I am not a literary giant

Although the royalties were fictitious, the money was real, so his wife believed it. A few days later, she asked him how the novel was going. A week later, Wang Zixu suddenly felt that, in his middle age, his life was gradually getting better again.

His wife stopped caring how late he came home each day or how much money he sent to his father. She became gentler, stopped crying for no reason, and stopped ordering him to do housework while he was reading. All of this made him feel that he had suddenly become very happy.

But he knew that such happiness was hard-won, and if he could not continue to generate new royalties, he would soon face the same situation again.

Given their family's circumstances, every expense was properly accounted for. That 500 yuan was entirely squeezed out of their living expenses. Trying to save up for another royalty payment through frugality was impossible in the short term. His only goal was to earn a real royalty payment as soon as possible through a novel.

So he was exceptionally focused when writing his novel in the office. A colleague watched him typing quietly from behind for a long time without noticing, but when the colleague spoke, it startled him.

"What did you write?" my colleague asked, holding a teacup. "You can write? I never knew you could write. You've been keeping it a secret!"

He was covered in cold sweat, his heart was still pounding, and he didn't know how to answer. He just smiled, but didn't laugh out loud.

However, what he was really thinking was: for people like them who just want to coast through life, simply being able to write is already a remarkable ability. Such praise was nothing short of an insult to him, whose ambition was the Nobel Prize.

My colleague said it's good to be able to write; it's the 21st century, and writing is a skill. Where do you publish your writing?

He's most afraid of being asked this question. He said he hasn't really commented on it yet.

"Why not publish it?" he said. "What's the point of just writing without publishing?"

"Wouldn't it be embarrassing to post something with my skill level?"

"What?" my colleague said, "Do you know that guy from the literary federation?"

Who is it?

"That guy, Lin Feng, yes, Lin Feng, pen name Mu Yu Lin Feng, he publishes articles in 'Xihe Literature' every day, he's practically half of the Xihe literary scene. I think you write much better than him, if you went to write, wouldn't you be even better than him?"

Wang Zixu knew this was flattery. His colleagues were all smooth-talking and charming, their flattery flowing effortlessly, and it couldn't be taken seriously. His colleagues hadn't even read his work carefully; how could they be so sure they were better than him? But he still developed an interest in *Xihe Literature*.

Only now did he realize that he had been mistaken. In the past, he only focused on the best literary journals in the country, journals that were home to many legendary names. If he could be fortunate enough to have his name listed alongside theirs, it would be enough to cause a huge sensation in the local area.

Of course, his ultimate goal was the opportunity to win the Nobel Prize in Literature 50 times; publication in the country's top fiction journals was nothing compared to that. This grand dream was both his fortune and his curse. It was precisely because of this that his gaze remained fixed on the moon, ignoring the fact that sixpence already existed on Earth.

Every year, the government allocates a sum of money to the Federation of Literary and Art Circles to support local cultural development. Although the circulation of "Xihe Literature" is extremely low, and its layout and design are subpar, the royalties are not fictitious. If Wang Zixu received these royalties, then the money would not only be legitimate but also honorable.

"Does Xihe Literature and Art Magazine pay a lot for articles?" he asked.

My colleague said, "I heard from Lin Feng that an article published there should only cost around 500 yuan? But the payment isn't important. We spend 2,000 yuan on a single meal these days. What's valuable is the opportunity to be in the spotlight. You have no idea how many people are desperate to get published in 'Xihe Literature'."

"Xihe Literature" is a magazine published by the Municipal Federation of Literary and Art Circles, and every unit is required to subscribe to it. Current leaders and retired leaders all have a copy. Wang Zixu could understand what he meant by "opportunities to show his face."

Experience tells us that leaders are incredibly busy, barely having time to read even the monthly economic report, let alone dedicate time to consulting local literary journals. But there's always a chance of something going wrong. What if?

What if one day a leader suddenly feels like flipping through "Xihe Literature and Art" and happens to like it, and happens to glance at the author's name, and that author happens to be in the process of being considered for promotion? Wouldn't that be taking a shortcut to success?

