A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

Tuesday, December 13th, evening.

Lin Shubai brought the bowls and chopsticks to the kitchen. Wang Xiulan was washing a pot and said without looking up, "Just put the bowls in the sink. Don't touch them; they're all oily."

"it is good."

He wiped his hands and was about to get up and go back to his room when Wang Xiulan suddenly spoke.

"Shubai, what exactly happened with your Writers' Association thing?"

Lin Shubai was stunned for a moment, "What? What's going on?"

"It's about you joining the membership."

"It was recommended by the editor-in-chief of the previous 'October' magazine. He said it would be more convenient after joining the Writers Association. The form has been filled out and the photo has been sent. The Writers Association has approved it in a meeting, and I should be able to get the membership card in a few days."

Wang Xiulan didn't reply. She turned and went into the kitchen, turned on the tap, and the running water made a few seconds of noise before turning it off. When she came out, she was holding a rag and wiped the dining table back and forth three times—the table was already clean, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Mom, don't wipe it anymore, the table is clean."

Wang Xiulan stopped, glanced down at the rag in her hand, folded it, placed it by the sink, and then walked to the sofa and sat down next to Lin Jianguo.

"What does your membership card look like? Like an ID card?"

"I've never seen it before either. It's probably one of those notebooks with a red cover and words printed on it."

Wang Xiulan nodded, paused for a few seconds, and then asked, "Will you be attending meetings frequently in the future? Won't that interfere with your studies?"

"No. The Writers' Association said that I'm too young, so they won't assign me any position or require me to attend those formalistic meetings and activities. It's just a title."

Wang Xiulan visibly breathed a sigh of relief, but her expression quickly became complicated again—her eyebrows furrowed slightly, and her lips pursed, as if she had something to say but didn't know how to say it.

Lin Jianguo spoke up for her: "Your mother is afraid that if you get involved in this, you won't study properly anymore."

"When did I say that?" Wang Xiulan immediately turned her head and glared at him.

"It's written all over your face." Lin Jianguo rarely dared to talk back.

Wang Xiulan glared at him for two seconds, then sighed and looked at Lin Shubai again. "Shubai, to tell you the truth, I've always supported you in your writing, from submitting manuscripts to publishing books. But I'm actually a little unsure about this Writers' Association thing."

"It's not that I'm afraid you can't do it. You can, Mom knows." Wang Xiulan's voice was a little lower than usual, and her speech was slower. "I'm just afraid you're moving too fast. You haven't even finished your first year of high school yet, and your books are already out, in newspapers and magazines. Now you're going to join the Writers' Association. Everyone at your dad's workplace knows you. Last time his colleague came to our house, he saw the copy of 'Charlotte's Web' on the coffee table and asked, 'Did your child write this?' That person said, 'This child will be extraordinary in the future.'"

She glanced at Lin Jianguo, who nodded.

"I'm happy," Wang Xiulan's voice was a little tight, "but after the happiness comes worry. You're only sixteen, all these things are happening too fast, I'm afraid you..."

"Floating?" Lin Shubai said it for her.

"It's not about drifting," Wang Xiulan shook her head. "I'm just worried you'll get tired."

"Mom, I'm not tired. Writing isn't a burden for me; it's more like... a habit. Just like how you cook every day, after you finish a meal, I don't feel that tired."

Wang Xiulan paused for a moment, then laughed, "Isn't cooking tiring? I stand in front of the stove for more than an hour every day, and my back is so sore I can't straighten up."

"Then let me massage it for you."

"Don't give me that." Wang Xiulan stood up, patted her apron, and said, "Alright, that's enough. Go back and write your things, don't stay up too late."

Lin Shubai returned to his room. Lately, *Science Fiction World* had been keeping asking him about his manuscripts. When Zhou Hang called last time, his tone was cautiously tentative: "Mr. Lin, do you have any new manuscripts coming up? Our layout is actually quite flexible..." Lin Shubai understood; they weren't short of manuscripts, they were short of his. After *Dinosaurs in the Afternoon* and *Artificial Beauty* were published, the reader feedback was good, and Zhou Hang wanted to strike while the iron was hot.

He went through them this afternoon and selected two that he thought were suitable to finish writing in the next two days.

The first piece, "Communication of Love".

A cosmologist living alone in a research institute deep in the mountains, lonely all his life, without family or friends, has been engrossed in studying extraterrestrial languages ​​for many years. He is extremely lonely and can't help but send radio communications filled with loneliness and longing into the distant depths of the universe, pouring out his loneliness and hoping that extraterrestrial life will respond, understand him, and accompany him.

After waiting day after day, he finally received a reply from an alien. The sender was a female alien from a distant planet. Her writing was gentle and delicate. She understood his loneliness and their souls resonated with each other. The two began to correspond frequently and fell in love.

The scholar was deeply moved by this interstellar love, filled with longing and hoping that one day they could meet.

Just as he was immersed in happiness and anticipation, the truth was suddenly revealed:

The person who replied to him was not some alien girl at all.

On another part of Earth, there was another lonely ordinary person, equally bored, also sending radio waves into the universe. The two exchanged radio waves across the distance, each believing they had found an alien soulmate and embarking on a virtual romance across interstellar space.

The second piece is titled "A Long Life".

A scientist developed a drug that slows down aging and grants near-immortality. He personally tested the drug and the results were surprisingly good: his appearance remained youthful, his body remained forever young, and his lifespan was extended indefinitely.

At first, he was very proud, thinking that he could have endless time and do whatever he wanted. But as the years passed and generations went by, his relatives and friends grew old and passed away one after another. The people around him changed batch after batch, and the familiar era, customs and human relationships all changed.

He was forever young, yet he watched helplessly as everyone left him. No one could accompany him to the end; his long life was no longer a blessing, but rather an endless loneliness.

The longer he lived, the lonelier he became, watching the world turn and people change, feeling like an outsider abandoned by time.

Finally, he realized his mistake:

Living too long is not happiness; a truly complete life is one with companions and the normal cycle of birth, aging, illness, and death.

He went through the framework of the two pieces in his mind. "Communication of Love" was about 1,300 words long, and "A Long Life" was similar. If nothing unexpected happened, he could finish writing them in the next two days.

He picked up his pen and wrote the title in his notebook: "Communication of Love".

The first paragraph is below.

"Why am I so unlucky with women?" A man sighed like this every day. Of course, it was because he was passionate about radio astronomy and cosmology and had never read any books that could help him attract women, so it was no wonder that he was unlucky with women.

He wrote smoothly. Shinichi Hoshi's style is detached, his language is clean and concise, which is exactly what he does well. He doesn't need to add too many adjectives or embellish emotions; he just pushes the plot forward and lets the story speak for itself.

After writing for about forty minutes, I had written about half of "Love's Correspondence." I paused for a moment and stretched my wrists.

My phone vibrated on the table.

He picked it up and saw a text message from Su Wan: "What are you doing? I've finished my homework, I'm bored."

He typed: "Write a short story."

"What did you write?"

"For science fiction, submit your vote to Science Fiction World."

"Didn't you just submit two papers? Are you writing another one?"

"Those two articles have been published; this is the new one."

"Why do you write like you're eating noodles, one bite after another, without ever stopping?"

Lin Shubai looked at the text message and smiled. He typed, "Because I was writing this while you were eating noodles."

"Alright, then hurry up and write it, and show it to me when you're done."

"it is good."