Chapter 6: Building the Foundation
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Michael's hands were still shaking when he clicked "reply" to the email from Anderson Literary Agency.
He'd read the message three times to make sure it was real. An actual literary agent—Rebecca Anderson, according to her signature—wanted to read the full manuscript of *The Martian*.
This was it. This was the break he'd been waiting for.
Michael typed carefully, trying to sound professional despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins:
*Dear Ms. Anderson,*
*Thank you so much for your interest in THE MARTIAN. I'm thrilled that the sample chapters resonated with you. I've attached the full manuscript as a Word document per your specifications.*
*I look forward to hearing your thoughts.*
*Best regards,*
*Michael Carter*
He attached the file—400 pages, 127,000 words, months of his life—and hit send before he could second-guess himself.
Then he sat back and waited for the library computer to confirm the email had gone through.
*Message sent.*
Michael exhaled slowly. Now came the hard part: waiting again.
---
**Five Days Later**
The response came faster than Michael expected.
He'd been checking his email compulsively—once in the morning before his McDonald's shift, once during his lunch break if he could get to the library, once at night before bed. Each time, nothing.
Until Tuesday.
*Subject: THE MARTIAN - Let's Talk*
Michael's heart hammered as he opened the message.
*Michael,*
*I finished THE MARTIAN yesterday and couldn't put it down. Your protagonist is brilliant, the science is compelling (I fact-checked some of it—impressive!), and the humor keeps what could be a dark story surprisingly uplifting.*
*I'd like to offer you representation. Can we schedule a phone call to discuss the specifics? I have some thoughts on the manuscript that I'd like to share, and we should talk about our strategy for shopping this to publishers.*
*Are you available Thursday at 2 PM Pacific? If so, please call my office at the number below.*
*Best,*
*Rebecca Anderson*
*Anderson Literary Agency*
Michael read the email three times, then a fourth, making sure he wasn't misunderstanding.
She wanted to represent him.
An actual agent wanted to represent his book.
He printed the email—five cents he barely had—and walked out of the library in a daze.
---
Thursday at 2 PM, Michael called from a payphone outside the McDonald's. He'd asked Ray for an extended lunch break, claiming a family emergency. Ray had grumbled but agreed.
The phone rang twice before a professional voice answered. "Anderson Literary Agency."
"Hi, this is Michael Carter calling for Rebecca Anderson. We have a 2 PM appointment."
"One moment please."
Muzak played. Michael's palms were sweating. He'd practiced what he wanted to say, but his mind was suddenly blank.
"Michael!" Rebecca's voice was warm, energetic. "Thanks for calling. First, let me say again how much I loved THE MARTIAN. It's exactly the kind of smart, accessible science fiction that publishers are looking for right now."
"Thank you. I'm just... I'm really glad you connected with it."
"Let's talk business. I'd like to offer you representation with a standard agency agreement—15% commission on all domestic sales, 20% on foreign rights, which we'd co-agent with specialists. I handle all negotiations with publishers, and we split any film/TV rights if those come into play."
Michael had researched this. 15% was industry standard. But there was something else he needed to address.
"That sounds fair," Michael said carefully. "But I want to clarify something about the intellectual property rights."
There was a pause. "Go on."
"I want to retain full IP ownership—especially film, TV, and adaptation rights. This would be a publishing deal only. Publishers get print, ebook, and audio rights, but anything beyond that stays with me."
Another pause, longer this time. "That's... unusual for a first-time author. Publishers typically want as many rights as they can get, and they pay advances based on acquiring those rights."
"I understand. But this is non-negotiable for me."
"Can I ask why?"
Because I know this becomes a blockbuster film, Michael thought. Because in my timeline, Andy Weir retained enough rights to have significant control over the adaptation, and I need that same leverage.
Out loud, he said: "I believe in this story long-term. If it succeeds as a book, there will be interest in adaptations. I want to maintain creative control over how that happens."
Rebecca hummed thoughtfully. "You're thinking ahead. I respect that. But Michael, you should know—retaining full IP will significantly impact what publishers are willing to offer. They pay bigger advances when they acquire more rights. We're talking potentially half or less of what they might otherwise offer."
