A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

Tuesday morning, the sky finally cleared up.

Last night's rain washed the air clean, and the leaves of the sycamore trees shone brightly green.

Lin Shubai thought about it for a long time last night and finally decided to sign up.

Instead of hiding it, we should take this opportunity to let people gradually get used to the fact that "Lin Shu-pai can write."

When I arrived at the classroom, Su Wan was already in her seat. She had her hair tied in a high ponytail today, revealing a section of her fair nape, and was looking down at a magazine.

Good morning.

Su Wan looked up at him and asked, "You seem alright today. Have you figured it out?"

"Um."

"Really? You've decided to sign up?" Su Wan's eyes widened slightly.

"right."

"That's great!" Su Wan almost stood up, but Lin Shubai glanced at her and she sat back down. "So when are you going to see Old Chen?"

"Today, during break time."

Liu Yang, sitting in the front row, turned around with half a steamed bun still in his mouth: "What are you signing up for? A writing competition?"

"Um."

Liu Yang slammed his hand on the table, causing a piece of filling from a steamed bun to fall onto the surface. "I knew it! Your Chinese isn't bad, so why not go? Old Chen will definitely be happy."

How did you know?

"Yesterday, when I went to the office to submit my self-criticism, I overheard Mr. Chen chatting with the teacher from the next class. He said that there were a few students in our class who wrote good essays, and he even mentioned your name."

Lin Shubai was taken aback: "You mentioned me?"

"Yes, he said that Lin Shubai is a good student, but he doesn't usually perform well and needs to be pushed." Liu Yang imitated Old Chen's tone perfectly, even mimicking the way he held the enamel cup.

Su Wan laughed out loud from the side.

Lin Shubai didn't say anything, but he was a little surprised. He had always thought that he wasn't particularly outstanding in Chinese class, and his compositions were just average. He didn't expect that Old Chen would notice him.

A citywide essay competition for middle school students. The theme and style are open, with a word count ranging from 800 to 2000. First prize is 500 yuan, second prize is 300 yuan, third prize is 100 yuan, and an honorable mention is just a piece of paper.

The competition consists of two rounds. In the preliminary round, each school selects its own entries, with each class submitting three entries, and the school then chooses ten to send to the city level. The semi-final round is judged uniformly by the city.

In other words, he has to get past Old Chen first, then the school, before he can compete in the city.

"It's quite troublesome," Lin Shubai thought.

The last class in the morning is Chinese.

As usual, Old Chen came in as the bell rang, placed his enamel mug on the podium, spread out his lesson plan, and then looked up and glanced at the whole class.

"I talked about the essay competition last time. Today we're finalizing the spots. If you want to sign up, come find me after class."

As usual, Old Chen came in as the bell rang, placed his enamel mug on the podium, spread out his lesson plan, and then looked up and glanced at the whole class.

"Last class we talked about composition, and I mentioned that there will be a city-wide composition competition next month. Today I'm finalizing the list of participants. If you're interested, come find me after class."

The bell rang, signaling the end of get out of class. Old Chen picked up his enamel mug and walked out, and Lin Shubai stood up and followed him.

People were coming and going in the corridor. Old Chen wasn't walking fast, and some water in his enamel cup spilled onto the floor. He reached the office door, pushed it open, and turned around to see Lin Shubai following behind him.

"Lin Shubai? What's up?"

"Teacher Chen, I would like to sign up for the essay competition."

Old Chen paused for a moment, then laughed.

"Come in."

The office was small, with six desks crammed together. Class schedules and duty rosters were posted on the walls. Old Chen's desk was by the window, with a stack of composition books, a pen holder, and a desk lamp on it.

Old Chen sat down and pointed to the chair next to him: "Sit."

Lin Shubai sat down. Old Chen unscrewed the lid of his enamel mug, took a sip of water, and then looked at him.

"Why do you want to participate?"

"I'd like to give it a try," Lin Shubai said.

Old Chen nodded without saying anything, then picked out Lin Shubai's composition book from the stack on the table and looked at it for a while.

"In your previous essay, you wrote about 'My Ideal,' and you said you wanted to be a writer."

Lin Shubai was stunned for a moment. The original owner's memories told him that the previous essay was indeed written by the original owner, but he could not remember the content.

The page Old Chen turned to read:

"My dream is to be a writer. I want to write many, many stories and let many people read them. I believe stories have power; they can make people laugh and they can make people cry. I want to write stories that people want to read again and again."

