# Chapter 7: Betting on Himself
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The check from Tor arrived on a Tuesday morning in late December.
Michael tore open the envelope with shaking hands, even though he knew what to expect. He'd signed the contract, he understood the payment schedule. But seeing it in physical form—an actual check with his name on it—was different.
**Pay to the order of: Michael Carter**
**Amount: $4,127.89**
His first royalty payment. Based on the initial sales from *The Martian*'s release two months ago.
It wasn't a fortune. The book hadn't exploded out of the gate—no instant bestseller status, no viral buzz. But it was selling. Steadily. Consistently. The kind of slow burn that publishers appreciated because it meant word-of-mouth was working.
Rebecca had called last week with the numbers: 3,200 copies sold in the first two months. Respectable for a debut science fiction novel by an unknown author. Pre-orders for the paperback edition were already coming in.
"The book has legs," she'd said. "Reviews are strong. Science fiction blogs are picking it up. This is exactly the trajectory we want."
Michael had nodded along, trying to sound professionally pleased while internally doing backflips.
Because he *knew* what this book would become. Not immediately, but eventually. The slow burn would turn into a wildfire. He just had to be patient.
Now, staring at the check, Michael did the math in his head.
He had $4,127.89 from book royalties. Plus about $1,800 in savings from his McDonald's paychecks and music sales. *In the End* was still selling steadily—not massive numbers, but $40-60 a week added up.
Total liquid assets: roughly $6,000.
And more royalty checks would come. Every quarter, as long as the book kept selling. Which it would.
Michael walked to the bank and deposited the check, then sat in his Honda in the parking lot, staring at his updated account balance on the ATM receipt.
He had enough. Finally, he had enough to make a change.
---
Michael walked into McDonald's that evening for his closing shift and found Ray in the office doing paperwork.
"Got a minute?" Michael asked.
Ray looked up, reading something in Michael's expression. "This is it, isn't it? You're quitting."
"Yeah. I am."
Ray leaned back in his chair, not looking surprised. "The book deal?"
"Book deal, music, other projects. I need to focus full-time on my career. I can't do that working forty hours a week here."
"How much notice can you give me?"
"Two weeks?"
Ray nodded. "Fair enough. You've been a good worker, Carter. Never late, never caused problems. I'll be sorry to lose you." He paused. "You really think you can make it out there? Entertainment industry's brutal."
"I know. But I have to try."
"Alright. Two weeks, then you're done. Good luck, kid."
They shook hands.
Jake caught up with Michael during his break. "Dude, Ray said you're quitting?"
"Yeah. Time to go all-in."
"That's insane. That's awesome. That's insanely awesome." Jake grinned. "You better remember me when you're famous. Free tickets to your movie premiere or whatever."
"Deal."
---
**Two Weeks Later**
Michael's last shift at McDonald's was a blur of grease, customer complaints, and Ray giving him a surprisingly heartfelt handshake at the end.
"Stay in touch," Ray said. "I want to know how this turns out."
"I will. Thanks for everything."
Walking out of that McDonald's for the last time felt surreal. Like closing a chapter. The past four months had been brutal—working full-time while trying to build a career, living on ramen, sleeping four hours a night.
But now?
Now he was free.
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The next priority was housing.
Michael couldn't stay in his converted garage room in Reseda anymore. He needed space—real space—where he could work, practice, create without worrying about noise complaints or sharing a bathroom with three other tenants.
He spent three days searching rental listings, visiting apartments, calculating what he could actually afford.
Most places wanted first month, last month, and security deposit upfront. Plus proof of employment and references. The employment part was tricky now that he'd quit McDonald's, but Rebecca agreed to write a letter confirming his book contract and expected income.
Finally, Michael found it: a one-bedroom apartment in a building near Hollywood Boulevard. Not a great neighborhood—the building was old, the block sketchy—but the apartment itself was clean, recently renovated, with actual space.
$850 a month. $2,550 upfront for move-in.
Michael signed the lease on January 3rd, 2006.
He didn't have much to move—his garbage bags of clothes, his laptop, his cheap keyboard, some books. The apartment came with basic furniture that the previous tenant had abandoned, so at least he had a bed and a couch.
Standing in his new living room—*his* living room, not shared with anyone—Michael felt something shift in his chest.
This was real. He was really doing this.
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With McDonald's behind him and a stable living situation established, Michael turned his full attention to the next challenge: *17 Again*.
The screenplay had been finished for months. He'd revised it based on the writers' workshop feedback, polished it until every scene sang. Derek had helped him format a professional PDF and create a pitch package.
They'd sent out queries to production companies, managers, agents who repped screenwriters. Twenty-five queries total.
The responses had been mixed.
Five immediate rejections. Ten non-responses. But ten had asked to read the script.
