A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

October 15th, Saturday.

The autumn sky in Shanghai cleared up completely on this day, and the sky was a bright, clear blue.

Lü Jia sent a text message last night: "Saturday morning at 10:00 AM, Chunhua Noodle Restaurant on Nanjing Road. Teacher Chen is waiting for you there. You know that place well, so I won't lead the way. Just come in when you get there."

Lin Shubai was taken aback when he saw the text message. A meeting at a noodle shop? He thought about it and roughly understood—Lü Jia probably felt that meeting at the magazine office was too formal, and a noodle shop was more relaxed. Besides, it was a place he had written about, so it had special significance.

On the bus, Lin Shubai placed his backpack on his lap. Inside was a thick stack of manuscript paper—the full text of "Charlotte's Web," which he had just finished writing yesterday afternoon. It was over 50,000 words, bound together in a thick stack of graph paper, with the title and his name written in pen on the cover.

They arrived at Nanjing Road. Lin Shubai got out of the car and turned into that familiar alley.

He pushed open the door and went in. Zhou Chunhua was standing behind the counter, filling a thermos with boiling water. She looked up, saw Lin Shubai, and smiled: "Little girl's here? Bringing friends over for noodles again today?"

Lin Shubai walked in. "Hello, Aunt Zhou. I have an appointment today, it's a friend of the editor from last time."

"Alright, alright, come inside and sit down." Zhou Chunhua pointed to a seat by the window.

Lin Shubai walked over and sat down. The windowpane was spotless, and he could see the light and shadows in the alley outside. Just as he sat down, the door opened.

Lü Jia walked in, followed by a man in his fifties. He had gray hair, wore silver-rimmed glasses, and a dark blue jacket over a white shirt. He wasn't tall, but stood very straight, with a calm gaze that carried the air of someone who had seen it all.

"Lin Shubai, you're here so early." Lü Jia walked over and sat down, then waved to the man, "Teacher Chen, over here."

Chen Yuanshan walked over and sat down opposite him. He looked at Lin Shubai, his gaze moving from top to bottom and then back up, finally settling on his face. His expression was similar to when Lü Jia first met him—first scrutinizing, then confirming, and finally, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"You're Lin Shubai?" Chen Yuanshan extended his hand.

Lin Shubai shook hands with him. Chen Yuanshan's hand was dry, and the pressure was just right.

Lü Jia smiled and said, "Teacher Chen said he wanted to see you, but I said let's not do it at the magazine office, it's too formal. You've written about this place before, so it's a good opportunity to come and take a look."

Chen Yuanshan looked around the store.

"Is this the place?" he asked Lin Shubai.

"This is it."

Chen Yuanshan nodded and said nothing more.

Zhou Chunhua brought over three cups of tea and placed them on the table.

Chen Yuanshan watched her retreating figure, then looked at Lin Shubai: "Is the proprietress you wrote about her?" Lü Jia had shown Chen Yuanshan "Spring Flower Noodle Shop".

"right."

"It's written like that."

Lu Jia interjected, "Teacher Chen, please talk about business first. I'll go check over at the counter, so as not to disturb you." She stood up with her teacup, walked to the counter, and started chatting with Zhou Chunhua.

Chen Yuanshan picked up his teacup, took a sip, put it down, and looked at Lin Shubai.

"I've read all three of your manuscripts." His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. "I've been an editor for over thirty years and have seen many talented young people, but I've never seen anyone like you before."

Lin Shubai remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

Chen Yuanshan adjusted his glasses. "Lü Jia said you're still writing a novel, a fairy tale?"

"It's finished." Lin Shubai bent down, took out the thick stack of manuscripts from his bag, placed them on the table, and pushed them over. "I just finished writing it yesterday, more than 50,000 words."

Chen Yuanshan glanced at the stack of manuscript papers, picked them up, and turned to the first page.

"Where is Daddy going with the axe?"

Chen Yuanshan read very slowly. His habit when reading manuscripts was to read word by word, pausing to think about parts he found interesting before continuing. When he read about Xia Luo weaving the "divine pig" online, he took off his glasses, wiped the lenses, and put them back on. When he read the part about Xia Luo's impending death, he paused turning the pages and took a deep breath.

Lin Shubai sat opposite Chen Yuanshan, watching his changing expressions. He saw Chen Yuanshan's lips twitch slightly when he read Xia Luo's words to the little pig—"You've always been my friend, and that in itself is a remarkable thing."

Nearly forty minutes later, Chen Yuanshan turned to the last page. He closed the manuscript, placed it on the table, took off his glasses, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

silence.

The noodle shop was so quiet that you could hear the rustling of leaves outside the window.

After a while, Chen Yuanshan opened his eyes and looked at Lin Shubai.

"This story should be published."

Lin Shubai's heart skipped a beat.

"You're a newcomer, you're not famous, and the audience for long children's stories is narrow, so most publishers won't take you on," Chen Yuanshan continued. "But I've been an editor for thirty years and I have some connections in the publishing industry. I'll help you contact publishers and find one willing to publish your work. I've known the editor-in-chief of the Children's Publishing House for over twenty years; I'll show it to him."

"Thank you, Teacher Chen."

"I can only help you make connections. Whether it can be published, and under what conditions, depends on the publisher's evaluation. Your manuscript is of good quality, but publishing is a business. Publishers have to consider the market and costs. These are things that neither you nor I can control."

"I see."

Chen Yuanshan glanced at him, nodded, and then put the manuscript aside. He didn't immediately say the next thing, but took another sip of tea, as if considering his words.

"That's all for the long story," Chen Yuanshan said, putting down his teacup. "I have something else to tell you."

Lin Shubai looked at him.

"After reading your short story, I said something to Lü Jia—putting it in 'Story Club' is a bit of a waste. It's not that 'Story Club' is bad. That magazine has a large circulation and many readers, so publishing it there will allow many people to see it, which is a good thing. But your writing style and approach are more suitable for 'October'."

Lin Shubai did not respond.

"Our magazine, *October*, publishes pure literary works, and our readership leans towards adults with high aesthetic standards. Your piece, 'The Most Precious Gift,' would hold its own in *October*. You don't pursue flashy writing; you leave blank spaces where necessary and conclude where appropriate. This kind of restraint is something many authors who have been writing for ten years cannot achieve."

Chen Yuanshan looked at him, his gaze more serious than before.

"I'd like to commission you to write a short story for 'October' magazine. Any subject matter, any style, around 8,000 to 15,000 words. Send it to me whenever you finish."

Lin Shubai was taken aback. "Teacher Chen, are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I've read your two short stories and I know what I'm capable of. You're a natural at writing fine literature. Of course, I won't rush you. Focus on what's in front of you first—the essay competition and the publication of your novel. When you have inspiration, write slowly. Just show it to me when you're done."

Lin Shubai took a deep breath: "Okay. I will definitely write it carefully."

"No need for 'must,' just write normally." Chen Yuanshan picked up his teacup, a slight smile playing on his lips. "What you write normally is better than what many people 'write seriously.'"