I Will Live As An Actor

g Yeongguk, over here! Here!”

Yoo Myeonghan, the famous director who was once the drama department head at KBC Broadcasting in his past life.
But now, he’s a young man in his early thirties.
It’s said that a position can make a person.
The once-intimidating man in his previous life now appeared like a good-natured hyung from the neighborhood.

“Should I get you some orange juice?”

“No, thank you.”

Sweetness can actually make your mouth feel dry, causing your tongue to curl up when it needs to control the strength of your lines.
As I waited inside the room, Choi Eunsuk soon entered.
She handed me a script.

“I came to watch Jang Yeongguk do the script reading today.
If it bothers you, should I step out?”

“No, as the writer, it’s only natural for you to watch.”

“I appreciate Yeongguk’s confidence.”

“Writer Choi, let’s ease up on the pressure.
Remember what Yeongguk said yesterday? We won’t know if it’s long or short until we try.
Let’s look at the script and do a reading, shall we?”

“I’ll memorize it.
Please give me thirty minutes.”

“Huh?”

In my past life, I played countless roles, ranging from minor roles to lead and supporting roles.
If I gathered all the scripts I had read, they would probably fill a library’s wall with leftovers.
My memorization skills and adaptability to different situations greatly improved thanks to that.
The position of a lead actor and a minor actor differ; if the lead actor made a mistake, they could simply laugh it off.
But as a minor actor, I had no choice but to be cautious and avoid any mistakes, as even a single NG could make me feel like a criminal.
It was important to be extra careful with every single line, as even the shortest lines could be completely edited out in this line of work.

Yoo Myeonghan and Choi Eunsuk silently waited for the boy before them, their eyes filled with curiosity and concern.
Would he be able to do it? As a child actor, his lines were shorter compared to adults, and he had less screen time.
However, it would be difficult for someone new to acting to understand everything in the script at first glance.
Yet, before even thirty minutes had passed, Yeongguk looked up from the script.

“I need someone to read the lines with me.”

“Already? Oh, I’ll do it.”

“Writer Choi, where did you sell your conscience? Isn’t it the aunt’s voice that we should hear, not a noona’s?”

“Oh, come on, what does it matter? It’s been a while since I’ve read lines, and I’m nervous.
Where should we start?”

“You can start from any part you prefer.”

Choi Eunsuk’s eyes widened.
Did he memorize everything already? Really? In less than thirty minutes? That’s too short a time to grasp everything, from stage directions to dialogues and situations.
And not just one scene but every scene featuring the child actor.
At this point, Choi Eunsuk was at a loss for words.
Was it confidence or sheer stubbornness? Her curiosity was piqued.

“Oh dear, stop it, Hajin.
You’re making my insides burn.”

Choi Eunsuk started reading the lines.
Of course, she was reading from the script.
Although she wasn’t trained in acting, as a writer, she tried her best to understand her own work by even changing her usual intonation.
It was an admirable attitude.
Yoo Myeonghan’s gaze turned towards the boy before them.
However, the boy’s expression was unusual.

Drama.

In drama, lines were the ultimate persuasion unfolding within limited space and situations.
The role of an actor was not to become the protagonist in the script but to convey to the viewers beyond the TV screen that the protagonist was, in fact, the actor.
The acting was what made this possible.
Soon, a calm yet seemingly containing massive waves-like voice resonated.

“I’ll tell you.
Minseok, that wretched son of a bitch called me a fatherless bastard.
As if being beaten like a dog wasn’t enough, I had to apologize too.
And my mom, oh, my mom.
I don’t even know why I should bow my head to you.
What wrong did I do?”

Silent film master Buster Keaton once said that there were countless expressions in the world.
However, an actor must find sorrow and joy within a blank expression and deliver the resulting concentrated emotions to the audience beyond the screen.
The boy’s face changed as if frames were being cut, gradually transitioning from anger to sadness and eventually to wailing.

“I’m going to school! I told you I don’t want to wear those worn-out shoes.
How many times have I told you to throw those ragged shoes away! That’s why I don’t want to come home to this place! Do you understand? Why do I have to live like this, poor and miserable like those rotten shoes?”

“Jin, it’s not like that, honey.”

“What’s not like that? Did I ask you to kneel before me? You did it without me asking!!”

“Because I’m your mom.
I’m sorry, Jin.
I can’t help it.”

“Ahhhhhh!”

The high and low pitches of the lines spat out as if screaming were clear, filled with anger, depression, and a sense of injustice.
And then, like pulling the trigger, the emotions exploded.

“Please just throw those shoes into the sea.
Like how dad drowned in the ocean―!”

A fisherman was swept away by the sea, leaving behind a gift tightly held by the mother.

The scene was over, but no one dared to speak first.
It was appropriate to say both were overwhelmed by the boy’s acting.
Even though there was no camera, just reciting the lines in the confined space gave Yoo Myeonghan and Choi Eunsuk goosebumps.
As the curtain of the play closed, the boy’s expression returned to its original state, back to an ordinary boy, not the one who had been furiously spewing his lines.

“How did you act like that?”

It was Choi Eunsuk’s curiosity.
As a writer, she marveled at how the boy reproduced the image of Kim Hajin she had envisioned using only the lines.
But, the simple answer that reached her ears made her heart race.

“Because the script told me to do so.”