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*Chapter 751: Going with the Flow*

—Charlie Kaufman.

Tonight, with "Adaptation," Charlie has earned a nomination for Best Screenplay.

The Golden Globes do not divide their screenplay category into adapted and original, making the competition even fiercer. But because of this, winning often gives a lead in the race for the Oscars.

Half a month ago, Edgar had been inquiring about Charlie's whereabouts—

Currently busy writing the script for "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," it was uncertain whether Charlie would attend the Golden Globes or if he was willing to leave his typewriter behind to enter the hustle and bustle of Hollywood. Would this eccentric genius participate in promotional and PR activities to boost the film's chances for the Oscars?

Edgar hoped Charlie would attend.

This way, Anson could openly seek an opportunity to meet Charlie, pitch himself, and strive for a role in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."

Of course, Edgar could contact Charlie's agent to arrange a meeting. However, such business negotiations are often filled with pleasantries and formalities, making it difficult to break the initial barrier to impress Charlie. After all, Anson's competition includes Nicolas Cage and Jim Carrey.

If they could get rid of the agents and the business talk and have a more relaxed and straightforward conversation, things might go more smoothly.

In theory, yes.

But.

When Edgar confirmed Charlie's attendance at the Golden Globe Awards, things became more complicated because of a subtle line—

Too obvious, and it comes off as fawning, insincere, potentially ruining the impression.

Too casual, and you fail to make a memorable impression, making it all in vain.

More importantly, in the star-studded whirlwind of an awards ceremony, how to measure the approach and start a conversation is an art.

It might be more difficult than imagined.

Carrying this mission into the event, Anson couldn't help but feel a bit nervous because he genuinely loved the script of "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"—

For the first time.

When choosing "The Butterfly Effect," he also went through comprehensive consideration; but this time, it was different. It was purely because he liked the script that he actively chose this project.

Because of this, his emotions felt different.

Inevitably, his mind started racing with ideas.

However!

Plans can’t keep up with changes.

Anson hadn't even entered the hall yet. His mind was still on the hustle and bustle of the red carpet, marveling at the incredible attention surrounding "Ocean's Twelve." Every little movement attracted reporters’ notice, leaving no time to plan how to meet and talk to Charlie.

Then, Charlie Kaufman appeared right in front of him.

What now?

Anson searched his memory. When he arrived at the red carpet, he hadn't seen Charlie—

This small, frail, unremarkable bookworm was practically invisible on the red carpet, but his wild, Einstein-like curly hair stood out, easily catching the eye.

Like now, Anson noticed Charlie because of that wild hairstyle.

Even at the awards ceremony, Charlie hadn’t styled his hair. Instead, he let it grow wild in the wind, unkempt and rebellious, clashing with his somewhat loose black suit and white shirt, like a hobbit accidentally stumbling into an elf kingdom.

If Anson was correct and hadn’t seen Charlie on the red carpet, it meant Charlie had arrived at least twenty minutes earlier.

So, why had Charlie been standing outside? Or had he gone into the banquet hall and come back out because he didn't like the atmosphere?

It all happened so suddenly that Anson briefly panicked but quickly regained his composure.

Taking a deep breath, there was no need to be anxious. Whatever will be, will be. Staying calm and going with the flow might lead to unexpected opportunities. Being too obsessed with success could ruin the chance with his own hands.

For a twenty-year-old, it’s easier said than done. But for Anson, who had lived two lives, a little anxiety wasn't an issue.

This small surprise helped Anson regain his composure. He didn’t avoid it but instead approached Charlie.

But Anson didn't rush to greet him. Instead, he followed Charlie's gaze—

Nothing there.

More precisely, there was a frosted glass.

Through the frosted glass, one could see the hustle and bustle of the hotel lobby, bustling with the yearly Golden Globe Awards.

Charlie might have been observing those familiar and unfamiliar faces, gathering material for his writing.

Soon, Anson dismissed that idea. Charlie's screenplays were never about groups or strangers. They were always about himself.

