A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

October 9th, Sunday.

Autumn comes slowly in Shanghai. In the morning, a scent wafts through the air, a mixture of soy milk and fried dough sticks, emanating from the shops along the street.

No. 74 Shaoxing Road, the editorial office of "Story Club" magazine.

Lü Jia arrived twenty minutes earlier than usual. She walked into the office with her coffee, habitually glancing at the pile of mail on her desk. The newly arrived manuscripts had already been sorted and neatly stacked on the right side of the desk, about thirty or forty emails in total. She sat down, opened yesterday's email record, and her gaze fell on a line: "October issue published; feedback from various regions being collected."

She picked up the phone and dialed the internal line for the distribution department.

"Teacher Wang, have the sales figures for the October issue come out yet?"

"Mr. Lü, the data hasn't been fully compiled yet, but things are looking pretty good in Shanghai. It's up about 8% compared to the same period last month. Several newsstands have reported that they're selling very quickly, and some have already restocked twice."

"Was it mentioned which article was popular?"

"I didn't ask about that in detail. But I heard there's a newsstand on Nanjing Road where the owner said several people have come specifically looking for the October issue, saying there's a good article written by a student in it."

Lü Jia hung up the phone, a slight smile playing on her lips.

Nanjing Road Pedestrian Street, 10:00 AM.

Old Zhang's newsstand is located diagonally opposite Yong'an Department Store. It's in a good location with high foot traffic, and he sells more than two hundred magazines every month. He's worked there for twelve years and knows exactly which magazines sell well and which don't.

This morning, he has already sold seven copies of "Story Collection". This number is unusual; he usually only sells a dozen or so copies a day.

The ninth customer was a middle-aged man in a gray jacket, with neatly combed hair and carrying a briefcase. He stood in front of the newsstand for a while, his gaze sweeping over the magazines on the shelf, finally settling on the red-covered "Story Club".

"Boss, this one." He pointed to it.

Old Zhang handed over the magazine: "Eight yuan."

As the middle-aged man took out his money, he casually asked, "I heard there's a really good article in this issue?"

Old Zhang took the money and smiled, "You've heard about it too? Several people have come to ask about it these past two days. It seems to be written by a student, and the title is something like 'A Gift'."

"The Most Precious Gift".

"Yes, yes, that's it. You've seen it?"

"Not yet. I just heard about it from a colleague who said it was well-written, so I came to buy it." The middle-aged man stuffed the magazine into his briefcase, turned around, and left.

Old Zhang watched his retreating figure, shook his head, and continued tidying up the newspapers.

Less than half an hour later, another one arrived. This time it was a young woman, in her early twenties, with her hair in a ponytail and wearing a light blue sweatshirt. She jogged over, a little out of breath.

"Boss, do you still have the October issue of 'Story Club'?"

"Yes. The last two." Old Zhang took them down from the shelf.

"Great!" The girl took the magazine, flipped to the table of contents, found the name "Lin Shubai," and her eyes lit up. "This is it."

Old Zhang couldn't help but ask, "Is this article really that good? Several people have asked me about it today."

The girl looked up, thought for a moment, and said, "I saw it at my friend's house yesterday. After reading the story 'The Most Precious Gift,' my eyes welled up with tears. When Cuifang cut her braids, I almost cried."

"Is it really that good?" Old Zhang was a little skeptical.

The girl paid and left with the magazine.

Old Zhang hung the last copy of "Story Collection" on the shelf, thinking to himself: Should I order a few more copies?

Noon, in the staff canteen of an office building in the JA district.

Zhou Min, carrying her tray, found a seat by the window. She was a copywriter at a certain company, twenty-six years old, and her daily work consisted of writing various product descriptions and advertorials. The more she wrote, the more numb she became to words; it had been a long time since she had been truly moved by an article.

She brought a copy of "Story Club" to the cafeteria at noon today. She bought the magazine casually at a newsstand in the subway station yesterday, intending to pass the time during her lunch break, but she didn't expect to be so engrossed in it.

She first read "Lunch," and was furious with Ms. Zhang, yet couldn't help but laugh. When she read the sentence, "How much did she eat to burst her heart?", she almost spat out the soup in her mouth.

Then she turned to "The Most Precious Gift".

"What are you looking at so intently?" Her colleague, Xiaolin, came over with a tray and sat down opposite her.

