A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

When school is over.

Liu Yang caught up from behind, holding up a note: "Shu Bai! Look!"

Lin Shubai took it and saw it was the English dictation score. Liu Yang actually got eight right this time, whereas he usually only got two or three right.

"You've made progress." Lin Shubai handed the note back to him.

Liu Yang puffed out his chest and said, "Absolutely! Let me tell you, I've been memorizing vocabulary every night this week, until 11 p.m. My mom even said I've changed my ways."

"How many days can you hold out?" Su Wan asked, pouring cold water on his enthusiasm.

Liu Yang retorted defiantly, "Hey, don't underestimate me. I'm serious this time."

"You'd better be," Su Wan retorted immediately.

As Liu Yang approached the school gate, he waved and said, "I'm leaving now. My mom's making braised pork ribs today, so I need to get home early."

"What does it have to do with you going back to eat ribs or leaving early?" Su Wan asked.

"You don't understand. My brother always tries to steal my food. If we're late, there won't even be any bones left to gnaw on." After saying that, Liu Yang slung his backpack over his shoulder and ran towards the school gate.

Su Wan watched his retreating figure and shook her head: "That guy is really something."

"He's fine as he is," Lin Shubai said.

Su Wan turned to look at him, her eyes a little strange: "You're acting really strange today."

"What's strange about it?"

"You talk a lot of nonsense, like an old man. And you even picked up a leaf at noon and stuffed it in your pocket. Are you out of your mind?"

"Those leaves are quite pretty."

"If you think it looks good, just put it in your pocket. You're not a garbage collector, are you?" Su Wan said with a look of disgust.

Lin Shubai took the fallen leaf out of his pocket and waved it in front of her: "Look at this pattern, doesn't it look like a net?"

Su Wan leaned closer for a look: "It looks a bit like it... so what?"

"Nothing much, I just think nature is amazing."

Su Wan stared at him for two seconds, then reached out and touched his forehead: "You don't have a fever."

Why are you touching me?

"See if you're sick. A normal person wouldn't pick up a leaf and say, 'Nature is amazing.'"

Lin Shubai pushed her hand away: "Let's go, the car is here."

On the bus, I was quite lucky; there were two seats next to each other in the back row.

Su Wan, sitting by the window, suddenly asked, "Have those three manuscripts of yours reached the editorial department yet?"

Lin Shubai thought for a moment and replied, "We should have arrived by now. It's been several days since we arrived in Shanghai."

"So, will we hear news soon?"

"It's hard to say. There are so many submissions, and editors receive hundreds of emails every day. Who knows when they'll get to mine?"

Su Wan thought for a moment and said, "Oh, that's true. Aren't you in a hurry?"

"There's no use in rushing."

Su Wan tilted her head and glanced at him: "You have a good attitude."

"There's nothing we can do if it's not good."

The bus arrived at its stop. The two got off and walked to Su Wan's door. She turned back and said, "See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow."

"Lin Shubai," Su Wan suddenly called his name again.

"Um?"

"Your essay and the novel you submitted will definitely be selected."

She smiled, turned around, and closed the door.

Lin Shubai stood at Su Wan's door, stunned for a few seconds, when suddenly a line from "Charlotte's Web" popped into his mind: "You've always been my friend, and that in itself is a remarkable thing."

He smiled, turned around, and went upstairs.

On the sixth floor, in Lin Shubai's home, the sound of a pressure cooker hissing came from the kitchen, where Wang Xiulan was cooking.

Wang Xiulan poked her head out from the kitchen and said, "Wash your hands and eat. I made stewed pork ribs today."

"it is good."

Lin Shubai walked to the dining table and sat down. Wang Xiulan brought out a pot of pork rib soup, with a few slices of winter melon and chopped green onions floating on the surface, and the aroma filled the room.

Lin Jianguo picked up a piece of pork rib and suddenly asked, "Shubai, did you participate in some kind of essay competition today?"

Lin Shubai was taken aback: "Dad, how did you know?"

Lin Jianguo smiled and said, "When I got home from get off work today, I ran into Su Wan's dad downstairs. He said Su Wan told him that you wrote an essay, and it seems you were participating in some kind of competition?"

Wang Xiulan put down her soup spoon and looked at Lin Shubai: "Essay competition? What essay competition? Why didn't you tell me about it?"

Lin Shubai didn't expect the news to reach his family so quickly. He paused and said, "It's about the city-wide middle school essay competition. Each class selects three essays to be sent to the school for the preliminary selection. I wrote one and submitted it, and the teacher said to take a look first, and it's not certain that it will be selected."

"You should at least have told me about this." Wang Xiulan's tone was a little surprised and a little unhappy.