In other words, introspection.

Glass? Mirror?

Then Anson noticed that the frosted glass reflected blurry images, including his own reflection and the elevator behind him.

After glancing at the elevator, Anson turned back to notice Charlie's blurred reflection in the glass. His scattered focus was slowly coming together, falling on his reflection.

"Are you looking for something?" Charlie asked.

Anson was momentarily stunned. He didn't hide his embarrassment and answered honestly, "What you're observing."

Charlie: …

Anson: "You’ve been standing here for a while. I thought maybe you saw some secret and were worried about getting silenced."

Charlie: …

Anson didn't feel embarrassed this time. He could see the speechless expression in Charlie’s eyes. Such a plot was beneath Charlie's writing. "Hey, we're in Hollywood. When it comes to dramatic tension, this is the most inclusive place. Clichéd as it may be, that doesn't mean it's not exciting."

Charlie slightly raised his chin, "You're right. Besides, you're not a screenwriter."

Anson tilted his head, "Is that a jab?"

Charlie: "No, it's a fact."

For once, Anson was left speechless, his smile gently lifting at the corners of his mouth.

Charlie noticed it, even though the frosted glass reflection was not clear. But he was focused enough.

Finally, Charlie turned to Anson, his face showing no particular expression, just a hint of awkwardness. "Sorry, I got distracted."

Anson blinked, "So you were just distracted, standing here? Is this what all screenwriters do, or is it just you?"

Charlie actually gave it some serious thought. "I guess not all screenwriters do this, but I doubt I'm the only one."

Another joke failed.

Anson shrugged, "Oh, I see."

Charlie noticed, "Sorry, I'm a bit absent-minded today." After a brief pause, he added, "This morning, a neighbor interrupted my thoughts. He told me he’s been haunted by the same recurring dream. It bothered me all day, replaying that dream in my mind."

"Oh," Anson responded—

Without any emotion.

Charlie looked at Anson, completely serious, "It's true."

Anson: "Even though I'm not a screenwriter, I can tell this is nonsense. Did you dream, or do you want us to pretend this was your neighbor, Mr. C’s dream?"

Charlie remained silent, quietly staring at Anson for a moment before his expression finally cracked.

"Alright, I've been troubled for two whole weeks."

Chapter 752: Dream Interpretation

Charlie Kaufman felt trapped.

Charlie loved analyzing dreams. The inspiration for "Being John Malkovich" and "Adaptation" both came from his own dreams, which he deconstructed to spark creative ideas.

But this time was different.

Charlie couldn't make sense of the dream. He tried sharing it with friends, discussing it with a therapist, and talking about it with other screenwriters, but he was still lost.

And the dream didn’t stop. It repeated continuously for two weeks, making Charlie realize for the first time that the dream was tormenting him.

However, he was powerless to stop it. His scriptwriting was also going poorly, as his terrible sleep quality left him anxious.

He had already decided to skip the Golden Globe Awards at the last minute, feeling mentally unwell, but his agent insisted he should get out, breathe some fresh air, and stop locking himself in his room like that writer from "The Shining."

After some thought, he agreed.

Unexpectedly, as he stood in the hallway, he once again felt dazed. The fragmented images from his dreams surged back into his mind, and he paused.

Sharing his dream with a stranger wasn’t part of Charlie's plan—

This is Hollywood, and in Hollywood, there are no secrets. He knew he shouldn't share anything private with strangers. Even with friends, one had to be cautious.

But still…

The feeling of being at a dead end was overwhelming. Sometimes, when faced with strangers, things felt simpler—there was no need to maintain a facade.

As he started speaking, the words came out more easily than he had imagined.

"At first, it's a bit hazy. By the time I realize it, I'm in this dirty, rundown motel."

"I'm wearing nothing."

Charlie stopped speaking, and noticed Anson looking up.

Charlie didn’t understand.

Anson noticed Charlie’s confusion and said, “I’m trying not to picture anything.”

