A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

When Chen Yuanshan came out of the "Half-Day Leisure" coffee shop, the sun was shining brightly. He tucked the folder under his arm, stood at the door, looked up at the sky, took a deep breath, and then turned to look at Lin Shubai.

"Let's go, let's take a look around our magazine office first, have lunch, and meet Lao Zhou at 2 pm."

"it is good."

The "magazine publishing house" that Chen Yuanshan mentioned was actually just two streets away. It was an old six-story building with gray-white exterior walls and a bronze plaque hanging at the entrance that read "October Magazine Publishing House." Chen Yuanshan pushed open the door and led Lin Shubai inside.

The first floor is the reception desk and mailroom. A woman wearing glasses was sorting mail. When she saw Chen Yuanshan come in, she greeted him with "Hello, Teacher Chen" and glanced at Lin Shubai behind him.

"I'll show this young author around," Chen Yuanshan casually explained, then led Lin Shubai upstairs.

The stairs were terrazzo, a bit slippery. A row of magazine covers hung on the wall, from black and white in the 1980s to recent color editions, like a timeline. As Chen Yuanshan walked, he said, "This building was built in the 80s. Back then, I was just an ordinary editor, climbing these stairs every day. Now my knees are killing me."

"You've worked here for thirty years?"

"Thirty-two years. From graduating from university until now, I haven't moved an inch." Chen Yuanshan said this in a very calm tone, but Lin Shubai could hear the certainty in his voice that he was "doing only one thing in his life."

The second floor houses the editorial department. A large wooden door opens to reveal a spacious, open-plan office. Seven or eight desks are crammed together, piled high with manuscripts and letters. Several editors are engrossed in their work, looking up when they hear the door open.

"Professor Chen." A young female editor stood up, her gaze falling on Lin Shubai. "This is..."

"Lin Shubai. He's the high school student author I told you about."

The office fell silent for a moment, then the editors' eyes lit up simultaneously, like visitors to a zoo suddenly spotting a rare animal.

"Is he the one who wrote 'The Most Precious Gift'?" A male editor wearing a baseball cap leaned out of his seat, looking Lin Shubai up and down. "Editor Chen is really something, managing to poach someone from Story Club."

The female editor next to him chimed in, "When I finished reading it, I told Teacher Chen that it didn't seem like it was written by a sixteen-year-old. Teacher Chen said that the person was indeed sixteen, but I didn't believe it. Now that I've seen the real person..."

She paused, then smiled: "I still don't quite believe it."

Lin Shubai was a little embarrassed by being surrounded by several people, but he remained calm on the surface. He smiled, said "Thank you, teachers," and then was pulled away by Chen Yuanshan.

"Ignore them, they're a bunch of country bumpkins." Chen Yuanshan said this, but he couldn't hide the smugness on his face.

At noon, Chen Yuanshan took Lin Shubai to a small restaurant near the magazine office for lunch. Chen Yuanshan ordered a braised pork, a stir-fried vegetable dish, a bowl of tomato and egg drop soup, and two bowls of rice. He ate very slowly, chewing each bite for a long time. Halfway through his meal, he suddenly put down his chopsticks and looked at Lin Shubai.

Do you know why I helped you?

Lin Shubai thought for a moment: "Because the manuscript was well-written?"

"A well-written manuscript is one thing," Chen Yuanshan said, picking up his chopsticks again. "But more importantly, in my 32 years as an editor, I've seen too many talented young people who just give up as they write. Some are crushed by life, some give up on their own, and some can't write anything of the same quality after writing one or two good pieces. Talent is like a match; once it's struck, it shines briefly, then it goes out. Very few can keep burning brightly."

He looked into Lin Shubai's eyes, his tone becoming more serious: "I don't know how long you can keep burning. But the brightness you have right now is the brightest I've seen in my thirty-two years. I don't want this match to go out. So I'll help as much as I can."

Lin Shubai put down his chopsticks, looked at Chen Yuanshan, and wanted to say something, but felt that anything he said would be inadequate.

"Thank you, Teacher Chen," he said at the end.

Chen Yuanshan waved his hand, picked up his bowl, and continued eating.

At 2 p.m., Lin Shubai and Chen Yuanshan appeared on time at the entrance of the Children's Publishing House.

This building is newer than the office of the October magazine. There is a stone tablet at the entrance with the words "Children's Publishing House" engraved on it in very neat regular script. Rows of children's book covers are hung on the walls of the lobby on the first floor.

The young woman at the front desk clearly recognized Chen Yuanshan; she smiled when she saw him and said, "Mr. Chen, Editor-in-Chief Zhou is waiting for you on the fourth floor."

