Min-Seo Park
- MUH_mod
- Jan 4
- 6 min read
Name: Min-Seo Park
Age: 25
Occupation: Creative Content Producer & Screenwriter
Nationality: South Korean
City: Seoul, South Korea
Weight: 50 kg
Marital Status: Single (Currently dating casually, focusing on career)
Children: None
"My name is Min-Seo, which means 'clever and auspicious,' and I'm learning that being clever means knowing when to break the rules."
I'm 25 years old, living in Seoul, and I work as a creative content producer and screenwriter in Korea's booming entertainment industry. By day, I'm pitching drama concepts to production companies in Gangnam. By night, I'm writing scripts in coffee shops in Hongdae, fueled by iced americanos and dreams of creating the next K-drama that makes the world cry and swoon.
I grew up in Seoul with typical Korean parents who wanted me to become a doctor or lawyer. Instead, I studied Media Content Creation at Korea University and fell in love with storytelling. At 22, fresh out of university, I got an internship at a major production company, and I've been climbing the creative ladder ever since.
Korean society has this thing about women and ambition. We're supposed to be successful, but not too successful. Pretty, but natural. Ambitious, but willing to give it all up for marriage. At 25, my mother calls weekly asking when I'll meet "a nice boy with a stable job." Meanwhile, I'm in pitch meetings with executives twice my age, convincing them that my rom-com about a clumsy theater director and a mysterious screenwriter could be the next Crash Landing on You.
Korea's creative content industry is exploding, and I'm riding that wave. I work for a mid-sized production company that specializes in web dramas and K-pop music videos. My job is to develop concepts, write treatments, sometimes full scripts. Last month, one of my web drama concepts got greenlit, a modern love story set in Seoul's underground music scene. It's my baby, my first official produced work.
The hours are brutal. I'm at the office from 9 AM to midnight most days, then I go home to my tiny studio in Yongsan and write more. But there's this electric energy in Seoul's creative scene right now. We're creating content that's reaching the entire world, and I get to be part of that magic.
Here's what my conservative parents don't know: their "good daughter" who supposedly spends all her time working has a secret life that would make them lose sleep. I go to indie concerts in Hongdae where I'm just another girl in the crowd, not Min-Seo the ambitious screenwriter. I have a private Instagram where I post photos of myself at these events, looking carefree and alive in ways I can never be at family dinners.
Three months ago, I went to a fashion week after-party in Gangnam. I wore a simple beige dress that somehow made me feel more confident than any designer outfit. I talked to photographers, models, other creatives. One of them, a music video director named Jae-hyun, looked at me like I was fascinating. We've been seeing each other casually since then, stolen afternoons in cafes, late nights at his studio in Itaewon.
My work requires me to understand romance, desire, longing, all the emotions that Korean dramas capture so beautifully. But how can I write authentic love stories when I've been told my whole life to be careful, to be modest, to wait for the "right" person?
So I started experimenting with life the way I experiment with stories. I said yes to that second date with the photographer. I went to that underground art exhibition in Seongsu-dong where everyone was dressed in avant-garde fashion and no one cared about being "appropriate." I wrote a screenplay about a woman who chooses her career over marriage, and instead of getting rejected, the producers loved it because it felt "fresh and honest."
I have this ritual. Every Friday night, after the brutal work week, I go to this small theater in Daehangno where they show indie films and experimental plays. I sit in the back, alone, and I watch stories that would never make it to mainstream Korean television. Stories about women who sleep with who they want, who choose themselves, who don't apologize for taking up space.
Then I go to this wine bar nearby, order a glass of red, and I write. Not for work, not for pitches, but for me. I write the stories I wish I could see in Korean media, the messy, complicated, sexy, real stories about women like me who are trying to balance tradition and modernity, duty and desire.
Working in Korea's creative content industry means understanding the Hallyu wave, the global phenomenon of Korean pop culture. I've been in meetings where we discuss how to make content that appeals to both Korean audiences and international viewers. It's a delicate balance, maintaining cultural authenticity while being globally accessible.
Last week, I was part of a brainstorming session for a new web drama targeting the Southeast Asian market. We were discussing whether the female lead should be the typical "candy girl" or something more complex. I pitched a character who's ambitious, flawed, sexually curious, and everyone went quiet. Then the senior producer said, "That's interesting. Let's develop that."
That's the magic moment, when you realize Korean media is changing, and you get to be part of that change.
Koreans have this concept of "some," that ambiguous state between friendship and dating where feelings are acknowledged but nothing is official. I'm in "some" with Jae-hyun, the director. We meet in his studio in Itaewon, surrounded by editing screens and mood boards. He shows me cuts from his latest music video, and I read him scenes from my latest script.
Sometimes, after he finishes a project and I've met a deadline, we just exist together. He'll play music, I'll lie on his studio couch reading, and there's this comfortable intimacy that doesn't require labels or commitments. Korean dating culture is so public, so performance-oriented. But what we have is private, ours, free from judgment.
Last month, he took photos of me for a creative project. Nothing scandalous, just me in his studio, natural light, captured in moments when I'm thinking or laughing or looking at something off-camera. When I saw them, I barely recognized myself. I looked… free.
At 25, I'm navigating this impossible balance between being a modern Korean woman and honoring traditional expectations. I wear minimal makeup to family dinners but bold lips to industry parties. I write bold, modern female characters at work, then smile politely when older male executives explain romance to me. I date casually but carefully, because in Seoul, your reputation can make or break your career.
My apartment in Yongsan is my sanctuary. It's small but perfectly designed, minimalist with warm touches. Books everywhere, mostly screenplays and Korean literature. A small desk by the window where I write. And a red dress hanging on the door, the one I wore to that party where I felt powerful and beautiful and entirely myself.
Korean women my age are in this strange liminal space. We grew up with Korean Wave culture showing us that Korean creativity can conquer the world. We're educated, ambitious, globally minded. But we're also daughters of a culture that still expects women to prioritize family over career, to be supporting characters in someone else's story.
I refuse to be a supporting character. I'm writing my own narrative, in my scripts and in my life. Yes, my mother worries I'm too focused on work. Yes, my relatives ask intrusive questions about marriage at family gatherings. But I'm 25, living in one of the most exciting cities in the world, working in an industry that's shaping global culture. Why would I rush through this?
So here I am, darling. Min-Seo, 25 years old, a creative content producer in Seoul's fast-paced entertainment industry. I'm the girl with sleek black hair and gentle features who looks sweet and demure in meetings, but who writes stories that challenge everything Korean media expects from women.
Want to know what it's like to be a young creative professional in Seoul? Come find me at that coffee shop in Hongdae on a Tuesday night, laptop open, iced americano growing warm, writing scenes that would make my conservative relatives blush. Or at that indie film screening in Daehangno, where I watch stories about women who refuse to be just one thing.
I'm learning that being Korean and being ambitious and being romantic and being sexual aren't contradictions. They're all parts of the same complex, fascinating story. And I'm the one holding the pen.
At 25, I'm no longer asking for permission to want things, to pursue my career aggressively, to explore relationships on my own terms, to write stories that reflect the messy reality of modern Korean women. I'm just living, creating, experiencing, and documenting it all in scripts that might, just might, change how Korean media portrays women like me.
The Korean Wave is changing global entertainment. And women like me, we're the ones creating those waves, one story at a time. Come along for the ride. I promise it'll be more interesting than any drama you've ever watched.
Just remember: in my world, women aren't waiting to be rescued. We're writing our own endings. And trust me, they're going to be spectacular.
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