Charlie was surprisingly calm. “But you need to visualize it.”

“I only need key details,” Anson insisted.

Charlie nodded. “Alright, you're right. That's not the point. Then the sound of the shower in the bathroom stops, and a man walks out…” He took a deep breath, “A man.”

Anson paused. If he remembered correctly, Charlie was married with a daughter.

So, now what?

Anson looked at Charlie but didn’t speak, only raising his eyebrows in question.

Charlie immediately caught the meaning behind the look. “Alright, just spit it out.”

Anson blinked, “Are you saying that to me or to the man in your dream?”

Charlie caught the playful tone in Anson’s words and smirked. “Ha. Ha.”

Anson shrugged, “Even if it is, so what? It’s the 21st century—who cares? Especially in Hollywood. You should embrace yourself and accept your truth. Go, you!”

Anson even made a fist-pumping motion.

That little interjection helped ease Charlie’s tension slightly, loosening his expression and tone. “Please, if the dream were that simple and could be interpreted at face value, I wouldn’t need a therapist.”

Anson nodded. “True, but even on the surface, it’s pretty interesting.”

This time, Anson couldn't stop himself and almost laughed out loud.

Charlie gave a dry chuckle. “Ha. Ha.” Then he got back to the point. “This obviously needs to be explained through Jungian theory.”

According to Jung, dreams are spontaneous, undistorted products of the unconscious mind.

“The suggestive scenes in the dream are purely meant to highlight deeper conflicts that have absolutely nothing to do with ‘sex,’” Charlie rattled off a series of academic terms, without bothering to explain them, completely indifferent to whether Anson could keep up.

Just like in his screenplays.

Anson was about to respond when someone called out from behind. “Hey, Charlie.”

In an instant, Charlie’s shoulders tensed up. “Anthony?”

The person now approaching was Anthony Bregman, an independent film producer, best known for Ang Lee’s "The Ice Storm." He was good friends with Charlie Kaufman and Michel Gondry.

It was no surprise that Anthony was set to produce “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

Anthony Bregman, with his wife in tow, walked by, his voice tinged with laughter. “Charlie, are you still agonizing over that dream you had about me? Come on, it’s just a dream.”

Anson nearly choked on his drink.

Charlie pursed his lips and refused to turn around, speaking through clenched teeth. “Anthony, cut the jokes. You should head inside. There’s a whole crowd waiting for your punchlines in there.”

“Ha ha, of course, of course!” Anthony’s laughter was dripping with mockery. “Alright then, see you inside. But don’t worry, we won’t meet in your dream tonight!”

Not just Anthony, but his wife also smiled and greeted Charlie. “See you soon, Charlie. Oh, is that Anson?”

Delighted, she was about to say more when Charlie abruptly cut her off. “No. He’s not.”

Anson exchanged a glance with the woman, giving her a polite smile and gesturing toward the banquet hall. She quickly got the hint, flashed an "OK" sign, and then walked off with Anthony, still smiling.

Anson sighed. “Oh, God.”

Charlie glared at him. “Stop picturing it. You said you weren’t going to visualize anything.”

Anson raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not. But the thing is… you're blushing.”

Charlie, “I’m not.”

Anson, “And your ears are red too.”

Charlie: …“Damn.”

It was rare to see Charlie flustered, so Anson didn’t laugh out loud but instead grew serious. “Quick question, did your dream include cigars, bananas, or daggers?”

Charlie choked, “Please, I’m 44 years old. If it did, that’s one heck of a delayed reaction—like the Titanic at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

Anson struggled to hold in his laughter.

Charlie still looked miserable. “I’m stuck. I can’t find a reasonable explanation, and my therapist is useless.”

Anson, “Maybe you should get a new therapist?”

Charlie gave Anson a sideways glance, sizing him up. “Did you not notice that I’ve already tried a lot of different things out of sheer desperation?”

“Oh.” Anson sighed, realizing he might be one of those desperate attempts. Was Charlie avoiding Anthony on purpose?

