Reborn Bao Guowei, I really didn’t want to be a great writer!

Chapter 397 You changed me! Where was Sherlock Holmes born?
That morning, the gentlemen and ladies of the Savoy Hotel saw a wonderful sight in the reception room.

It was a rare oriental face, wearing clothes that looked like ancient people's attire to them, and his young face clearly showed that he was a student.

But it was this student who was smiling at the white-bearded old man opposite him.

The old man was wearing a respectable tuxedo suit and shiny leather shoes, and it was obvious that he was not an ordinary person.

Of course, those who can enter this hotel are no longer ordinary people.

People cast curious glances at him from time to time.

Because they saw that the old man was holding a dozen manuscripts in his hands, and he turned the pages carefully from time to time, as if he was afraid of damaging the paper.

The old man's face was very expressive.

For a moment he frowned tightly and seemed a little sad.

For a moment his eyes widened and he looked a little angry.

Finally he let out a breath, as if he had countless emotions that he wanted to express.

I don’t know how much time passed, but time seemed to slow down.

The crowd around them seemed to be speeding past them.

From time to time, someone would stop and cast a strange look, then leave.

Until the sun was high in the sky, the sparkling light of the Thames reflected on the windows, and the air was filled with the aroma of lunch from the restaurant.

Finally, Shaw put down the manuscript in his hand. He looked at Bao Guowei with a complicated expression, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

I don't know how many times I opened my mouth, but I just felt it was inappropriate, so I held it back.

Bao Guowei couldn't help it. He drank almost a pot of coffee. Who would have thought that Mr. Bernard Shaw could read such a short novel of less than 30,000 words so carefully, as if he wanted to discover all the content inside.

He reminded, "Mr. Shaw, if you have any questions, feel free to ask."

"Problem?" Shaw suddenly raised his voice and asked in a questioning tone. "What's the problem?!"

When asked this question by Shaw, Bao Guowei felt that he was looking for trouble.

Hey, hey, hey, this is obviously my work! Why do I feel like you are defending this work more than I am?
Bao Guowei didn't know how to answer, so he could only continue to ask: "Is there really no problem?"

"No! There is absolutely no problem with that. It is better to believe that the gentlemen in Buckingham Palace really care about the livelihoods of the lower classes than to believe that there is something wrong with this excellent work." Shaw said in a very firm tone, and he even used this opportunity to satirize the current political situation in London.

Bao Guowei burst into laughter and truly felt the personal charm of this gentleman.

He couldn't help but bow and said, "Thank you for your compliment, sir."

Shaw also wanted to return the greeting, but he did it in an awkward way. He then withdrew his hand awkwardly, with a gentle smile on his face, and gave a sincere comment.

"Bao, this is the most exciting science fiction novel I have ever read. Now I understand better what you mean by storytelling!"

For a moment, after watching "The Shawshank Redemption" and then reading "The Country Teacher", Shaw had a completely new understanding of Bao Guowei's art theory.

If I have to make a metaphor, it would be like a cultivator in the world of immortals taking elixirs. At this moment, due to some opportunity, this elixir that improves his cultivation level, which he obtained by chance, was completely digested in his body.

“Storytelling and reality have never conflicted. That is, art originates from reality, but is higher than reality. Through the artistic processing of reality, the emotions of the audience and readers can be mobilized and expressed, thereby achieving the purpose of reflecting social problems and alerting the world. This is much better than pure realism.”

Shaw stood up excitedly, waving his fists like a madman.

This frightened some British ladies passing by, causing them to scream and flee.

Shaw ignored these people, as if he had entered his own world. He looked at Bao Guowei with bright eyes and said.

“Bao, this is the best science fiction novel I have ever read, and it breaks my prejudice against related novels.

I think I will have a brand new creative journey next.”

Unknowingly, Bao Guowei actually influenced the master's creative philosophy.

"This is the worst mystery novel I have ever seen!"

In the editorial office of Seaside Magazine, a middle-aged man with a beard and dark hair spoke hysterically.

He crumpled up the sheets of manuscript paper and threw them all on the ground, but he became even angrier because he couldn't throw them into the trash can.

