# Chapter 10: Building Momentum
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**6:30 AM**
*Huff... huff*
"Forty-eight."
*Huff*
"Forty-nine."
*Huff... huff*
"Fifty."
Michael collapsed onto the floor of his apartment, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto the cheap carpet. His arms trembled from the final set of push-ups—the last exercise in his morning routine.
Since wrapping *17 Again* three days ago, he'd committed to getting back in shape. Filming had been grueling, but it was a different kind of exhaustion than physical training. Long days standing around between takes, quick bursts of performance energy, then more waiting. His body had gone soft around the edges.
Not anymore.
If he was going to be a leading man—a real star, not just a one-hit wonder—he needed to look the part. The blue eyes got attention, but Hollywood demanded more. Defined muscles, the kind of physique that looked good on camera and on magazine covers.
Michael dragged himself to the shower, letting hot water wash away the burn in his muscles. As he stood there, he couldn't help but laugh at himself.
"Filming can be hectic, huh?"
He'd thought he could juggle everything—shoot the movie, write another book, keep working on music, build his brand. But reality had hit hard. Twelve-hour shooting days, sometimes fourteen. Coming home so exhausted he'd barely managed to eat before passing out.
His grand plans for writing *Interstellar* during production? Completely abandoned after week two. He'd managed maybe ten pages total, all of them garbage written at midnight when his brain was fried.
"I'm not new to this industry," he muttered to himself, "but damn, I underestimated this."
In his original timeline, he'd been background talent, a session musician, a guy who showed up for a few hours and left. He'd never been *the* guy, the one carrying an entire production on his shoulders.
Now he understood why leading actors commanded such high salaries. The pressure, the constant performance, the need to be "on" every single moment you were on set—it was draining in ways he hadn't anticipated.
But it was done now. The film was wrapped. Post-production would take months, and he wouldn't be needed for much of it except possibly ADR—automated dialogue replacement—if any lines needed re-recording.
Which meant he finally had time again.
Time to focus on what came next.
---
After his shower, Michael made coffee—actual good coffee now that he could afford it, not the instant crap he'd survived on for months—and opened his laptop.
First order of business: check his finances.
He logged into his bank account and stared at the number.
**Current Balance: $47,283.19**
Michael blinked. Read it again. Felt something like vertigo.
*The Martian* had exploded.
Not overnight—it had been building slowly, steadily, the way Rebecca said it would. Good reviews from science fiction blogs. Word of mouth from readers. Then, about three weeks into filming *17 Again*, something shifted.
*The Martian* had debuted at #12 on the New York Times Best Seller list.
Michael remembered the day Rebecca called to tell him. He'd been on set, between takes, and had literally shouted into the phone. The crew thought he was crazy.
But that was just the beginning.
The book stayed on the list for four weeks. Sales jumped. The hardcover edition sold out its first printing. Tor ordered a second printing, then a third.
Suddenly, everyone in the science fiction community was talking about this debut novel by an eighteen-year-old author. The kid who'd somehow written a scientifically accurate, emotionally compelling story about survival on Mars.
NPR did a segment. *Wired* magazine ran a feature. Book clubs picked it up.
And the royalty checks kept coming.
Michael pulled up his sales report from Rebecca:
- Hardcover sales: 47,000 copies
- Ebook sales: 23,000 copies
- Audio book: 8,000 copies
- International rights sold to: UK, Germany, France, Japan, Korea
Total earnings after agent commission and expenses: approximately $43,000 in the last two months alone.
Combined with his book advance, his music sales—*In the End* was still generating $50-80 a week—and his modest savings, Michael was sitting on nearly $50,000.
It was surreal. Three months ago, he'd been sleeping in his car. Now he had more money than his father had ever made in a year.
Michael closed the laptop and stared out the window at Hollywood stretching out below.
This was real. This was actually happening.
---
**The Next Move**
Michael opened his notebook—now almost full of production notes and story ideas—and turned to a clean page.
**IMMEDIATE PRIORITIES:**
He tapped his pen against the paper, thinking.
The money gave him options. Real options. He could do what he'd been planning for months: lay the groundwork for his own production company. Not actually producing anything yet—he didn't have those kinds of resources—but registering the business, securing the domain names, building the infrastructure.
He wrote:
*1. Register production company*
* - Name: TBD*
* - LLC formation*
* - Domain registration*
* - Business bank account*
But that was administrative work. Important, but not urgent.
What mattered more—what would actually advance his career—was the next creative project.
Another book.
Michael had two strong options, both from his timeline's memory, both guaranteed successes if he executed them properly.
**Option One: Game of Thrones**
The first book in George R.R. Martin's series had been published in 1996. By Michael's original timeline, it had become a cultural phenomenon—first as books, then as the HBO series that dominated television.