After some thought, Anson said, “Since you have no clues, maybe you should try free association.”

Free association is when you let one thought lead to another, unrestricted, in search of subconscious connections.

It’s not just something therapists use—screenwriters often practice it too.

But it’s very basic.

For someone as imaginative as Charlie, it might even be too basic. If he’s not careful, he could end up in an entirely different universe.

Charlie slumped his shoulders, looking defeated. “Really? Is that the best suggestion you’ve got?”

Anson smirked, “Not necessarily.”

And then… nothing.

Charlie stared at Anson, speechless. He sighed deeply but didn’t argue, simply waiting for Anson to continue.

Anson, “Think back to the details of the motel. What’s the first object you remember seeing when you opened your eyes in the dream?”

*Chapter 753: Skeleton Diet*

"Brad Pitt."

Charlie said.

Anson raised his brow slightly, not hiding the subtle meaning in his expression. He asked seriously, "So, every time, the man in your recurring dream is different? Or are Anthony and Brad together..."

Charlie was fed up.

"Hey."

Ignoring Anson, Charlie greeted someone behind him.

Anson turned around, just in time to see Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Their faces betrayed a hint of irritation and confusion, though they hid it well. However, a small trace still slipped through. As soon as they noticed others nearby, both professional actors quickly composed themselves, flashing their signature social smiles and waved from a distance.

But Brad and Jennifer didn't linger long. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, they quickly excused themselves and headed toward the banquet hall, arm in arm—

Clearly, they didn’t want to stay here.

Charlie, "Does he hate you? He wouldn’t even make eye contact with you."

It seemed Charlie had noticed as well.

Brad glanced at Anson from afar, then never looked his way again, acting as if Anson were invisible, chatting only with Charlie the whole time.

Anson shrugged lightly. "I’m not sure. Maybe my suit is too unconventional? Honestly, my agent already warned me this might happen frequently tonight—things aren't looking great."

For one, people usually don’t like things that break from the norm, deviating from what they’re used to. Pioneers are often seen as outcasts, sometimes even facing punishment.

For another, why should Anson be the first to break the rules in such a shocking way? It seemed like he was just seeking attention—definitely not a real actor.

Anson understood these possibilities—

But he didn’t care.

Charlie was somewhat surprised. He glanced up at Anson with a smile, and the way he casually showed his open-mindedness and composure was quite impressive.

"A crescent-shaped lamp," Charlie said.

Out of nowhere, without any warning, Charlie switched the topic, skipping over Brad and Jennifer, returning to their earlier conversation.

Anson paused for a moment, still not fully adjusted to Charlie's erratic conversation style, but he didn’t protest. Instead, he followed Charlie's thoughts.

"A crescent... hmm... moon, dark side of the moon, Pink Floyd, rock, memories, love, pain, separation..."

Once the associations started, the thoughts in Anson’s mind began to surge like a vast starry sky, with different ideas connecting in various directions—

"Stop. Stop!" Charlie interrupted Anson. "This is my dream."

Anson was taken aback. "Oh, I was just about to reveal my true thoughts."

In reality, he had already given away a few thoughts, only three more words, and he would have linked to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Indeed, the subconscious never lies.

Charlie gave Anson a glance. "You were two words away from connecting to your last pre-breakup ‘activity.’"

Anson looked innocent. "You don’t know what my next word would’ve been."

Charlie, "Hey, all men are the same."

Anson, "So, you’re saying your associations would end up on sex, too?"

Charlie: ...

Anson could sense Charlie's frustration. He pressed his lips together to suppress his smile and raised his hands in surrender, closing his mouth.

Charlie took a deep breath and focused his thoughts.

"Crescent..."

"Croissant, butter, apricot jam..."

"Hunger, food, dieting..."

"Oh, oh God, I’m on a diet right now—what do you think?"

Anson, "Uh..."

Charlie, "Say something."

Anson looked Charlie up and down. "Are you sure? If you lose any more weight, there might not be anything left of you."

