I am not a literary giant

Chapter 161 A Grand Death

The smoke from the "Great Harvest" lamp rose in wisps, the lampshade covering it and giving the light a retro feel. Outside the window, a light rain fell, hazy and melancholic, the view stretching endlessly into the depths of autumn, imagining a pond of shattered duckweed, the windowpane weeping along with it, sobbing softly.

On a rainy weekend, he locked himself indoors and gave his work, which had undergone 22 revisions, a final polish.

A faint rumble of thunder sounded. He got up and pulled the blinds shut, as if it would help. Then he rubbed his forehead and sat back down at the computer, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, lost in thought.

He traversed mountains and rivers, oblivious to the approach of old age. Ten years later, the frost of time etched its mark on his temples, and he gained weight, living a increasingly unrecognizable life. In those ten years, he wrote 3700 emails, all stored in his inbox, never sent. The letters showcased all his talent, filled with his burning passion and sorrow, all addressed to the same person: the girl who had smiled at him ten years ago, holding a red lotus in her hand.

My great-grandmother died in a rocking chair. The last person to see her said she was enjoying the afternoon sun as usual, a smile on her golden face, until evening when no one discovered she was dead. On the day of her burial, more than five thousand people came to pay their respects, filling the small village to the brim.

The staff refused to believe she was born in 1900. "Then she'd be 125 years old this year!" he insisted. "Yes, she was born in 1900."

At his insistence, the following words were inscribed on her monument: "Here lies a vivid and true history."

Then, ten years later, he finally saw the girl again. She had changed, and he found it difficult to reconcile her with the image from ten years ago. Yet, looking at her eyes and brows, he was absolutely certain it was her, for the sorrow lurking in his blood erupted all at once, surging through every chamber of his heart. He would remember her forever, because he could see her whenever he closed his eyes, and he could hear her breathing on a stormy, overcast day. He closed his eyes, then opened them again—it was her. Undoubtedly, it was her.

Jiang Baishi said, "A long separation in this world ceases to be sorrowful." The question is, how long is long? 125 years is certainly a long time; memories from 1900 have only just been buried, some stories haven't yet cooled, like the yellow flag of the Boxer Rebellion still resting beneath his great-grandmother's urn. Ten years of waiting didn't dissipate the wine into water, but brewed even more sorrow; he simply stood there, in the crowd, watching her in solitude.

But she spotted him immediately and walked straight toward him, saying, "For the past ten years, I have been thinking of you."

For the first time in his life, he experienced his wish coming true. But he couldn't express his excitement, and could only stammer, "Me too."

"I think we should celebrate," she said. "How should we celebrate?"

He said, "Then let's make love."

So she glared at him and said, "Is that what you really think? Today? Here? I don't think it's appropriate to discuss this kind of thing in front of my great-grandmother's grave."

A decade of introspection has turned him into a philosopher; no question can stump him. He said, "I've thought countless times about why I lost you. Maybe it was the stock market crash of 07, maybe it was the housing prices of 15, or maybe it was the various opportunities and crises of this era. But none of those are the real reasons. I once wanted to be a prophet, my plans were flawless, but I never considered the true voice of my own heart. I never said 'I love you.'"

So for the past ten years, I've been learning how to be a fool, saying whatever comes to mind, living only for myself. I told myself that if I ever saw you again, I would never lie to you again, and I would never deceive myself. At my most foolish moment, hopelessly foolish, I finally saw you again.

She stared at him blankly and said, "Okay then." I apologize, but actually, your thoughts coincide with mine.

A gentle night enveloped the earth, and the history that lingered over this land has not vanished, nor will it ever vanish. Part of it lies buried deep within the earth, while another part flies towards the heavens on the waves of light. This light carries countless pieces of evidence of human existence, traversing the darkness and reaching the ends of the universe.

……

Upon reading this, Wang Zixu stopped and rubbed his eyes vigorously.

He wasn't good at endings. The kind of endings he could think of were always a grand death, like in Márquez's *One Hundred Years of Solitude*, where death buries everything indiscriminately. He was more compassionate, adding a grand love scene to the ending. That was all the endings he could think of.

After much deliberation, he finally slammed his hand on the keyboard: "Damn it, I'm not changing it! It's like this! Whoever wants to change it can change it!"

Save, rename, package, and send.

After doing all that, he slumped into a chair, as if his soul had been drained away.

In the end, he only revised it 22 times. Although it was already perfect, it was still a little short of the "ultimate" novel in his mind.

It was this little thing that left him feeling empty. The novel was like his child; his former children cried and screamed because they didn't want to go to school, and he was like a devilish parent forcing them to learn properly, bit by bit. He painstakingly revised it, coaxing and deceiving them to make the story more complete.