"it is good."

The two got into the elevator. It was quiet inside, with only the hum of the elevator engine. Chen Yuanshan looked at Lin Shubai's reflection in the elevator doors and suddenly said, "Don't be nervous, Old Zhou doesn't eat people."

"I'm not nervous."

"It's good that you weren't nervous."

The elevator reached the fourth floor, and the doors opened. The corridor was long, carpeted with gray carpet, and lined with closed doors on both sides. Chen Yuanshan walked ahead, his steps steady, his leather shoes making a soft sound on the carpet. He reached a door at the end of the corridor and knocked twice.

"Come in."

Chen Yuanshan pushed open the door. Lin Shubai followed him inside.

The office was very large, more than twice the size of Chen Yuanshan's.

A gray-haired man sat behind the desk.

Zhou Mingyuan looked younger than his actual age. Although his hair was white, he was in good spirits. He was wearing a dark gray jacket over a white shirt, with the top two buttons undone. He was wearing reading glasses and looking down at a document. Hearing the door open, he looked up, his gaze first falling on Chen Yuanshan, then shifting to Lin Shubai, where it stopped.

"Is this the kid you were talking about?" Zhou Mingyuan took off his reading glasses and looked Lin Shubai up and down.

"Lin Shubai, sixteen years old, a first-year high school student," Chen Yuanshan introduced.

Zhou Mingyuan didn't speak, looked at Lin Shubai for a few more seconds, and then pointed to the chair in front of the desk: "Sit."

Lin Shubai sat down. Chen Yuanshan sat down next to him.

Zhou Mingyuan picked up a stack of manuscript papers from the table, and Lin Shubai recognized them—they were copies of his handwritten "Charlotte's Web." The edges of the papers were slightly curled, and there were many marks made in red pen on them.

"I have a few questions for you." Zhou Mingyuan's gaze sharpened, his tone less like an editor-in-chief chatting with an author and more like a seasoned detective interrogating a suspect. "First question: How did you come up with this story?"

Lin Shubai had anticipated this question. He cleared his throat: "When I was a child, I lived in the countryside for a while. I saw pigs in pigsties and spider webs. One day, I saw a dragonfly hanging on a spider web by the flower bed at school, and I suddenly thought—what if spiders could weave words on their webs? And that's how this story came about."

Zhou Mingyuan stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded: "Second question: How did you write the part about Xia Luo's death?"

“I didn’t write anything special,” Lin Shubai said. “I just felt that Charlotte had to die. If she didn’t die, the story wouldn’t be complete. Her life was only meant to last a year; when autumn came, she should have left. But her child stayed and returned the following spring. That’s nature, and that’s life.”

Zhou Mingyuan's expression changed slightly; the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, whether it was a smile or something else was unclear.

"Third question: Do you think you could write a better piece than this?"

This is a difficult question. Lin Shubai thought for a moment and said, "Yes."

"Why are you so confident?"

"Because I know what I'm capable of."

Zhou Mingyuan was silent for a moment, then suddenly smiled. The smile was brief, fleeting, but Lin Shubai saw it.

Zhou Mingyuan turned to look at Chen Yuanshan, "Old Chen, you're not lying to me."

"When have I ever lied to you?"

"Last time you said that so-and-so wrote well, I read it, it's just so-so."

"That's because you have poor taste."

The two men exchanged a glance and laughed. Lin Shubai, sitting beside them, watched the two editors, whose combined age was over a hundred, bicker and suddenly felt less nervous.

Zhou Mingyuan looked at Lin Shubai again, his expression becoming serious: "Let's get down to business. Our publishing house plans to publish 'Charlotte's Web.' But there are a few conditions, let me make them clear to you first."

Lin Shubai sat up straight.

"First, you're a newcomer with no reputation, so the first print run won't be too high. My initial target is 10,000 copies. If it sells well, we'll reprint it. If it doesn't sell well, then we'll stop here. The story is indeed a good story, but I can't guarantee how the market will perform."

"Secondly, the royalties will be calculated at a slightly higher rate than the standard for new authors, at eight percent. That means if a book is priced at twenty-five yuan, you'll get two yuan. If 10,000 copies are sold, you'll get twenty thousand yuan. After deducting taxes and fees, it will be around seventeen thousand yuan. Alternatively, you can choose to buy it outright. This book has over fifty thousand words, and we can offer around twenty-five thousand yuan."

"I choose 8% royalties."

Zhou Mingyuan was a little surprised: "Aren't you going to reconsider?"

"I have confidence in my book."

"Okay, so is there anything you still have problems with or are dissatisfied with regarding these conditions?"