Charlie was a thin guy, barely two pounds of meat on his bones, looking like a skeleton that had barely regained any vitality.

Dieting?

Ha.

Charlie sighed, looking slightly annoyed. "It's all because of awards season. My agent and publicist think I need to look sharper. I have to adjust my diet and stop eating all that junk food: burgers, fries, fried chicken, meatballs, lasagna, tiramisu..."

As Charlie listed the foods, his eyes glazed over as if lost in thought.

Anson didn’t hide his surprise. He thought that someone like Charlie, a behind-the-scenes writer thriving on talent, wouldn’t need to worry about his appearance. But then again, this was Hollywood, where body anxiety could affect anyone—even Charlie.

Anson, "...There’s a buffet inside. I heard the food's pretty good."

Charlie replied expressionlessly, "No one’s going to eat it. It’s just for show."

"And honestly, it’s not filling. The buffet here is just a bunch of tiny finger foods."

Anson tilted his head—why did something feel off about that?

Charlie was lost in his own thoughts, unable to stop complaining.

"I don’t even know why this dieting trend suddenly caught on. Everyone's on a diet, everyone’s fasting. And it's not just women, I mean men too."

"They're all starving themselves to fit into some Dior suit. My God, how does anyone even fit into that?"

"What’s even crazier is, why does everyone have to wear Dior? Don't they realize they look like vampires? Who started this trend?"

Anson: Ha.

Charlie finally finished ranting and looked at Anson with a questioning gaze.

Anson cleared his throat, "Maybe looking like a vampire is the point?"

Charlie gave Anson a once-over.

Anson quickly added, "I thought it was just a fashion thing. Didn’t know you’d heard about it, too."

Charlie slumped his shoulders. "I thought it was just a fashion thing, too. Damn it, what does this have to do with us? If it were you, sure, maybe you could pull it off, but not everyone has to follow, you know?"

It seemed there was still a gap between the world of screenwriting and the fashion industry—the information wasn’t completely in sync.

Thank goodness there were no smartphones yet.

Sensing Charlie was still eyeing his suit, Anson quickly changed the subject. "So, what does this have to do with Anthony?"

Otherwise, why did Anthony appear in the dream?

Charlie tilted his head. "Anthony thinks this whole idea is stupid. He believes people like me for my writing, my imagination, not my looks. He thinks turning me into a vampire is a dumb idea, that I’d end up looking like a mummy instead..."

His joke was hilarious.

"Ah!"

"Could it be that Anthony represents my appetite, tempting me to break my diet plan? He’s always bringing sweets to my place and indulging in front of me."

Anson was now slightly interested in meeting Anthony—

After all, Anthony seemed to enjoy playing pranks.

Momentarily putting his thoughts aside, Anson looked at Charlie. "That might explain why you're naked in the dream. It's when we're most sensitive about our bodies. If you’re willing, you can always find imperfections in yourself."

Charlie looked at Anson: Are you sure?

Anson spread his hands. "Even Marilyn Monroe probably had insecurities about herself."

Charlie nodded in agreement and didn’t press Anson further. "And Hollywood loves to scrutinize us, label us. You’re just a pretty face; I’m just a sexy nerd. For God's sake, I wish someone thought I was attractive, too."

Blah blah blah.

Chapter 754: Just Right

Blah, blah, blah, blah.

Once the conversation started, it couldn’t be stopped.

Charlie was a little excited—

After being constantly labeled a genius, relying on his brain to get by, the pressure on Charlie must have been immense.

Indeed.

Everyone has their own struggles, and at the same time, everyone desires what they cannot have.

That’s why people who are considered "pretty faces" long for talent, while talented people desire good looks. Kids want to grow up, and adults wish to be young again.

No one is an exception.

Because of this, if someone could stop wanting to be like others and focus on themselves, they would find happiness.

Anson glanced at Charlie, who was rambling and complaining, and couldn’t help but smile slightly. He could imagine Charlie's recent frustrations and resentment.