"What kind of numbers are we talking about?"
"For a debut sci-fi novel with adaptation potential? If we sold all rights, you might see $80,000 to $120,000. If we limit it to publishing only, you're probably looking at $30,000 to $50,000."
Michael did the quick math. The difference was substantial. But he couldn't give up the film rights. He knew what this book could become—a major motion picture, a cultural phenomenon. Giving that away for an extra $50,000 now would cost him millions later.
"I'm willing to accept the lower advance," Michael said firmly.
"Alright. Let me see what I can do. But I want to be clear—this will limit our options. Some publishers won't even consider a deal without adaptation rights."
"I understand. I'm still interested if you are."
"Oh, I'm definitely interested. Your book is too good to pass up. Let me draw up an agency agreement reflecting these terms, and we'll go from there."
---
**Two Weeks Later**
The negotiations were harder than Michael expected.
Rebecca would call with updates: "Simon & Schuster passed—they won't do a deal without film rights." "Random House is interested but their offer is low." "Tor is considering it but wants better royalty terms."
Each call was a roller coaster of hope and disappointment.
Finally, Rebecca called with news: "We have two offers on the table. Let me walk you through them."
Michael grabbed his notebook, ready to take notes.
"First: Tor Books. They're offering $35,000 advance for publishing rights only—print, ebook, and audio. Standard royalty structure: 10% on hardcover, 8% on paperback, 25% on ebook. All adaptation rights remain with you."
"And the second?"
"Bantam. They're offering $48,000 advance, but they want better royalty terms—8% on hardcover, 6% on paperback, 20% on ebook. They're also pushing for first refusal on any sequel."
Michael thought about it. The Bantam offer was more money upfront, but worse royalty percentages. If the book sold well—and he knew it would—those percentages would matter more than the advance.
"What do you recommend?" he asked.
"Tor," Rebecca said without hesitation. "Better royalty structure, and they're a respected sci-fi imprint. The lower advance stings, but if this book performs the way I think it will, you'll make it up in royalties."
"Can we counter? Try to get better terms from either of them?"
"We can try. What are you thinking?"
"I want to counter Tor. Ask for $40,000 advance and an extra point on the hardcover royalty—11% instead of 10%. I'm willing to give up half a point on paperback to make it work—7.5% instead of 8%."
There was a pause. "That's... actually smart negotiation. You're prioritizing hardcover and ebook, which is where debut sci-fi makes most of its money. Paperback sales are usually smaller."
"Can you make it happen?"
"Let me try."
---
**Three Days Later**
Rebecca called back. "Okay, Tor countered our counter. Here's what they're willing to do: $38,000 advance, 10.5% on hardcover, 7.5% on paperback, 25% on ebook. All adaptation rights remain with you. That's their final offer."
Michael did the math in his head. It was lower than he'd wanted for the advance, but the royalty bump on hardcover was something. And keeping the adaptation rights was worth more than any of it.
"I'll take it," he said.
"You're sure? We could probably push Bantam up to $50,000—"
"I'm sure. Tor's the right fit."
Rebecca laughed. "You're stubborn. I like that. Okay, I'll finalize the contract. Welcome to the publishing world, Michael."
---
**One Week Later**
The contract arrived via FedEx at the address Michael had given—the McDonald's, since he didn't trust his boarding house mail situation. Ray handed it to him with a raised eyebrow.
"Someone sending you legal documents, Carter?"
"Book deal," Michael said, trying to sound casual.
Ray's other eyebrow joined the first. "No shit? You actually pulled it off?"
"Looks like it."
"Huh." Ray studied him for a moment. "Good for you, kid. Don't forget us little people when you're famous."
Michael signed the contract that night in his tiny room, hand cramping from the number of places that required initials and signatures. When he finished, he sealed it in the return envelope Rebecca had provided and mailed it the next morning.
Two weeks later, the first check arrived: $12,666.67—one-third of the advance, minus Rebecca's 15% commission.
Michael stared at it for a solid minute. It wasn't the $80,000 or more he could've gotten if he'd sold all the rights. But it was his, and more importantly, he'd kept what mattered most.
