I am not a literary giant

Wang Zixu's desk faces the door. He chose this position specifically so that when someone visits, he can immediately hide the novel he is writing and open a webpage to pretend to read the news.

He didn't have much work. He would answer the phone when there was one, and write novels when there wasn't. He didn't have much else to do.

No one at his workplace knew he was writing novels. He had read a quote somewhere long ago: "Don't tell others about your ideals, don't give them the opportunity to laugh at you."

Here, effort itself is a laughable thing, especially when there's no reward. If someone catches him writing a novel, they'll inevitably ask where he's published it. Wang Zixu hadn't published anywhere, which was embarrassing. So he always pretended to be browsing the web. This was different from his colleagues, who always pretended to be working. As a result, his performance evaluations were always just barely passing.

Besides, this reserve also comes at other hidden costs, such as the fact that he hasn't eaten out for many years.

For middle-aged people, entertainment often consists of eating and drinking. His colleagues derive a sense of accomplishment from the clinking of glasses and lively debates, something he doesn't quite understand. Initially, he always refused invitations with various excuses, but eventually, people stopped inviting him altogether.

Over the years, some people have miraculously solved their employment issues, while others have contracted to run fast-food chains—and these successes have nothing to do with the conversations at the dinner table. He knew that many opportunities had slipped through his fingers because of these rejections.

But he didn't care; he had 50 opportunities to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.

He wasn't a talkative person to begin with. Sometimes, he felt like a knife; bringing him into the mundane conversations of daily life was like placing a knife on tofu, and when the blade pierced through the tofu, the tofu didn't even have time to groan.

While he was writing, his colleagues would often stroll over, walking around his office, belts tucked in, loudly discussing stocks, pork, payday, and the woman who jumped from the top floor of the drug administration building the day before yesterday. These things were too close to inspire poetry, too distant to evoke personal feelings, which made him uncomfortable.

Thinking about how to continue the story outside of writing is like making a special trip to a store a kilometer away for a trivial item. What's suspicious is that his colleagues always seem to know about these things; he suspects they're staffed by some kind of news media, responsible for spreading these anecdotes to the very bottom of society, frequently and efficiently.

He actually understood that as long as he put forward his own views at the right time, as simply and clearly as possible, and even added some interjections to ask questions and follow their topics, daily communication was not that difficult.

But he always manages to say something concluding, abruptly ending the conversation. No one can continue the discussion after him; if someone does, it's probably because they didn't understand. He just can't help saying these things because he's already thought of them. Thinking of them but deliberately not saying them makes him feel nauseous.

He saw himself as a knife, needing no cook or butcher, able to slice tofu with just his own weight; his interpersonal relationships were sliced ​​in the same way. He could have been gentler, not revealing his sharpness, but then he wouldn't be a knife anymore.

He thought. The purpose of a knife is to cut, no matter what it's cutting.

The wife cut her hand with a kitchen knife.

After hanging up the phone, Wang Zixu threw away his cigarette butt and rushed home. When he arrived, his wife had already bandaged her hand and set out the table for him to eat. He hadn't eaten more than a few bites when tears started streaming down his face.

"I wasn't feeling well today, so I didn't go to the store to help out. I wanted to rest, so I didn't go anywhere all day. I just stayed home cleaning. The more I did, the more there was to do. Last month, I bought a pomelo and told you to put it on the table, but you just left it there. It's all rotten now, and you never pick it up. If I don't clean it, will that pomelo just stay there forever?"

"I'm so tired. I work two jobs every day, do housework, cut my finger, and I'm all alone at home. I can't rely on anyone, not even you. I really don't want to live like this anymore... If I hadn't married you, would I be living like this?"

He didn't know how to comfort his wife; she just kept crying. All the comforting words they had spoken in the first three years of their marriage had already been said.

There was no need for further explanation. What his wife said was true, but only from her emotional perspective. From his point of view, things might not have been the same. But for every reason he could think of to refute her, she could always come up with three. He could never win an argument with her.

He really wanted her to put herself in his shoes, but every time he tried, it only provoked more complaints from her. Finally, he realized something: if a woman could put herself in someone else's shoes, she wouldn't be a woman.

He was the captain of the school's debate team in college. He used to think that the source of persuasiveness was eloquence, but later he believed it was intellect. Intellect once helped him to be invincible on the debate stage, but he later realized that neither was correct.

Now, he realizes that thought and spirit have limits, far lower than the limits of matter. Where thought can reach, matter has already taken up its territory, just as the age-old adage goes—matter determines consciousness.

So he transferred 500 yuan to his wife.

His wife, who had been sitting on the sofa with her back to him, took out her phone, looked at it, wiped away her tears, and after a while, turned around with tears in her eyes and asked, "Why did you transfer money to me?"

Wang Zixu said, "This is my royalties. I submitted my article today, and they transferred it to me."

"What kind of royalties?"

"It's about the novel royalties I mentioned last time. The magazine called me today and transferred the money to me very quickly."

The wife sniffled loudly, then asked, "Only 500 in total?"

"Just 500, after all, I'm not famous."

"500 is a lot, I mean a lot," the wife said. "That's enough for half a month's food expenses. You get this much money for just one article? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He said, "You got angry as soon as you came back, and I didn't even have a chance to say anything."

His wife grabbed his hand: "I'm sorry, it was my fault. I won't say anything more. Getting paid for your work is great news. I should congratulate you on taking another step closer to your dream."

"Thanks."

He felt that these words were too polite for a married couple.

His wife wiped away her tears and said, "I was so busy talking that the food got cold. Let me heat it up for you. By the way, what magazine did you publish in?"

"It's a small magazine; you wouldn't know even if I told you," he said.

"Even if I don't know, I'll know once you tell me."

His wife carried the dishes into the kitchen, but despite saying that, she didn't ask what magazine it was.

They disagree on everything, and each time they do, they compromise until they reach a point acceptable to both, and then the matter is over. This is the secret to their marriage lasting so long. This time, she compromised as usual.

However, he was grateful for her compromise. If she had continued to ask, he wouldn't have been able to handle it, because the magazine didn't exist. If he had told her which magazine it was, and she had opened it up to find his novel there, his lie would have been exposed.

This royalties originated from fiction. Novels are the art of fiction, and as a Nobel Prize in Literature pursuer, Wang Zixu's greatest and only strength lies in fiction.

If given the chance, Wang Zixu would tell his wife: Never believe a novelist.

Although he can't be considered a novelist yet.