Lin Shubai looked at the words and a strange feeling welled up inside him. This was probably the only time, and perhaps the last, that the original owner had written down his ideals.

"It's not particularly well-written, but one sentence touched me: 'Stories have power,'" Old Chen said, closing his notebook.

Old Chen looked at him for a while, then took out a form from the drawer and handed it to him.

"Fill out this form and submit an essay to me by this Friday. There are no restrictions on the subject matter or the word count. I will review it and then decide whether you can represent the class in the school's preliminary selection."

Lin Shubai took the form, which was printed with the words "Citywide Middle School Student Essay Competition Registration Form" and had rows of blank spaces to be filled in below.

"Thank you, Teacher Chen."

"Don't thank me yet," Old Chen said, picking up his enamel mug. "I've read your essay. It's decent, not bad, but not outstanding either. If you want to win an award, you'll have to produce something truly impressive."

Lin Shubai stood up and nodded: "I understand."

Stepping out of the office, Lin Shubai looked down at the registration form in his hand, pondering what to write.

Old Chen's requirements were clear—produce something substantial. No perfunctory work, no half-hearted efforts; it had to be a truly moving and memorable essay.

Many options flashed through his mind. The works unlocked by the system—"The Gift of the Magi," "Lunch," "The Back View," and "Spring Blossom Noodle Shop"—each possessed considerable merit. But the problem was, these works had already been submitted to *Story Collection*. What if they were published, and then brought up again for a writing competition? Would that cause problems?

Moreover, "The Back View" is an essay, suitable for the competition. "Spring Blossom Noodle Shop" is more of a novel, which is also acceptable. But he has to choose the one that best suits him.

Just then, Su Wan caught up from behind: "How did it go? What did Old Chen say?"

"Let me submit an essay to him by this Friday."

"Then what will you write?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Su Wan tilted her head and thought for a moment: "The story 'Spring Blossom Noodle Shop' that you showed me the other day was really well-written. Why don't we hand that in?"

"That article has already been submitted to 'Story Club,' and it wouldn't be appropriate for the competition to use it if it gets published."

"Then let's write a new one."

Lin Shubai didn't speak, but he was thinking about something else.

"The Back View"

I unlocked this essay a few days ago when the father handed me oranges. The essay is 1,300 words long and describes the father seeing his son off at the train station, climbing over the tracks on the platform to buy oranges.

Zhu Ziqing's writing is simple and unadorned, yet every word is like a nail driven into people's hearts. That kind of silent, clumsy, and taciturn fatherly love is vividly portrayed through a single image of a father's back.

This essay wasn't submitted to *Story Club* magazine because it's not fiction and doesn't fit the magazine's style. But it would be perfect for a writing competition.

Moreover, it has a natural advantage—authenticity.

Lin Shubai recalled that evening when his father handed him an orange. There were no extra words, just a simple, "Eat some fruit after dinner to replenish your vitamins." That clumsy concern was exactly like the father in "The Back View."

If you adapt "The Back View" into your own story, replace Zhu Ziqing's father with Lin Jianguo, replace Pukou Railway Station with Shanghai Railway Station, and replace those details with details from your own life—then it's not plagiarism, but creation. It's a re-creation standing on the shoulders of giants.

The more he thought about it, the more feasible it seemed.

Lin Shubai didn't pay much attention in class that afternoon; his mind was filled with lines from "The Back View."

"I saw him wearing a small black cloth cap, a black cloth long gown, and a dark blue cotton robe, walking unsteadily to the edge of the railway, and slowly leaning down..."

After school, Lin Shubai didn't walk with Su Wan. He went to the school library.

The library is on the fourth floor of the teaching building. It's not big; two classrooms have been combined, with a row of bookshelves against the wall and several long tables in the middle. The librarian is an elderly woman who has been retired but rehired, and she sits by the door reading a newspaper while wearing reading glasses.

Lin Shubai found a seat by the window, took out a pen and paper.

He decided to finish revising "The Back View" tonight.

But before revising, he needs to think clearly about one thing: what does he want to express in this essay?

The original text of "The Back View" expresses a son's guilt and longing for his father. When Zhu Ziqing wrote this article, he was already in his twenties. Recalling the scene of his father seeing him off at the train station eight years earlier, he truly understood his father's love.

He is sixteen years old and a first-year high school student. If written from the perspective of someone his age, there shouldn't be such deep guilt and realization, but rather a kind of innocent ignorance at the time, and a warmth that is slowly appreciated in retrospect.

This is the real thing.