After a moment of thought, Anson said, "The brain is sexy; it's a kind of appeal in itself."

Charlie: "What?"

Anson: "Ahem, like the Doctor." He was really referring to the new trend set by a certain Sherlock Holmes actor ten years later.

Sexiness is, after all, a subjective aesthetic. Everyone has their preferences, and it shouldn’t be confined by norms.

Normally, Charlie would catch the deeper meaning behind Anson’s words, but today, with low blood sugar making him resemble a mad scientist, Charlie’s thinking was slightly off.

Charlie looked at Anson with a puzzled face.

"You think the Doctor is sexy?"

"Are you sure?"

"Oh my God, you should be glad we’re not in high school right now, or those football jocks wouldn’t miss the chance to mock you for that."

"Have you ever been hit in the head by a football? I have."

Anson: …

Is being this open really a good idea?

But Charlie didn’t mind, immersed in his own thoughts, showing a bit of glee.

"Maybe these dreams are just telling me to stop torturing myself. There’s no need to diet—my subconscious is already protesting."

Looking at Charlie, the more nonchalant he seemed, the more Anson could sense the hidden pain beneath the surface:

No one deserves to be hit by a football for no reason.

Anson himself had been through similar experiences in a past life, shunned like a pariah. But unlike Charlie, at least Anson had made mistakes. Charlie, though, had done nothing wrong.

However, Anson didn’t let any of this show. Instead, he smiled, "You can confirm the truth after tonight’s awards ceremony."

Charlie: "Does that mean I can eat cake?"

Anson: Uh, what about the Oscars?

But seeing the light in Charlie’s eyes, Anson decided to change the subject. The words he had planned took a sudden turn, "If this theory holds, your subconscious will merge with your conscious mind."

Charlie took a deep breath, "Then the dream’s purpose will be fulfilled. And I won’t have this dream again."

Without paying attention to Anson, Charlie indulged in his own joy and lightheartedness. He seemed to finally let go of a heavy burden, visibly relaxing—

It had nothing to do with Anthony.

"Finally!"

"I knew it. Haha, I knew it!"

"I did it, cracked the dream, once again proving I’m a genius. After weeks of these dreams, there will finally be no more tequila, cheap motels, or men in bathrobes..."

His words trailed off as he noticed Anson’s hesitant expression. A shiver ran down his spine, and his muscles stiffened.

Wait, no way…

Anson smiled, glancing behind Charlie, masking his awkwardness and pretending nothing was happening, as if they were casually chatting about the weather, flashing a light smile at the figure standing there.

"Hey, Nicole."

Tonight, Nicole Kidman, a favorite to win for The Hours, was elegantly dressed. Showing no signs of wear from her divorce, she looked even more radiant in a lavender off-the-shoulder gown. The top part, fitted like a corset, transitioned into a silk, layered skirt with a hollowed-out design, giving her a regal air.

Nicole stood gracefully, the light breeze unable to stir her silk skirt, though it did tousle her hair slightly. Her eyes widened in surprise—

What made this significant was the endless rumors over the past decade that Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise’s marriage had been more of a business arrangement than a genuine relationship. These rumors persisted, largely fueled by the fact that they never had children together, and the long-standing Hollywood speculation about Tom's romantic preferences.

But the truth, only Nicole and Tom really knew.

Now, Nicole stood there in the wind, casting a calm and somewhat mysterious smile toward them.

Charlie's entire back went rigid as he robotically turned around to face her.

Nicole raised her right hand, fingers curling slightly as she greeted them. "Hey, Charlie; hey, Anson."

Charlie blinked, trying to maintain his composure. "…And then the rabbi said..."

Nicole raised her chin slightly, her eyes flashing with deeper meaning. She said nothing more, merely nodding toward Anson before gracefully walking away.

Charlie kept smiling, though the muscles around his mouth were slowly stiffening.

Anson didn’t rush to break the awkward silence, watching Charlie’s rigid expression until he seemed on the verge of breaking down. Only then did Anson give him a glance. "She’s gone."