"Damn it!"

He cursed angrily, not caring about the gentlemanly image he usually maintained, and tore up all the papers in front of him.

Richard Green, one of the editors of Seaside Magazine, was just forty years old. It was not easy for him to find an editorial job in the context of the Great Depression.

In fact, he was able to enter this famous magazine only with a letter of introduction from a distant uncle.

This is the magazine that published "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" and once had a great novelist like Conan Doyle.

Unfortunately, in July of this year, this gentleman who would eventually leave his mark in history left this world forever in London.

Even though this gentleman had a weird and arrogant personality, there are still countless readers who feel sorry for the passing of this great novelist.

"He changed the entire landscape of suspense novels in the UK, but he also changed the fate of our magazine."

Green said to himself in great frustration.

Since the loss of Conan Doyle, there have been few high-quality detective novels in The Strand Magazine.

The originally loyal readers gradually left "Seaside Magazine" due to the poor quality of the articles and turned to other more popular and interesting "pulp magazines".

This is the reality. In the context of economic depression, gentlemen are stingy with their spending and will only spend money on stories that truly bring them happiness.

In recent years, with the rise of American magazines, American "pulp magazines" such as "Amazing Stories" and "Argasi" have gradually emerged and successfully entered the British market. These local magazines are becoming increasingly difficult.

What is a "Pulp Magazine"?
According to the editor-in-chief who just "went crazy", Mr. Herbert Greenhow Smith.

"That's a bunch of shameless robbers, dirty businessmen, stupid Americans using cheap, smelly paper used in public toilets!
They print one shoddy magazine after another, the colors have no style at all and the layout is also criticized!
They used the same formula as knight novels, which are often eye-catching ancient adventures and mysterious suspense stories!
But it is this magazine that has stolen all our readers!"

At this time, Green would complain in his heart: "But sir, they are cheaper than ours, and the stories are more exciting than ours. If I were a reader, I would also choose these 'pulp magazines'."

He didn't dare say this and could only think about it in his heart.

Whenever this moment came, the editor-in-chief who discovered Conan Doyle would always speak in a very sad tone.

"Damn it! If Mr. Conan Doyle hadn't gone to heaven, how could we have ended up like this!
Are excellent detective novels not as good as those "pulp literature"? ! ! "

Just as Green was lost in thought, he heard Mr. Smith's hysterical roar from the office not far away.

"Damn it! If it weren't for Conan."

Hearing such words again, Green sighed secretly.

If there is anyone in this editorial department who still hopes that "Seaside Magazine" will rise.

Apart from the editor-in-chief, that is Richard Green.

No one needs this job more urgently than him, and when he thinks of his sick mother at home and his two lovely children who are in urgent need of food, he knows that he cannot lose this income. Otherwise, in a few months, he will be like a homeless person who uses newspapers to keep warm on the street.

Green felt that he should do something.

He glanced around at his colleagues who were still silent, and after a long period of mental preparation, he finally stood up.

Amid the strange looks from his colleagues, Green walked to the editor-in-chief's desk.

He stood right in front of the editor-in-chief Smith, and only mustered up the courage to speak when the other party looked up in surprise.

"Sir, I think we should make some changes."

Smith had just recovered from a huge loss. The declining sales and the terrible manuscripts in recent days had almost caused him to collapse emotionally.

His originally sparse hair also abandoned him.

Seeing the employee who had been silent all along speaking, Smith frowned and said with some hope in his heart.

"What changes?"

Green took a deep breath and said what he had been thinking.

"I think we should change the concept of accepting manuscripts in the fiction section, and perhaps introduce genres such as science fiction."

"What?" Smith asked in a low voice. "You mean, let us publish those stupid chivalry novels and cheap 'space operas'?"

Seeing that the editor-in-chief seemed to be a little angry, Green quickly explained: "It's not about changing the founding concept of Seaside Magazine."

He knew that the leadership led by Smith would never lower its profile and learn from those "pulp magazines" that they looked down upon in order to achieve the current status of "Seaside Magazine".

This is the peculiar respectability of old Londoners.

Even if you die, even if you see God, it will never change.