A sixteen-year-old boy won't burst into tears when his father buys him oranges. He'll take it for granted, and might even think his father is nagging and fussy. Only years later, after experiencing certain things, will he suddenly understand that those seemingly ordinary moments actually conceal the deepest love.

But he couldn't write "many years later" because it was an essay competition that required writing about current life and feelings. He needed to find a balance—one that could showcase the power of "The Back View" while also resonating with the perspective and emotions of a first-year high school student.

Lin Shubai thought about it for a long time and finally decided to write it like this:

Write about a trip with your father from the perspective of a sixteen-year-old boy. The location is Shanghai Railway Station, and the time is last winter. Your father saw you off at the train station to Hangzhou to attend some event (you can make it up). While waiting for the train, your father said he would go buy you some snacks for the journey.

Then, he saw his father's back.

Instead of climbing the platform to buy oranges, we had to wade through the crowd and queue in front of the convenience store in the waiting hall. My father wasn't very tall, and he was jostled around in the crowd, having to stand on tiptoe to look inside. People would occasionally turn back to look at him, afraid he might get lost.

After much effort, he finally managed to buy some bread and a bottle of water. When his father returned, he had a smile on his face, handed the food to him, and said, "Eat this on the way, don't go hungry."

At the time, he didn't think much of it, and even complained that the brand his father bought wasn't tasty. But later, every time he thought of that figure, an indescribable feeling would well up inside him.

That feeling is love.

After clarifying his thoughts, Lin Shubai began to write.

Last winter, my father took me to the train station.

"That was the first time I traveled far away by myself to Hangzhou to participate in a competition. It wasn't actually a very important competition, but my father took it very seriously. He started preparing several days in advance, checking routes and asking people for directions, afraid that I would get lost."

He described his father's behavior at the train station as clumsy, garrulous, and overly concerned.

"While waiting for the train, my father said he wanted to buy me something to eat on the way. I was about to say no, but he had already turned around and walked towards the convenience store."

The waiting hall was crowded, and my father, who is not tall, was quickly swallowed up by the crowd. I stood there, watching him squeeze through the crowd, tiptoeing to look at the counter of the convenience store, and glancing back at me every now and then—probably afraid that I would get lost.

In that instant, a strange feeling welled up inside me. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but my nose felt a little sore.

He wrote about his father's appearance when he returned from buying things.

"After a long time, my father finally returned. He was carrying a plastic bag containing a bag of bread and a bottle of water. His hair was a little messy, and he was sweating, but he had a smile on his face. He handed the bag to me and said, 'Eat this on the way, don't go hungry.'"

I took the bag, glanced at the brand of the bread, and thought to myself: This brand isn't good.

But he didn't say anything; he just nodded.

He wrote about what happened after the train left.

"As the train started moving, I saw my father still standing on the platform, waving at me. His figure grew smaller and smaller until he became a dot and disappeared from sight."

That day on the train, I opened the bag of bread and took a bite. It wasn't good, but for some reason, I finished it.

Later I realized that whether the bag of bread tasted good or not was completely unimportant. What mattered was that my father had squeezed through the crowds for ages to buy it for me.

Many years later, I will probably still remember that scene—my father standing on tiptoe in the crowd, looking into the counter, and glancing back at me every now and then.

That was the back of a father.

After writing the last character, Lin Shubai put down his pen and read it aloud.

It's 1,600 words long. It's 300 words longer than the original "Back View," but the emotions are coherent and the perspective is authentic.

He didn't directly copy "The Back View," but rather expressed the core spirit of "The Back View" in his own way. This is an adaptation, a re-creation, a father's love from the perspective of a sixteen-year-old boy.

It was already dark outside the window. The lights in the library were on, casting a dim yellow glow on the manuscript paper. The elderly librarian came over and knocked on the table: "Student, it's closing time."

Lin Shubai glanced at his watch; it was almost seven o'clock.

He carefully packed up the manuscript paper, put it in his bag, and stood up to leave. As he reached the door, he glanced back at the library. It was empty, with only a few lamps still lit on the long tables.

The bus arrived, and Lin Shubai squeezed on, finding a window seat. The street scene outside the window flashed by: neon lights, GG signs, and hurried pedestrians.

He looked out the window, still thinking about that essay.

Revise it again tomorrow and hand it over to Lao Chen before Friday.

Next, all that was left was to wait. Wait for Old Chen's reply, wait for the school's selection, and wait for news from *Story Club*.

Everything is unknown.

But that's okay. He has the time, the patience, and the stories hidden in his mind.