"No, I'm a newcomer, I'm not in a position to bargain."

Zhou Mingyuan glanced at him, then turned to Chen Yuanshan and said, "This kid knows how to talk better than you did back then."

Chen Yuanshan snorted: "If I had been good with words back then, I would have been the editor-in-chief long ago."

Zhou Mingyuan ignored him, took a contract out of the drawer, and handed it to Lin Shubai: "This is a standard publishing contract. Take it home and look at it, and have your parents look at it together. After you sign it, send it to me, or bring it with you next time you come."

Lin Shubai took the contract; it was a thick stack of densely packed text. He folded it neatly and stuffed it into his bag.

"There's one more thing." Zhou Mingyuan picked up a piece of paper from the table and handed it to Lin Shubai. "This is our editor's suggestion for revision. Take a look when you get back. Most of it is about language adjustments, but there are a few places I think we can discuss further. For example, the word 'divine pig' that you used, I think it could be changed to 'heavenly pig,' which has a more mythological feel. Think about it. If you don't want to change it, you don't have to."

Lin Shubai took the paper and glanced at it. It listed seven or eight suggestions, mostly minor adjustments, with no changes to the core plot.

"I will read it carefully."

Zhou Mingyuan nodded, leaned back in his chair, and relaxed a bit: "Alright, that's enough about the business. Old Chen, how about we have dinner together tonight?"

"OK."

"Kobayashi is here too."

Lin Shubai wanted to refuse, but seeing that Zhou Mingyuan's expression wasn't polite, he nodded: "Okay, thank you, Teacher Zhou."

At six o'clock in the evening, the three of them sat in a local Shanghainese restaurant near the publishing house. Zhou Mingyuan ordered a table full of dishes—braised pork, sweet and sour pork ribs, stir-fried seasonal vegetables, squirrel-shaped mandarin fish, crab roe tofu, and pickled bamboo shoots with pork—filling the table to the brim.

"Too much, too much." Chen Yuanshan frowned as he looked at the table full of dishes.

"It's rare to be in such a good mood." Zhou Mingyuan poured himself a glass of rice wine, then poured one for Chen Yuanshan, before looking at Lin Shubai, "Can Xiao Lin drink?"

"No, I'm not old enough."

"Then let's have some tea." Zhou Mingyuan pushed the teapot over.

The three of them ate and drank, and the atmosphere was much more relaxed than in the office that afternoon. After drinking two cups of rice wine, Zhou Mingyuan became noticeably more talkative and began to recount his youth—how he rose from a junior editor to editor-in-chief, how he persisted in creating original works during the lowest point of the children's book market in the 1990s, and how he outwitted and outmaneuvered a group of veteran writers.

Chen Yuanshan chimed in from the side, "Drink less; you have to go to work tomorrow."

Tomorrow is Sunday.

"You don't work on Sundays either."

"Then I definitely have to drink it."

Lin Shubai couldn't help but chuckle as he watched the two veteran editors bickering.

After finishing their meal, it was already past eight o'clock in the evening. Zhou Mingyuan paid the bill, and the three of them stood at the restaurant entrance. A cool evening breeze blew in from the end of the street. The streetlights cast long shadows of the three of them on the ground.

"Xiao Lin, take the contract home and read it carefully. Call me anytime if you have any questions." Zhou Mingyuan took out a business card from his pocket and handed it to him. "This is my mobile number, it's available 24/7."

Lin Shubai took the business card, which read "Zhou Mingyuan, Editor-in-Chief of Children's Publishing House" and had a phone number below it.

Chen Yuanshan led Lin Shubai toward the parking lot. He was driving an older, silver-gray Passat with several scratches on the body and a faded Chinese knot hanging on the rearview mirror.

"Get in the car." Chen Yuanshan opened the driver's side door.

Chen Yuanshan started the car, shifted gears, and released the brakes. The Passat smoothly glided out of the parking lot and merged into the traffic.

"Old Zhou, don't let his sharp tongue fool you, he's actually very soft-hearted," Chen Yuanshan said as he drove. "He gives you eight percent of the royalties, do you know what that means?"

"Does that mean he thinks highly of this book?"

"More than that." Chen Yuanshan pointed the way. "Publishers usually give new authors 5% to 6%, while established authors get 8%. This is an exception. He wouldn't have offered this deal if he didn't have confidence in you."

Lin Shubai was silent for a moment: "Then I'd better write even harder."

"You've been writing diligently." Chen Yuanshan glanced at the rearview mirror and changed the subject. "By the way, I'll reread your piece 'Life on a String' when I get back, and I'll format it for you next week. If all goes well, it'll be published in December."

"it is good."