He walked to the bank and deposited it before anything could go wrong.
For the first time in months, he could breathe.
---
**Planning the Next Move**
With some actual money in his account, Michael's mind turned to the future.
The book deal was incredible. The music was gaining traction—"In the End" had sold over 500 downloads now, and he was averaging $30-50 a week from iTunes.
But it wasn't enough. He needed to think bigger.
Michael spent a Saturday at the library, laptop open, planning his next steps.
In 2025, every artist had a web presence. Websites, social media, direct fan engagement. But in 2005, that kind of infrastructure was still emerging. MySpace existed, but it was limited. YouTube had just launched but was still tiny.
What if he built something ahead of the curve?
A personal website. Not just a basic info page, but a hub—somewhere fans could find everything about him in one place.
Michael sketched out the concept in his notebook:
**BLUE EYES / MICHAEL CARTER - OFFICIAL WEBSITE**
**Sections:**
1. **Bio** - Who I am, my story (edited version)
2. **Music** - Direct links to iTunes, samples, updates
3. **Writing** - Monthly blog/vlog posts, hints about projects
4. **Videos** - Short films to showcase talent, eventually trailers and music videos
5. **Contact** - For professional inquiries
It would be a one-stop shop. Professional but personal. A way to build his brand across multiple mediums—music, writing, eventually film.
The problem: Michael had no idea how to build a website.
He knew HTML existed. He'd seen basic websites coded from scratch in the early 2000s. But his knowledge was superficial at best.
He needed help. Someone who knew web development, who could build something professional.
Someone he could trust.
---
**The Encounter**
Michael was at the library again on Tuesday, taking a break from research to walk around the nearby park. He needed to clear his head, think about how to find a web developer he could afford.
That's when he saw him.
A guy, maybe late twenties, sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. Next to him was a cardboard box—the kind you packed your desk belongings in when you got fired.
Michael recognized that posture. He'd seen it in the mirror often enough in his original timeline.
"You okay?" Michael asked, stopping a few feet away.
The guy looked up, surprised. His eyes were red-rimmed. "Yeah. No. I don't know."
"Rough day?"
A bitter laugh. "Rough month. Just lost my job."
Michael sat down on the other end of the bench, giving him space. "What happened?"
"My team lead screwed up a major project. Blamed it on me. Boss believed him." The guy shook his head. "Five years at that company. Gone in one meeting."
"That's bullshit."
"Yeah, well. That's corporate IT for you." He glanced at Michael. "You looking for life advice or something? Because I'm not exactly qualified right now."
"Actually," Michael said, "I'm looking for someone who knows web development."
The guy blinked. "What?"
"I need a website built. Professional, multi-page, room to grow. And I need someone who can handle the technical side long-term—updates, maintenance, eventually PR and social media management."
"You're serious?"
"Dead serious." Michael pulled out his notebook and showed him the sketch. "This is what I'm thinking. Can you do something like this?"
The guy studied the drawing, his expression shifting from defeated to intrigued. "Yeah. This is pretty straightforward actually. HTML, CSS, maybe some basic JavaScript for interactivity. I could have a prototype up in a week."
"What's your rate?"
The guy hesitated. "For something like this? Normally I'd charge $2,000-3,000 for the build, plus a monthly retainer for maintenance."
Michael's heart sank. He had money now, but not that much. Not if he wanted to keep paying rent and eating. "I can't afford that."
"How much can you afford?"
"Honestly? Maybe $500 right now. And probably not much monthly until my income picks up."
The guy laughed, but it wasn't unkind. "You're broke and you want a professional website?"
"I'm an artist. Musician, writer, eventually filmmaker. I'm just starting out, but I'm going somewhere. I need someone who can help me build the infrastructure to get there."
"And you think that's me? Guy who just got fired?"
"I think you're skilled and available. And I think you could use a project that's yours, not some corporate bullshit where someone else takes credit."
The guy was quiet for a long moment, staring at the notebook sketch.
"What's your name?" he finally asked.
"Michael Carter. Also known as Blue Eyes."
"Blue Eyes? Like the song on iTunes?"