"I wasn't even sure I'd be chosen, and it would be so embarrassing if I didn't," Lin Shubai said, taking a sip of soup. This was a lie; Lin Shubai was actually quite confident in "The Back View." He had originally planned to wait until he won an award before telling his family the truth.

Lin Jianguo didn't seem to care much, and said with a smile, "This kid, is he afraid of losing face with us? If he doesn't get selected, he doesn't get selected. It's not a big deal. It's all about participation."

Wang Xiulan glared at Lin Jianguo: "You're quite carefree." Then she looked at Lin Shubai, "So what did you write? Tell Mom."

"It's about the time Dad took me to the train station."

Lin Jianguo's chopsticks paused in mid-air: "The train station? The time I took you to Hangzhou?"

"Um."

"What's there to write about? It's just buying a loaf of bread." Lin Jianguo scratched his head.

"Just leave it alone," Wang Xiulan interrupted him, looking at Lin Shubai with a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "It's already been submitted, right? Show it to Mom later."

"it is good."

Lin Jianguo suddenly interjected from the side, "You're just a primary school teacher, how can you possibly understand high school students' essays?"

Wang Xiulan immediately exploded upon hearing this: "Isn't elementary school Chinese language learning still Chinese language learning? Isn't the foundation laid in elementary school? You can't even write a proper leave request, and you have the nerve to criticize me."

Lin Jianguo shrank back and remained silent.

Lin Shubai watched his parents bickering and couldn't help but smile before lowering his head to continue eating.

After finishing his meal, Lin Shubai helped Wang Xiulan clear the table and returned to his room. He sat down at his desk, took the fallen leaf out of his pocket, and examined it closely under the lamp. The leaf was a little wilted, but the veins on it were still clear; the spider silk had long since disappeared.

He tucked the leaf into an unused textbook, then took out a new notebook and wrote on the first page:

Charlotte's Web – A full-length children's story, approximately 50,000 words. Main characters: Wilbur the pig and Charlotte the spider.

As he wrote these words, the image of the gray spider weaving words on its web flashed through his mind again—"Ace Pig," "Amazing," "Radiant." A spider used its web to weave words, saving a pig's life, and ultimately dying in the empty market.

The power of this story lies not in its complex plot, but in its core spirit: friendship, life, death, sacrifice, and commitment—a spider's commitment to a pig, from spring to autumn, until the very last moment of her life.

Lin Shubai closed his notebook and stared at the ceiling. The sound of pile driving at the construction site outside the window had stopped; the foundation was almost finished, and the sound of traffic from the elevated highway in the distance could be faintly heard.

He turned off the lamp, lay down on the bed, and heard a dog bark a few times in the distance before falling silent again. He closed his eyes, and the last thing that flashed through his mind was Charlotte's words to Wilbur: "You will always be my friend, and that in itself is a wonderful thing."

Then he fell asleep.

Friday morning at 9:00 AM, No. 74 Shaoxing Road, Shanghai, the "Story Club" magazine office.

This old building is a typical Shikumen style building, with red brick walls and wooden stairs that creak when you walk on them.

Lü Jia walked into the office with a cup of coffee, put her bag on the chair, and habitually glanced at the pile of letters on her desk. These were a batch of manuscripts that had been delivered before the end of the workday yesterday, which had already been sorted and neatly stacked on the right side of the desk, about forty or fifty letters in total.

She was in her early forties, with a neat short haircut, and a few gray hairs were already visible at her temples.

Taking a sip of coffee, Lü Jia sat down and began opening the letters. Having worked as an editor for eight years, she had developed an efficient workflow. At the end of the day, she was considered lucky if she could pick out one or two usable letters from dozens.

When I opened the seventh letter, it was a large envelope with neat handwriting. The sender's address was a residential area in Shanghai, and the name was "Lin Shubai". The words "For Red Edition Editor" were written neatly in the lower right corner of the envelope.

Use a utility knife to cut open the seal.

Inside were three manuscripts, clipped together with paperclips, each neatly written on graph paper. She glanced at the first page—"The Most Precious Gift."

She arranged the three manuscripts in order and began reading the first one.

Lü Jia's habit when reviewing manuscripts is to read one paragraph first. If the beginning isn't good, she'll simply put it in the rejection pile to avoid wasting time. But with this manuscript, she couldn't put it down after finishing the first paragraph.

"Cuifang stood in front of the mirror, looking at her long, black braid. She had kept this braid since she was eighteen, and had never been willing to cut it."

She continued reading. Cuifang and Jianguo, a young couple living in a small alleyway room, were dirt poor. With the New Year approaching, they both wanted to buy each other a decent gift. Cuifang sold her long braid, which she had kept for many years, and bought Jianguo a platinum watch chain for his old pocket watch. Jianguo sold the pocket watch his father had left him and bought Cuifang a set of tortoiseshell hair combs for her braid.