Epic fantasy. Political intrigue. Morally complex characters. A massive, intricate world that readers could lose themselves in.
And in this parallel world? The series didn't exist. At all.
Michael knew the first book inside and out. He'd read it twice in his original timeline, watched the show religiously. He remembered the major plot beats, the character arcs, the shocking twists.
He could write *A Game of Thrones*. His version, his voice, but the same essential story that had captivated millions.
**Option Two: Interstellar**
The Christopher Nolan film had been one of Michael's favorites in his original timeline. Hard science fiction about humanity's survival, time dilation, love transcending dimensions. It had been both intellectually rigorous and deeply emotional.
He could adapt it as a novel. Beat Nolan to the punch by nearly a decade. Establish himself as the premier science fiction writer of his generation.
Michael stared at both options, pen hovering over the paper.
*Interstellar* made practical sense. He'd just had success with *The Martian*—science fiction readers knew his name now. Strike while the iron was hot. Plus, he wanted to secure the film rights before they could slip away to someone else in this timeline. If he wrote the book, he owned the IP automatically.
But *Game of Thrones*...
*Game of Thrones* was a different beast entirely. It would prove he wasn't just a sci-fi writer. It would open him up to the massive fantasy audience. And more importantly, it was a series—multiple books, years of steady income and cultural relevance.
The stability argument was compelling. *The Martian* was a standalone. One book, one story, done. But *Game of Thrones* could sustain his writing career for years while he built his film and music ambitions.
And it wasn't like he couldn't publish *Interstellar* later. The story would still be there. He could write it next year, or the year after, when the timing was better.
Michael made his decision.
He wrote in large letters:
**NEXT BOOK: A GAME OF THRONES**
**Reasons:**
- Diversify audience (fantasy vs. sci-fi)
- Series potential = long-term income stability
- Massive cultural impact if done right
- Interstellar can wait—story isn't time-sensitive
- Need to prove versatility as writer
He underlined it twice, then sat back.
This was right. This was the move.
*The Martian* had established him as a science fiction writer. *Game of Thrones* would establish him as a *writer*, period. Someone who could tackle any genre, any scope, any level of complexity.
And when the HBO adaptation eventually happened—because he'd make damn sure it happened—it would cement his place in entertainment history.
---
Michael opened a new document on his laptop and stared at the blank page.
*A Game of Thrones* by Michael Carter.
His fingers hovered over the keys.
This one would be harder than *The Martian*. So much harder. Multiple POV characters, intricate plotting, a massive world to build. Hundreds of thousands of words spread across a sprawling narrative.
But he had the roadmap. He knew where the story went, who lived, who died, which twists would devastate readers.
He just had to write it.
Michael thought about the opening—Gared and the others beyond the Wall, encountering the Others. That iconic prologue that set the tone for everything that followed.
He closed his eyes, remembering the scene. The cold, the fear, the wrongness of those creatures emerging from the winter darkness.
Then he started typing.
*The morning had dawned cold and pale, the wind bitter as it swept across the frozen landscape...*
No. That wasn't right. Not Martin's voice. Not the tone.
Michael deleted it and tried again.
*"We should start back," Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them.*
Better. More immediate. Starting with dialogue, with tension.
He kept going, letting the words flow. The scene built itself—Will climbing the tree, seeing the bodies arranged in a pattern, the growing dread.
Michael wrote for two hours straight, barely pausing. When he finally stopped, he had seven pages.
The prologue wasn't finished, but it was started. And starting was always the hardest part.
He saved the document, backed it up on a flash drive, then saved it again to be safe.
No way was he losing this.
---
Michael stood and stretched, his body protesting from sitting hunched over the laptop.
Outside, Los Angeles was waking up. Traffic sounds drifting up from the street, sunshine pouring through his window.
He had money in the bank. A movie in post-production that would either make him a star or prove everyone who doubted him right. A hit book still selling steadily. And now, a new project that would push him even further.
The pieces were coming together.
Slowly, carefully, exactly as planned.
Michael grabbed his phone and texted Derek:
*Need to schedule meeting. Want to discuss production company registration and updated website content. Also thinking about merchandise eventually—can you research options?*
The response came back almost immediately:
*Dude it's 9am on a Saturday*
Michael smiled and typed back:
*Successful people don't sleep in. You in or out?*
*...fine. Coffee at noon. You're buying.*
*Deal.*
Michael set down his phone and looked at his laptop, at the beginning of *A Game of Thrones* waiting to be written.
Seven pages down. Hundreds of thousands to go.
He cracked his knuckles and sat back down.
Why wait?
Winter was coming.
And Michael Carter was going to be the one to bring it.
---
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**END CHAPTER 10**