The mere possibility of this happening is enough to draw countless people to it. According to colleagues, the Xihe Literature and Art magazine receives a flood of submissions every day, with most of the mailing addresses belonging to government agencies, and the signatures being the official pens of those agencies, each one more talented than the last.

But Wang Zixu didn't care about that "what if." He wasn't ambitious; he only wanted to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, an award that clearly wasn't up to the local leaders. But when he heard that a manuscript would cost five hundred yuan, his eyes reddened, and he decided to submit it and give it a try.

My colleague then said, "My nephew is starting a business and needs someone who can write. I'll have him contact you; maybe we can make some money that way."

Wang Zixu nodded his thanks and threw himself into his writing project, not really taking the remark to heart. A week passed, and both of them forgot about it. Then someone called Wang Zixu, asking if he was a good writer and if he wanted to meet up. He initially thought someone was calling specifically to mock him.

……

My colleague's nephew met with Prince Xu. He was bald, wearing a black leather jacket, and had a gray-gold thumb ring on his thumb. If he were wearing a long robe, he would look exactly like a young master of the Eight Banners.

The bald man, holding Wang Zixu's novel, scanned it rapidly from side to side. He said, "Your writing is absolutely superb! It would be a waste of your talent to have you writing scripts for us." My uncle told me he had someone who could write, but I was dismissive, assuming they were all at the level of those in "Xihe Literature and Art" magazines. Who knew there were such talented people here?

Although Wang Zixu appreciated the words, both the man's brown sunglasses and the Sanskrit tattoo on his arm revealed that he was not a scholar. This image was far removed from the magazine editor he had initially imagined.

The prince asked tentatively, "What exactly do you do for a living?"

The bald man said, "I work in software. I have a platform that's only been around for a month, and the response and metrics are great. We need to expand rapidly and need a lot of content. I really like your content, and since I have my uncle's connection, I'll give you this price. I'll take as much as you want, as long as your content is decent."

The bald man held up two fingers, indicating 200 yuan. The prince asked tentatively, "200 yuan? For an article?"

"Yes."

Prince Xu's interest was immediately piqued.

"I can do it, I can do it. It's just that I've never written one before. How do you write this script you're talking about?"

The bald man said, "Actually, it's not difficult. It's similar to creating content. Do you know what 'speech therapy' is? No? Oh, you're a newbie. Sorry, the 'newbie' I'm referring to has nothing to do with Duke Huan of Qi. It's just our users' language. 'Newbie' means a newcomer who doesn't understand this field."

"Most of our users are women living in the urban jungle. They are lonely and need someone to give them the courage to face tomorrow and heal their emotional wounds. Our service provides a large number of lively and cheerful voice chat partners to keep them company during their lonely nights."

Wang Zixu felt his eyes had been opened; he had never imagined that loneliness could become a business opportunity. Rather than chatting with people to alleviate his loneliness, he preferred to build a Stegosaurus on the squatting machine downstairs. But thinking about it, in such a large city, not everyone could own a perfectly rusted iron bar, nor would everyone be as indifferent to the exhilarating feeling of a "bumper harvest" as he was.

But in any case, this is a solid step forward in confronting the spiritual problems of modern people, and its significance is no less than that of the Nobel Prize in Literature. He felt sincere admiration for it.

Prince Xu's opinion of the bald man changed drastically. He reached out and shook his hand firmly, declaring, "I think you are doing something great."

The bald man smiled and said thank you, then continued, "However, most of our speech therapists aren't highly educated, so when communicating with high-end users, their communication is often... superficial. That's understandable, since income in this industry depends entirely on the number of cases closed, and we can't recruit highly educated intellectuals. That's also why our app's positive reviews have decreased, which is a very dangerous sign. But from your words, I see a turning point."

Wang Zixu took a deep breath. Although he himself had a bachelor's degree, he didn't discriminate based on education. He firmly believed that "Talks at the Yan'an Forum on Literature and Art" was an important chapter in literary history, and that literature should serve the people, even those with low levels of education, who should still enjoy the beauty of literature. Therefore, he felt he should do something for the bald man.

He asked solemnly, "What do you need me to do?"