When Lü Jia read the part where the two returned home and found that the gifts were useless, she couldn't help but laugh, and then felt a lump in her throat.

"Of all those who give gifts, they two are the wisest. And of all those who receive gifts, they are also the wisest."

She put down the manuscript, paused for a few seconds, and then drew a circle in pencil in the upper right corner of the paper—this was her mark, indicating "to be determined, to be reviewed again."

Instead of reading the second article, I picked up my coffee and took another sip. My colleague across from me was on the phone, speaking in a very low voice, so I couldn't hear what he was saying.

The second piece, "Lunch".

The story begins with a self-narration: "I first met Ms. Zhang in a small Western restaurant in the French Concession of Shanghai. At that time, I had just published a few short articles in a magazine and was considered a rising literary talent. She contacted me through an editor and said she wanted to invite me to dinner to talk about literature."

As Lü Jia looked at the menu, her expression shifted from focused to barely suppressed amusement. The woman, Ms. Zhang, kept saying, "I'll only eat one dish," "I don't eat lunch," "I'll just have a little," but then ordered one dish after another—steamed sea bass, crab roe, winter bamboo shoots, ice cream, and coffee. The young writer stared at the prices on the menu, his heart bleeding, but he had to maintain a smile.

She read the last paragraph twice.

Many years later, I received a letter saying that Ms. Zhang "died of heart failure." Looking at that letter, I couldn't help but wonder—how much did she eat to rupture her heart?

Lü Jia couldn't help but laugh out loud this time.

Her colleague at the opposite workstation hung up the phone, looked up at her, and asked, "What are you laughing at?"

"I've found a good manuscript," Lü Jia said.

"That's rare! How many have you returned this week?"

"I haven't counted, but there are at least a hundred or so."

My colleague shook his head and didn't say anything.

Lü Jia circled the second piece as well, and then picked up the third piece—"Chunhua Noodle Shop".

This story starts differently; there's no plot development, just a scene from a small noodle shop.

"Chunhua Noodle Shop is located in an inconspicuous alley in the old city. The glass door creaks when you push it open, the colors of the New Year pictures on the wall have faded, and the ceiling fan makes a sound when it turns on. There is a red paper pasted next to the counter that reads 'Our shop is open for seventeen years.'"

After reading the last paragraph, Lü Jia put down the manuscript and remained silent for a long time.

Then she picked up a red pen and wrote a single word in the upper right corner of each of the three manuscripts: "Use".

After finishing writing, she thought about it again, picked up the third piece and read it again, adding an exclamation mark after the word "use".

"Where did you find these three articles?" Her colleague across from her leaned over, noticing her strange expression.

"New manuscripts, just opened, take a look," Lü Jia handed over the three manuscripts.

My colleague took it, flipped through it, and looked at it for about ten minutes. When he looked up, his expression was a bit complicated: "Who wrote this? A newbie?"

"Judging from the address and name, he should be a newcomer. Lin Shubai, never heard of him."

"These three pieces are quite different in style. The first one is heartwarming, the second is satirical, and the third... how should I put it, it left me feeling warm and fuzzy inside." My colleague flipped to the end of the third piece and read it again, then asked, "What are you planning to do with it?"

"We need all three," Lü Jia said. "The red edition uses two to three new submissions each issue, and these three are all of good quality. The first one can be in 'Emotional Stories,' the second in 'Urban Stories,' and the third..." She thought for a moment and continued, "...the third one can be at the beginning of the issue."

My colleague was a little surprised. "The opening chapter? Aren't opening chapters usually commissioned by famous writers?"

Lü Jia picked up "Chunhua Noodle Shop," saying, "But this piece is worthwhile. Look at the ending—'The snow is still falling outside, and the lights in Chunhua Noodle Shop are still on.' What a beautiful image. Place it at the beginning of the magazine, and it will be the first thing readers see when they open the magazine. How wonderful."

My colleague thought for a moment and nodded: "Okay, you can discuss it with the editor-in-chief. But have you contacted this author? Did they leave their phone number?"

Lü Jia flipped the envelope over and saw a string of numbers in the sender's information section: "Left, mobile number."

She took out her phone, saved the number, thought for a moment, and didn't dial it right away.

"Let me send a text message first," Lü Jia thought.

She drafted a short message: "Hello, Ms. Lin, this is Lü Jia, editor of the red edition of 'Story Collection'. Your submissions have been received, and all three are proposed for publication. Please call back when convenient to discuss payment and other matters. Lü Jia." Afterward, Lü Jia added the three submissions to the "Published" folder, noted Lin Shubai's name and phone number in her memo, and wrote four words in the remarks column: "Key Author."