he was writing was not the Jurassic Park script, but the novel. In the past, after watching the movie, he had bought the book out of curiosity and carefully read it. Now, with his memories, it was child's play for him to copy the whole novel word to word.

He wouldn't simply write the script, because if it was submitted to a film company that way, there was a high chance that it would be treated like trash and thrown away. The number of screenplays that Hollywood studios received each day could be weighed in pounds. Also, Eric wanted the film rights of the series to be firmly under his control. If he made it into a script, and one of those film companies took a fancy to it, once made into a movie, they would hit the jackpot while Eric would maybe get a 100,000$ cheque and a bonus if he was lucky. Eric had no interest in that kind of scenario that benefitted everyone but himself.

However, if he published the novel, the movie and television copyrights would be his. Eric would only need to wait for the opportunity when the price offered was high enough before raking in the profits.

Immersed in his work, time flew by and soon night had fallen. Eric looked down at his watch, only to realize that he had unknowingly been writing for four/five hours in a row as his stomach started growling.

Eric stood up and glanced at the thick stack of papers on the desk while he stretched himself. According to his typing speed, the manuscript should be complete in one week. He still had to do his waiting job at Jeff's restaurant, after all, he'd starve otherwise.

Going into the kitchen, Eric made himself a simple dinner consisting of rice and scrambled eggs with tomatoes, a typical Asian dish. There was still some cheese bread and peanut butter in the fridge but although he inherited the original guy's memory, his Asian habits were already ingrained.

After eating, Eric went to the second-floor balcony and leaned against the railing as he gazed at the night around him. The apartment where he lived was a little less than 200 square meters, a two-story house with some random flowers planted in the yard. Eric's father wasn't rich and his personality was sloppy to say the least, so the duo's life had been very rough. By his memory, they had moved from England to Los Angeles when he was seven or eight years old. Eric didn't remember why, as he was too young. Even the current him couldn't make any sense of it. It was better to just ignore it.

After moving to Los Angeles, Ralph dragged little Eric to stroll the streets. In just two days, with the help of a real estate broker, they bought the small courtyard that was a complete visual mess. Eric smiled, the concept of "home care" was part of his Asian culture.

He stayed on the balcony for a while, and just as he was planning to go back and keep writing, he suddenly heard a loud sound of glassware hitting the ground. Eric set his sights on the west side of the neighborhood. It was the Runkle's, a 40-year-old couple with three children. The eldest son was in university, the daughter at a boarding school and the youngest was only seven years old.

That couple quarreled a lot these days, they might be experiencing a midlife crisis. Although Eric had a good relationship with the Runkle family, he did not intend to go there and mediate them. They were people with restraint who wouldn't fight violently. If he hastily ran to the other side and tried to pacify them, that'd only make things awkward.

After a quick and vague quarrel and the sound of several appliances breaking, the Runkle's home door banged open. Charles Runkle, the man of the house, came out wearing a shirt and clutching his messy hair. He turned to the woman at the door and shouted: "Enough, I've had enough! Damn bitch! If I hadn't moved to Los Angeles to marry you, I might have become a GM executive by now. But look at you, my God!"

"Go to hell!" Mrs. Runkle usually spoke in a soft voice, but this time she sounded particularly loud and sharp. "In the past, so many men were pursuing me, one is now a California congressman, another one is selling oil in the Middle East. Oil do you hear? The profit of a single shipment is more than what you can earn in 100 years! The one with regrets should be me. Now go sleep at your General Motors, mister GM executive!"

When Mrs. Runkle finished speaking, she threw a black jacket out and slammed the door.

Charlie Runkle picked up and patted it. He looked up to see Eric standing on the balcony.

"Sorry to disturb you, Eric." Charlie smiled at him.

"It's okay, Charlie… Do you want to come in?" Eric said.

Charlie shook his head: "…No, thank you, I… I'm going to go to the bar for a bit… and I'll be back in a while when Mary has calmed down."

Charlie then nodded to Eric, started his car and drove away.

Eric returned to his room deep in thought. Due to the Runkle couple's quarrel, an idea flashed in his mind. As he sat at his desk and loaded a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter, that idea gradually became clear.

Over the past two days, Eric had been pondering about what his first screenplay should be, and now he had the answer. That play was a perfect fit for him. Some details needed to be worked on as the time difference had to be taken into account. However, these minor details wouldn't hinder the script in the slightest.