Charlie exhaled loudly, his chest rising and falling.

"Oh," Anson remarked.

Charlie held his breath again.

Anson: "Sorry, false alarm. Just a staff member walking by."

Charlie resumed breathing normally, but after a slight delay, he realized, "You’re messing with me, aren’t you?"

Anson nodded innocently.

Charlie: …

Anson could feel the frustration radiating from the genius screenwriter’s eyes, so he quickly shifted his gaze. "I think we should go inside now."

Without waiting for a response, Anson walked toward the banquet hall, bypassing Charlie.

Unexpectedly, Charlie followed right behind him, walking in step with Anson as they entered the hall, trailing after Nicole.

Out of nowhere, Charlie threw out a question, "So, are you just going to walk away like that? Are you sure your agent is okay with this?"

Anson was confused.

"Aren’t you going to introduce yourself? Isn’t that why you’ve been so patient with me?"

Anson turned to look at Charlie, who kept his gaze forward, but his expression revealed he already knew the truth.

Ah, so that’s how it is.

As expected, Charlie, having spent years in Hollywood, knew how things worked. He had seen through it all.

And now it was clear that Anson’s straightforward approach from the start had been the right move, avoiding any pretense or secrecy.

However, Anson didn’t exactly follow the usual script either.

"Do I need to introduce myself? If I do, that would be disappointing—I was hoping to enjoy some face-recognition perks tonight."

Confident, but not arrogant, with a hint of playful teasing.

This caught Charlie's attention, making him look up.

*Chapter 755: Self-Introduction*

There’s no such thing as a free lunch, especially in Hollywood.

Charlie had long since seen through Anson's tricks but hadn't called him out. The main reason was because the conversation was entertaining, with bursts of creativity making it all the more enjoyable.

He couldn't help but look at Anson in a new light.

And now, once again, Anson had surprised him.

Charlie didn’t say a word, just looked at Anson, who remained unfazed, giving a slight shrug. "Looks like I still need to work harder. My recognition isn’t high enough yet."

Seamlessly, Anson transitioned from self-praise to self-deprecation, effortlessly switching between the two.

Then.

Anson turned to meet Charlie's gaze. "So, does this mean you've also heard of my name? Even a screenwriter locked away busy with scripts has heard of me. Does this mean I’m officially in the running now?"

Confident, honest, and straightforward.

Charlie was somewhat surprised. These qualities—long since abandoned, scorned, and even attacked in Hollywood—were still found in Anson.

Given the recent buzz, it was even rarer.

Charlie cracked a playful smile. "If Anson Wood isn’t in the running, then I honestly don’t know who else could be."

"Jim Carrey? Nicolas Cage? Tom Cruise?" Anson began counting on his fingers.

When Anson said the last name, he and Charlie exchanged a glance and then looked over at Nicole nearby. Smiles crept onto both their faces, almost bursting into laughter.

Charlie relaxed completely—

Truth be told, his stomach had been in knots just moments ago, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was from nerves, hunger, or the anxiety of stepping out from his small room into the chaotic, bustling crowd. In any case, it felt like there was a small flame burning inside his gut.

But now, he felt it ease.

The chaotic, dark thoughts drifting in his mind returned to his head. Naturally, Charlie looked at Anson with curiosity, “Are you interested in dreams too?”

“Of course,” Anson nodded.

This time, Anson wasn’t joking, showing a hint of sincerity.

“Or rather, I’m interested in escaping reality. Isn’t that what filmmaking is? Building a world based on reality, allowing us to briefly escape, step into another character’s shoes, explore the unknown, explore life. And when the movie ends, we return to reality, ending the fantasy.”

“When we look at reality again, there’s always some kind of change.”

“I think it’s interesting.”

Charlie gently lifted his chin. Actors and screenwriters do view things from different angles, but what was more interesting was, “You’re a ‘glass half-full’ kind of person.”

In the “half glass of water” analogy, some see “only half left,” which is pessimistic, while others see “half still there,” which is optimistic.