Michael's eyebrows shot up. "You've heard it?"
"My girlfriend won't stop playing it. Keeps saying I should be more emotional like 'that Blue Eyes guy.'" He smiled faintly. "That's you?"
"That's me."
"Huh." The guy extended his hand. "Derek Chen. Web developer, recently unemployed."
They shook.
"So here's what I'm thinking," Michael said. "I can't pay you much now. But if you build this site and stick with me—handle the PR, the social media, the growth as my career grows—I'll give you a commission. One percent of everything I make."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "One percent? Of what, exactly?"
"Everything. Music sales, book deals, film projects, merchandise, appearances—everything. As I grow, you grow."
"That's... that's either genius or insane."
"Probably both," Michael admitted. "But I'm going somewhere, Derek. I know that sounds crazy coming from a broke eighteen-year-old, but I'm dead serious. I'm going to be big. And I want someone with me from the beginning who believes in that."
Derek studied him for a long moment. Michael held his gaze, not blinking, letting his certainty show.
"You really believe that," Derek said finally. "You actually think you're going to be a superstar."
"I don't think," Michael said quietly, meeting Derek's eyes with absolute conviction. "I *know*. I'm going to be the biggest thing in entertainment. Music, books, films—all of it. The biggest superstar in the world."
Derek blinked. The sheer confidence in Michael's voice was almost unsettling. This wasn't bravado or youthful arrogance. This was... certainty. Like Michael was stating a fact about the future.
"That's a hell of a claim."
"It's not a claim. It's what's going to happen."
Derek laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, let's say I believe you. Let's say you actually become this massive superstar. One percent of everything?"
"Everything."
"And until then?"
"Until then, I'll pay you what I can—probably $500 now for the initial build. After that, you'll need to keep your day job or find something part-time. I'm not earning enough yet to pay you a real salary."
Derek looked at his cardboard box. Looked at Michael. Looked at the sky like he was asking the universe if this was really happening.
"How sure are you?" Derek asked. "About your future in entertainment. Scale of one to ten."
Michael didn't hesitate. "Eleven."
"Jesus." Derek shook his head. "Alright, here's my counter-offer. I'll do the website. I'll handle your PR and social media. I'll take the one percent commission. But I want six months."
"Six months for what?"
"Six months to see if you're for real. If by April—six months from now—you're not making real money, real progress, then I'm out. No hard feelings, we part ways, and I keep whatever percentage I've earned up to that point."
Michael considered it. Six months. By April 2006, he'd have *The Martian* released, more music out, hopefully some traction on his screenplay. Six months was more than enough time to prove himself.
"Deal," Michael said, extending his hand.
Derek stared at him for a long moment, then laughed—a genuine, slightly unhinged laugh.
"You know what? Fuck it. I just got fired from a job I hated for something that wasn't my fault. Why not bet on the crazy kid with the hit song?" He shook Michael's hand firmly. "You've got yourself a deal. One percent commission. I'll keep looking for part-time work until you make it big."
"Thank you, Derek. Seriously."
"Don't thank me yet. If you're full of shit, I'm going to be very annoyed." But Derek was smiling now, looking more alive than he had when Michael first approached. "Although, if you really do become the biggest superstar in the world, I'm going to remind you of this moment constantly. 'Remember when you hired me in a park while I was having an existential crisis?'"
Michael grinned. "Deal. I'll put it in my memoir."
"Your memoir. Listen to this kid." Derek pulled out a battered laptop from his box. "Alright, Mr. Future Superstar. Let's talk about this website. I'm thinking clean design, modern but not flashy. WordPress backend so you can update the blog yourself. Integration with your iTunes, space for video embeds when you have them..."
Michael listened as Derek outlined the technical details, feeling something settle in his chest.
This was it. The pieces were falling into place.
A book deal. A song gaining traction. And now, someone who believed in him enough to take a chance—even if it was a calculated, six-month trial.
Derek was looking at him the way people look at something they want to believe in. Something that might just be worth the risk.
Six months.
Michael would show him. Would show everyone.
He wasn't just going to make it.
He was going to change everything.
---
**END CHAPTER 6**