Of those ten, three had passed with encouraging notes ("great concept, not right for our slate"). Two had stopped responding after reading it.
But five—five production companies—had expressed genuine interest. Small indie producers mostly, but real interest. Meetings had been mentioned. Potential options discussed.
The problem: every single one balked when Michael made his condition clear.
"I want to star in this film. That's non-negotiable."
The response was always the same, delivered with varying degrees of politeness:
*"You're an unknown. Eighteen years old with no credits. Studios won't greenlight a body-swap comedy with an untested lead. We love the script, but we need a name actor."*
Michael understood the logic. From their perspective, it made perfect sense. Why would you risk millions of dollars on an unproven kid when you could cast Zac Efron or some other established young star?
But Michael couldn't budge.
He knew this role. Knew every line, every gesture, every emotional beat. This was *his* story to tell, even if he couldn't explain why.
More importantly, he needed this. Needed to establish himself as not just a writer but a performer. Needed Hollywood to see him as a multi-hyphenate talent from the beginning.
So when producers pushed back, Michael held firm.
"Then we don't have a deal. I'll wait for someone who's willing to take the chance."
Most thought he was crazy. A few admired his conviction. None agreed to his terms.
---
**Three Weeks of Preparation**
If Michael was going to insist on starring in his own screenplay, he needed to prove he could do it.
Not just act—he'd been acting in his original timeline for years—but act at a level that would make producers reconsider their objections.
He needed to be undeniable.
Michael set up his laptop in the living room with the best lighting he could manage. He'd bought a cheap webcam at Best Buy—$40 he barely had—that captured decent video quality.
Then he started working through the script systematically, scene by scene.
The opening monologue where adult Mike reflects on his life. The moment of transformation. The first day back at high school. The confrontation with his daughter. The speech at the end.
Michael knew every line by heart. That wasn't the challenge.
The challenge was embodying the character. Bringing him to life in a way that would translate on screen.
He'd record a scene, watch it back, cringe at the choices that didn't work. Too broad. Too subtle. Wrong energy. Wrong emotion.
Then he'd do it again. And again.
The beauty of his current situation—no job, no obligations—was time. He had endless time to iterate, to experiment, to fail in private until he found what worked.
Michael spent eight hours a day on this. Recording scenes, watching playback, taking notes, adjusting. He'd study the performances of actors he admired, breaking down how they conveyed emotion, how they found truth in scripted moments.
His neighbors probably thought he was insane, hearing him deliver the same lines over and over through the thin walls.
But slowly, gradually, he started to see improvement.
The performances got sharper. More natural. The character started to feel real instead of performed.
By the end of week three, Michael had a compilation reel—ten minutes of his best scenes from *17 Again*, cut together to showcase his range.
He watched it one final time, critical eye searching for flaws.
It was good. Really good. Good enough that any producer watching would have to admit: this kid can actually act.
Now he just needed someone willing to look past industry convention and give him a shot.
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**The Waiting Game**
Late January, Michael sat at his laptop checking email when a new message appeared.
**Subject: 17 AGAIN - Interested Producer**
His heart jumped.
*Mr. Carter,*
*My name is Jennifer Walsh, and I'm a producer with Crossroads Entertainment. I recently read your screenplay for 17 AGAIN, which was forwarded to me by a colleague.*
*I have to say, I'm impressed. The emotional core is strong, the concept is commercially viable, and your writing shows real maturity.*
*I understand from your previous correspondence with my assistant that you're interested in starring in the film yourself. Normally, this would be a non-starter for us. However, I'd like to discuss the project with you in more detail.*
*Would you be available for a phone call this Friday at 2 PM?*
*Best,*
*Jennifer Walsh*
*Crossroads Entertainment*
Michael read the email three times.
She wanted to talk. Actually talk, despite knowing his condition.
This was it. This was the chance he'd been waiting for.
He typed his response carefully:
*Ms. Walsh,*
*Thank you so much for your interest in 17 AGAIN. I'm thrilled that the script resonated with you.*
*I'm absolutely available Friday at 2 PM. I look forward to our conversation.*
*Best,*
*Michael Carter*
He hit send, then sat back, staring at the screen.
Three weeks of preparation. Months of grinding. Years of knowledge from a life that didn't exist here.
It was all leading to this moment.
Friday at 2 PM, everything could change.
Or it could be another rejection, another producer trying to convince him to step aside for a "real" actor.
But something in Jennifer Walsh's email felt different. The fact that she wanted to talk despite his condition, that she'd called his writing mature, that she hadn't immediately dismissed him...
Maybe. Just maybe.
Michael opened his video compilation reel and watched it one more time, making sure it was perfect.
If this call went well, he'd need to send it over.
And when Jennifer Walsh saw what he could do, she'd understand why he refused to compromise.
This role was his.
This was his moment.
He just had to make her see it.
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**END CHAPTER 7**