"Story Club." Zhou Min turned the magazine over to show her.

"Story Collection? Is it really that good?" Kobayashi laughed.

"Read this first, then you'll understand," Zhou Min said, pushing the magazine over and turning to the article "The Most Precious Gift."

Kobayashi picked it up with some skepticism, read it for about five minutes, and then looked up: "Who wrote this? It's so well written!"

"Lin Shubai. It's written on it."

"Lin Shubai? Never heard of him. Is he an established author?"

Zhou Min shook her head: "I checked, she's a newcomer. Some people say she's a high school student, but I don't know if it's true."

"A high school student?" Xiaolin's expression was exactly the same as Zhou Min's when she first heard the news. "Impossible, right? The understanding of emotions in this article doesn't seem like something a high school student could write."

"I think so too. But that's what's being said online."

Xiaolin read the ending again, then handed the magazine back to Zhou Min: "Regardless of whether they're high school students or not, this article is indeed well-written. I thought about it for a long time after reading it. Do you think they were smart? They sold their most valuable possessions for gifts they couldn't use; from a utilitarian perspective, it was incredibly foolish. But the author says they were the smartest. Why?"

"Because they received something more precious than a gift," Zhou Min said.

"What is it?"

"Love. Think about it, what do you get from someone who's willing to sell their most precious thing for you? Not the gift, but the person. So what if you can't use the gift? The person is still here."

Kobayashi was silent for a moment, then nodded: "You're right. This article has a really strong aftereffect."

5 PM, the editor-in-chief's office of *October* magazine. (In reality, *October* is located in Beijing, but the address was changed to Shanghai for the sake of the story.)

Chen Yuanshan is fifty-six years old this year. He has been working in the literary circle for more than 30 years, rising from an ordinary editor of "October" to editor-in-chief. He has handled tens of thousands of manuscripts and has met authors ranging from newcomers to established masters. He has read all kinds of writing.

He hadn't planned to read *Story Club* today. Although the magazine had a large circulation, it didn't hold a high position in literary circles. He occasionally flipped through it, mostly to keep track of popular reading trends, and rarely found anything that truly caught his eye.

But today is different.

The magazine was delivered to him by Xiao Zhou, a young editor at the publishing house who had been there for less than a year. He was usually quiet but had a good eye for talent. Xiao Zhou placed the magazine on his desk and said, "Mr. Chen, please take a look at this issue of 'Story Collection.' There's a new author in it who writes quite well."

Chen Yuanshan was reviewing a manuscript at the time, so he just gave a casual reply and didn't think much of it. After he finished reviewing the manuscript, he picked up his teacup, took a sip, and casually picked up the copy of "Story Collection" and flipped through it.

Table of Contents. Emotional Story – "The Most Precious Gift," by Lin Shu-bai. Urban Story – "Lunch," by Lin Shu-bai.

Two articles by the same author.

He read "The Most Precious Gift" and "Lunch" from beginning to end, then read them again, and then read them again.

On his third reading, he picked up a red pen and underlined a few lines in "The Most Precious Gift".

"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."

"Jianguo took a small box out of his pocket, opened it, and inside was a platinum watch chain. He said, 'I sold my pocket watch and bought this for you.'"

"Cuifang took a paper package out of the drawer, opened it, and inside was a set of tortoiseshell hair combs. She said: I cut off my braids and bought this for you."

The two looked at each other and remained silent for a long time. Then they laughed at the same time. Cuifang said, "We don't need our gifts anymore." Jianguo said, "But we've already given away all our gifts."

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

Chen Yuanshan put down the red pen, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

He recalled something from his youth. He had just started working, his salary was pitifully low, and he saved for three months to buy his girlfriend a scarf. His girlfriend bought him a pair of leather shoes. They were both dirt poor, but when they received the gifts, they both felt like the richest people in the world.

He never knew where the scarf and the shoes went, but he remembered that winter night clearly.

He opened his eyes, picked up the phone, and dialed Lü Jia's number.

"Old Lü? I am Chen Yuanshan."

On the other end of the phone was Lü Jia, a senior editor at Story Club. The two had known each other for many years. Although they worked for different magazines, they were both in the literary circle of Shanghai and saw each other all the time.

"Teacher Chen? What brings you here?" Lü Jia's voice came through the receiver, tinged with surprise.