But this novel is different. It's a prodigy from the start; it doesn't need any prompting, it learns on its own. This time, he's not a madman pushing his child, but rather being dragged along by the child. When he started revising this work, he could almost hear the work silently shouting to him: Keep revising, I can get even better!

"sorry."

He spoke to the file on the computer named "Final Draft (22)".

"I didn't push you to your limit. I'm sorry."

He felt extremely guilty.

The chat message notified Editor Yang that the file had been received. Wang Zixu carefully considered his words and typed in the chat box:

"Editor Yang, take a look, this is the new work I told you about before."

Editor Yang replied with an OK emoji.

Wang Zixu rubbed his hands together and typed again: "The number of characters is a bit too much."

It took them a while to reply: "You're not just 'a little'."

Wang Zixu said, "If there's anything you're not satisfied with, I'll revise it. If it's too long to post, please let me know as soon as possible."

Editor Yang replied, "It's alright. I just glanced at it, and it was quite impressive. Word count does affect publication, but honestly, as long as the quality is good, everything is fine."

He added, "We will take your manuscript seriously. I will go through it myself first, and if it is indeed good, I will apply to the editor-in-chief to start a long serialization for you."

Wang Zixu looked up and silently shouted. This is what a professional editor should say! What kind of monsters and demons were those before? He experienced firsthand what smooth communication and honest exchange truly meant. They're both editors, how can there be such a huge difference?

After shouting, he typed: "Thank you for your hard work."

"It's okay, I'll take a look first. It's impossible to read it all, but I'll read a part first. I'll try to get back to you today."

Prince Xu shouted silently again. He had enjoyed himself once more.

For the next four or five hours, he experienced what it meant to be restless and anxious. He wanted to study for the postgraduate entrance exam, but he couldn't concentrate at all and couldn't learn anything. So he simply turned off his computer and went to Nanjing University.

……

Yang Yin stared at the computer screen with a smile on his face. He then organized the document content, adjusted the format, and printed out the first few chapters.

After binding the manuscript, he held it in his hand, couldn't help but read it again, then got up and walked towards the editor-in-chief's office.

"Editor-in-Chief Shen, I have a manuscript here that I would like you to take a look at."

Editor-in-Chief Shen took the manuscript, squinted, and asked, "Whose manuscript is this?"

"Prince Xu".

Seeing the puzzled look on Editor-in-Chief Shen's face, Yang Yin added, "It's that newcomer who was featured on the front page last time, 'Wild Grasses'."

"oh."

Editor-in-Chief Shen's expression brightened. He had a deep impression of this person: "That manuscript was 3 words long. It was his first time publishing, and he produced such a long short story, even on the front page. He was really making a splash. I heard he later won some kind of award?"

Yang Yin nodded: "Yes, he won first place in the Xihe Literary Competition, and Li Tingfang awarded him the prize. He can also be considered an author cultivated by our magazine."

Editor-in-Chief Shen asked, "How old is he?"

"I think she's around 30."

"Post-90s." Editor-in-Chief Shen nodded. "It's a pity. It would be better if it were post-00s. But post-90s are not bad either. There is a gap in the new generation of writers in our literary world. There are very few post-90s authors."

Yang Yin agreed. Editor-in-Chief Shen's considerations are very comprehensive; he not only considers the development of this magazine but also the issue of generational change within the entire literary world.

Editor-in-Chief Shen put on his glasses and said, "Just leave it here for now, I'll look at it in a bit."

Yang Yin said, "Why don't you take a look now? I have something to say about this manuscript."

"Then you tell me."

"I can only speak after you have read it."

Editor-in-Chief Shen chuckled at him: "What mischief are you up to now, kid?"

Yang Yin remained silent, his eyes darting around. He naturally had his reasons.

Editor-in-Chief Shen lowered his head and began to read. He read quickly at first, but his speed slowed down as he read on, and in the end he even read it word by word repeatedly.

A smile appeared on Yang Yin's lips; this was exactly the effect he wanted.

He didn't type out Wang Zixu's entire manuscript, only the first 20,000 words and a little over. Therefore, Editor-in-Chief Shen finished reading it quickly. After finishing, he looked up and asked:

"That's all? The rest isn't finished yet?"

Yang Yin said, "I've finished writing it. It's quite long, so I've only typed out a small portion for you to see first."

"I've finished reading it. It's very good." Editor Shen took off his glasses. "This author is really excellent!"

As he spoke the second half of the sentence, he couldn't help but raise his voice. He rarely praised someone so directly.