So Green took a roundabout approach.

"Sir, you may not know that science fiction is now popular all over the world!"

In the past, Smith would have scolded Green and then kicked him in the ass.

But at this point, Smith was unwilling to give up the last bit of hope and expected the other party to come up with something different, so he became more patient.

"Go on." Smith took a deep breath, crossed his hands, and leaned on the table.

"Okay." Green felt that he seemed to be valued and seemed very excited. He became more and more excited as he spoke.

“Earlier this year, Olaf Stapleton, an excellent British writer, wrote a science fiction novel called The Last and the First Man. Based on the hypothesis of evolution, he looked into the future history of human development and also included some descriptions of genetic engineering.

You should know that this work was a huge sales success, even in the shadow of the Great Depression.

It is said that this gentleman will write a science fiction novel about the creator of the universe. "

"Mr. Stapleton is indeed an excellent writer," Smith said in agreement. "His science fiction work has been praised by many outstanding scholars, and he is a graduate of the History Department of Oxford University and has a wealth of knowledge. However..."

Smith paused and said with a skeptical look.

"As far as I know, this gentleman has no intention of submitting his work. As you know, his works tend to be medium-length or long, and he pursues the completeness of the story. He does not like to serialize in newspapers or magazines."

In fact, Smith did not make no efforts for the future of "Seaside Magazine".

In order to find a writer comparable to Conan Doyle, he had already mobilized his connections in London.

It can be said that he has tried every method that could be found.

Otherwise he wouldn't be so desperate. In today's London, excellent writers are always in high demand.

Editors have to carry suitcases filled with cash and visit these writers to ask for manuscripts in order to get the best works.

It’s not that there are no excellent novelists in London, it’s just that most of them have been signed by other magazines.

Most of this capital comes from the United States.

They are wealthy and powerful, and are no match for Seaside Magazine.

Smith had also asked someone to look for the gentleman mentioned above, and he just repeated the other party's words of refusal.

"This" Green was silent for a moment, and then he mentioned a bunch of London novelists.

Some of them write science fiction, and some write suspense.

"Ms. Agatha Christie!" Green suddenly thought of this name and blurted it out. "She has written works such as "The Mysterious Case of Styles" and "The Mysterious Case of Roger". She is now a popular detective novelist."

Smith looked at the other person as if he were an idiot and said, "Ms. Christie left London four years ago because of relationship problems. She seems to be recuperating in Spain now."

"But I heard that she is preparing to return to London recently," Green said unwillingly.

"Okay!" Smith waved his hands and closed his eyes. "If Ms. Christie returns to London, there will be countless magazines that want to win her over. I will work hard for her. You have done enough."

The editor-in-chief's tone already indicated rejection.

Green knew that if he continued to speak, he would be judged as "like a bull in a china shop".

This is obviously not good for his reputation.

In fact, Green had another candidate in mind, and that was his good friend Jack Williamson, who had just visited London from the United States.

He met the other party at a literary exchange meeting in the United States and has kept in touch since then.

This time when Williamson arrived in London, he was mostly taken care of by him.

However, Green knew that given Mr. Smith's disgust for Americans, he would probably not accept such an American writer.

In addition, Williamson's purpose of coming to London, in addition to meeting some well-known European scholars, was to provide timely manuscripts for the British version of "Amazing Stories".

And Amazing Stories is their mortal enemy, so how could they let Williamson help The Waterfront?
"Go back and talk to Williamson, maybe we can get some manuscripts."

With this thought in mind, Green stayed up until the end of his shift.

Sure enough, today's manuscript is still not outstanding.

After packing up and preparing to leave work, he seemed to hear Mr. Smith receiving a phone call.

"Ah? It's Mr. Bernard Shaw? Yes, that's right. We met at a literary salon last time, and I even had an interview with you."

Green walked out the door and wanted to breathe some fresh air, but was choked by the pungent smell in the air and started coughing.

"Cough cough cough~"

"It looks like I have to keep working hard for bread."

He looked at the homeless people curled up on the streets of London and couldn't help but sigh.

The weather is getting colder.
(End of this chapter)