"Do you know Lin Shubai, an author featured in your October issue?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, I know them. I handled those two manuscripts."

"What's their background?"

Lü Jia paused for a second, then smiled: "Guess."

"Guess what? How would I know? A newcomer? Or some established author changing their pen name?"

"Neither," Lü Jia said, her tone barely suppressing a laugh. "He's a high school student. A first-year high school student."

Chen Yuanshan paused for a moment while holding the phone.

"First year of high school?"

"First year of high school. Sixteen years old. I met him last week. He came wearing his school uniform and brought a classmate with him." Lü Jia finally couldn't help but laugh out loud. "Imagine that scene—I'm standing at the entrance of the noodle shop, waiting for 'Teacher Lin' for ages, and then a kid in a school uniform shows up."

Chen Yuanshan remained silent for a few seconds.

"Can a sixteen-year-old write something like this?" His tone carried a serious doubt, not about Lü Jia's judgment, but because the matter itself was beyond his experience.

"I saw it with my own eyes, would I lie to you? The manuscript was handwritten by him, on graph paper, and the handwriting was quite neat. We talked for half an hour, and he was very composed in his speech and actions, not like a sixteen-year-old, but he really was sixteen. I saw his student ID."

Chen Yuanshan remained silent for a while.

"Is he writing anything else?"

"He's writing it. He told me he's writing a long novel, a fairy tale, about 50,000 words. He'll show it to me when it's finished," Lü Jia replied.

Chen Yuanshan frowned upon hearing this. "A full-length fairy tale? Jumping from a short satirical story to a full-length fairy tale? That's quite a leap."

"He said the story was already in his mind, and he just needed to write it down. I saw the quality of his first three pieces, and I think it's worth looking forward to."

Chen Yuanshan thought for a moment, "The power of the final sentence in his 'The Most Precious Gift' is something many authors who have been writing for ten years couldn't achieve. It's not a matter of technique, but of understanding human nature. How could a sixteen-year-old write something like that?"

"I asked him, and he said, 'Maybe it's because I'm a genius.'"

Chen Yuanshan paused for a moment, then smiled.

"This kid is certainly not modest."

"He's not humble, but he's not arrogant either. I've seen too many new authors who get carried away after achieving a little success. He's not that kind of person. He speaks calmly, as if he's stating something perfectly natural. That confidence isn't feigned; it comes from within."

Chen Yuanshan flipped through the magazine to the article "The Most Precious Gift" and glanced at the author's name.

"Once he finishes writing that long novel, show it to me as soon as possible."

"What, you're interested?"

"Let's see. If his novel is of the same quality as these two short stories, I'll try to help him get it published. A 50,000-word fairy tale might not be published in 'Story Collection,' but it can be published as a book."

Lü Jia's voice was noticeably happier: "Okay, then I'll have him hurry up and write it."

"Also," Chen Yuanshan added, "could you arrange a meeting with Lin Shubai for me? In my capacity as editor-in-chief of *October*. I'd like to have a chat with him."

"Teacher Chen, are you trying to poach our staff?"

"Why would I poach him? He's not a contracted author with your 'Story Club' magazine. Besides, you can't publish his long stories there. I just think this kid deserves attention."

Lü Jia laughed: "Okay, I'll arrange it for you. But I must warn you, don't be too surprised when he shows up in his school uniform."

"I've seen everything," Chen Yuanshan said, and then hung up the phone.

He put down the phone, picked up the copy of "Story Collection" again, and read "The Most Precious Gift" from beginning to end. This time he read it even slower than before, savoring each sentence.

Before cutting her braid, Cuifang stood in front of the mirror for a long time. The author didn't describe what she was thinking, only her actions—she gathered her braid from her shoulder to her chest, combed it with her fingers, and then picked up the scissors. With just these few actions, the reader understands everything.

This use of white space, this restraint, is not a technique, but an intuition. An innate intuition that knows what should and shouldn't be written.

Chen Yuanshan spent his entire career as an editor and has seen far too many manuscripts that are "fully" written—every emotion must be fully expressed, every detail must be explained, for fear that the reader will not understand. But truly good writing is precisely what is left unwritten.

This child named Lin Shubai was born understanding this principle.

He placed the magazine on the table, picked up a pen, and marked something on the calendar: "Meet Lin Shubai".