He looked at Yang Yin with a hint of lingering satisfaction: "Don't put this manuscript in any other magazine, keep it with us. This time, we're going to shake up the literary world."

Yang Yin said, "I had the same thought after reading it. Such a work should stay in our family, especially since it is by our own author. We should not let it go."

Editor-in-Chief Shen looked up at him and said with a slight reproach, "Since that's what you think, you should just submit it to the review committee. Why bother coming to me?"

Yang Yin said with a grin, "The main problem is that this manuscript is a bit too long."

Editor-in-Chief Shen asked, "Is the entire article finished?"

"Finished writing."

"Wouldn't that be even better?" Editor-in-Chief Shen said. "We can publish 3 words, we can publish 5 words, and if it's too much, we can divide it into two parts. If that's still not enough, we can divide it into three parts. What's the big deal? How many words is this manuscript?"

Yang Yin said, "60 words."

"60 words?!" Editor-in-Chief Shen exploded. "You brought back a copy of Don Quixote?"

Don Quixote is also 60 words long.

Yang Yin forced a wry smile. He had spent so much time building up to this, precisely because he had anticipated this explosion.

"Editor-in-Chief Shen, I just received the manuscript today and haven't read it all yet. I skimmed through the rest, and the writing quality is consistently good. Since the author is a newcomer, raising this issue at the review meeting could very likely lead to rejection, so I wanted to discuss it with you beforehand."

Editor-in-Chief Shen fell silent. After thinking carefully for a moment, he said, "Type a few more chapters."

"it is good."

"I'll take it to the editor-in-chief to take a look."

"what?"

Yang Yin tensed up. This was like stabbing a pole into the sky.

The editor-in-chief is the head of the editorial department and generally doesn't make specific decisions about whether or not to publish a manuscript, unless the manuscript is extremely important enough to affect the overall situation. The fact that Editor-in-Chief Shen went directly to the editor-in-chief indicates that he values ​​this manuscript even more than Yang Yin does.

The editorial department has five chief editors: Shen, Wu, Luo, Wang, and Xu. It's not up to Chief Editor Shen to make the decisions alone. He clearly felt that making the decision on his own wasn't careful enough, and that the manuscript might not even be saved at the review meeting, so he went directly to the editor-in-chief.

Knowing the importance of this matter, Yang Yin quickly started printing, organized the materials, handed them over to Chief Editor Shen, and then watched Chief Editor Shen enter the editor-in-chief's office.

About 20 minutes later, Editor-in-Chief Shen poked his head out of the editor-in-chief's office and called Editor-in-Chief Wu in.

Upon seeing Editor-in-Chief Wu, Yang Yin immediately felt a sense of foreboding.

This guy is notoriously demanding and doesn't hold back when it comes to rejecting manuscripts. How could this manuscript have run into Editor-in-Chief Wu's crosshairs?

About 20 minutes later, just as Yang Yin began to feel the agony, Editor-in-Chief Wu poked his head out from inside:

"Yang Yin! Come in!"

Yang Yin quickly got up and walked towards the editor-in-chief's office.

As soon as Yang Yin entered the editor-in-chief's office, he felt a sense of oppression.

The editor-in-chief sat in his seat, the manuscript he had just printed out spread out on the table, the papers scattered, indicating that he had read it carefully.

Yang Yin nodded and stood meekly to the side. The editor-in-chief then spoke:

"Yang Yin, this author, Wang Zixu, submitted his work directly to you, right?"

Yang Yin nodded quickly: "Yes. His previous work, 'Wild Grasses,' was approved by me."

"Tell me your thoughts." The editor-in-chief leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together.

Yang Yin's mind went blank for a moment, then he said, "I immediately thought this manuscript was excellent and should be included in our magazine, so I spoke to Editor-in-Chief Shen about it. After reading it, he also thought it was good..."

"I didn't ask you that," the editor-in-chief said. "I'm asking you what kind of person the author, Wang Zixu, is."

"Well……"

Yang Yin was speechless for a moment and felt sweat breaking out on his back.

"He is a very down-to-earth and serious author."

He thought to himself: What kind of question is this? He doesn't know the author well, how would he know what kind of person the author is?

The editor-in-chief seemed quite satisfied with his answer: "It's good to be down-to-earth; what I'm afraid of is not being down-to-earth."

Editor-in-Chief Wu, standing nearby, said, "The editor-in-chief asked you this, and ultimately it comes down to the word count. Yang Yin, you came here with a 60-word piece by a newcomer; you've got guts. Let me ask you, where did you get the courage?"

(End of this chapter)