Though it’s not absolute, it does provide a glimpse into a person’s outlook and attitude.

Charlie belonged to the former, a pessimist, even dark and despairing; whereas Anson seemed to belong to the latter...?

Hearing Charlie's comment, Anson chuckled softly, “I’m working on it.”

In essence, Anson was actually like Charlie, a pessimist. The experiences from his past life were so profound that he dared not hope. If that hope were extinguished, he might fall into an even darker abyss. Over time, he became accustomed to walking in pessimism.

But now, in this second life, Anson was trying to change himself.

He wanted to face his past with ease, embrace it openly, not let it haunt him, and enjoy the present, seizing every moment in front of him.

Charlie pondered. A simple sentence carried so much complexity and depth, something only someone who had truly experienced darkness could appreciate.

Charlie’s curiosity was piqued—

Anson Wood. The media, Hollywood rumors, and the big screen all presented many different faces of him, forming a stereotype. Yet, beneath that glamorous exterior was a soul of depth and breadth.

Like Marilyn Monroe.

Just as Charlie was about to speak, to dig deeper, the view before him suddenly opened up:

The banquet hall had arrived.

Through the wide-open doors, the noise and luxury inside were instantly visible—fine clothes, clinking glasses, the atmosphere of an awards ceremony in full swing.

A quick glance, and Charlie could see the peripheral glances of those socialites, always watching the entrances, ready to react. Seeing the combination of Charlie and Anson, many people were ready to make a move.

Charlie knew this wasn’t the best place to continue the conversation.

A bit regrettably.

Charlie was gathering his thoughts, but to his surprise, this time, Anson spoke first.

With a graceful turn, Anson faced Charlie and extended his right hand. “Wood. Anson Wood.”

Was this... a self-introduction?

Charlie was stunned. Didn’t they already know each other?

Raising his head, Charlie looked at Anson. In those eyes, there was a light smile, but also infinite depth. Suddenly, Charlie understood.

The Anson Wood standing before him wasn’t the Anson Wood everyone knew.

But what is real?

That, they would have to find out for themselves. This introduction was an invitation—an invitation to become friends.

Charlie’s smile naturally widened. He liked this young man. “Charlie Kaufman.”

Charlie grasped Anson’s right hand. “Were you imitating James Bond just now?”

Anson shook his head. “I don’t drink martinis.”

“Haha.” Charlie couldn’t hold back, laughing out loud.

But Anson didn’t linger, releasing his hand, turning, and stepping into the banquet hall first.

Charlie stood in place, needing a moment to digest—

Anson hadn’t hidden his motive. He had approached Charlie purely because of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and it was strictly for work-related socializing.

But the key point was, Anson displayed openness and sincerity. That in itself set him apart. And Charlie couldn’t help but reflect on their earlier conversation about dreams. Those dreams were real, the struggles were real, and the connection between Charlie and Anson was equally real.

Suddenly, everything became more interesting, didn’t it?

Wait.

Charlie noticed a figure, collected his thoughts, made a sharp turn, and quietly slipped away, retreating from the crowd, blending into the shadows.

From afar, Anthony spotted Charlie slipping away and spread his hands in innocence.

Unlike Charlie, Anson stepped right into the spotlight, immediately feeling the burning, intense gazes from all directions.

It seemed that in the brief time he and Charlie had been chatting, news from the red carpet had reached the banquet hall, and the evening’s first hot topic had quietly emerged.

However, something was slightly off.

Though Anson was the subject of whispered discussions and the focus of everyone’s gazes, no one approached him. No one broke the ice.

So, Anson stood there like an elephant in the circus, becoming the center of attention, making him feel like he should start rolling a ball or jumping through a ring of fire.

The atmosphere was subtly awkward.

In the crowd, Anson could feel a sharp, intense gaze. Instinctively, he looked over and immediately saw Brad Pitt towering above.

It was clear that the look in Pitt’s eyes wasn’t very friendly.