Eric slowly placed a clunky typewriter on his desk and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He missed the thin and light notebook laptop he had used in the past. 

It had been a day since he had found out about his extraordinary memory, and after thinking long and hard, Eric had managed to complete a preliminary plan for his future.

For this, he had taken the day off from the restaurant and bought a secondhand typewriter which was an essential tool for him to realize his plans.

After paying for his father's funeral, Eric had just a few hundred dollars left. Due to the highly developed welfare system in the west, most people didn't have substantial savings for emergencies.

Fortunately, the house belonged to him, or else, it would have been seized due to him being unable to pay the mortgage and he would have had to sleep on the streets. 

In fact, Eric had to ask Jeff for a month’s pay in advance just to be able to buy the typewriter.

In order to turn his dreams into reality, he would have to first enter the very exclusive Hollywood.

After much deliberation, Eric decided upon being a screenwriter since it had the lowest threshold of entry. Although screenwriters held a low standing in Hollywood, it was not too tough for a successful screenwriter to switch to being a director or producer.

Placing a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter, Eric began typing the following words: Jurassic Park.

That’s right, the most profitable novel-turned-film franchise of the '90s.

During Eric’s past life, whether it had been directly in the theaters or through a pirated CD, almost everyone had experienced the film where lifelike dinosaurs appeared on the screen. Only one emotion came to mind while watching the film: shock.

According to his memories, the Jurassic Park novel was published in 1990 and contained about 150,000 words. Currently, in 1988, the author, Michael Crichton, would not have even begun writing it.

As a result, Eric would be able to shamelessly write the novel without worrying about a plagiarism lawsuit in the future.

Eric smirked as he recalled the movie’s plot while pounding on the typewriter. What he was writing was the actual Jurassic Park novel, not the script from the film adaptation. 

In the past, after watching the movie, he had bought the novel out of curiosity and had carefully read it. Thanks to his now-superb memory, copying the novel from his memory was child’s play.

He had decided against directly writing the script and selling it to a film studio since there was a high likelihood that it would be treated as trash and thrown away.

The number of scripts that Hollywood studios received each day could sometimes number in the hundreds.

Not to mention, Eric wished for the franchise's film and television adaptation rights to remain firmly within his control. If he sold it simply as a script and a film studio made it into a movie, they would hit a jackpot of hundreds of millions of dollars while Eric would maybe get a $100,000 buyout and a similar amount as a bonus, if he was lucky.

He had absolutely no interest in such business that benefited everyone but himself.

On the other hand, if he published the novel, the film and television adaptation rights would remain with him. At that point, Eric would only need to wait until a high enough price was offered before raking in the profits.

 ***

As he was immersed in his work, time flew by and night had arrived. Eric had, unwittingly, been typing for over five hours when his stomach began growling.

He stood up and glanced at the thick stack of paper on the desk while he stretched his back. If he maintained this typing speed, the manuscript would be completed within a week. Still, he had to do his waiting job at Jeff’s restaurant, or he’d starve.

Walking into the kitchen, Eric looked through his fridge that contained some bread and peanut butter which he could use to make a PB&J sandwich but he refrained from it since his Asian habits were deeply ingrained. Instead, he made himself a simple dinner consisting of rice and scrambled eggs with tomatoes: a typical Chinese dish.

After eating, Eric went to the second floor balcony and leaned against the railing as he gazed at the night sky of Los Angeles. His apartment was a little less than 200 square meters, a two-story house with some 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 quite rough.

According to his memory, they had moved back and forth between England and Los Angeles many times. Eric couldn't understand why as he had been too young, and even his current self couldn’t make any sense of it. Honestly, it was better to just forget about it.

After moving to Los Angeles, Ralph dragged young Eric with him through the streets. In just two days, with the help of a real estate broker, they bought the small house that was a complete visual mess. Eric smiled, recalling his new body's past.

He remained in the balcony for a while when he suddenly heard a loud sound that seemingly came from glassware shattering on the floor.

Eric looked towards a few houses to the west side of the neighborhood: the Runkles' house. The Runkles were a middle-aged couple with three children: the eldest son was in college, the daughter, who was the middle child, was at a boarding school and the youngest was a seven-year-old boy.

The Runkles seemed to be experiencing a midlife crisis as they had been quarreling a lot in recent days.

Although Eric was friendly with them, he did not intend to mediate between them as they were people with restraint who wouldn’t fight violently. If he hastily ran to them and tried to pacify them, it would only make things awkward.

After some yelling and the loud noise of a few appliances breaking sounded, the main door opened with a bang.

Charles Runkle, the man of the house, waltzed out, 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 would have been an executive at GM by now!"

"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 of them is now a California congressman, another is running an oil business in the Middle East. The profit of a single shipment is more than what you would earn in 100 years! I'm the one filled with regret. Go and sleep at your General Motors, mister 'GM executive'!"

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

Charles Runkle picked up the jacket and patted it to remove the dust. He stood up only to find Eric standing on the balcony nearby.

"Sorry to disturb you, Eric," he sheepishly smiled and said.

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

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

Charlie then nodded to Eric, got in his car and drove off.

Eric returned to his room. Recalling the Runkles' 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 clearer.

Over the past two days, Eric had been pondering about what his first film script should be, and now he had found the answer. That film was a perfect fit for him, but, as expected, some details needed to be altered as the time difference had to be taken into account. However, this was not a big problem as the minor details wouldn’t hinder the script in the slightest.