A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

On the first workday after the New Year, Lin Shubai's phone rang in the morning.

The screen displayed the name "Zhou Mingyuan," and the time was 8:03 AM.

"Hello, Teacher Zhou..."

"Xiao Lin! Happy New Year! Time to get back to work!" Zhou Mingyuan's voice boomed from the receiver, full of energy.

"Happy New Year."

"Let's get down to business. 'The Little Prince' will be available next Friday. This time, the distribution volume is much larger than 'Charlotte's Web.' It will be available simultaneously in Xinhua bookstores, private channels, and online bookstores. Let me tell you, those guys in the distribution department are like they've seen money whenever they see the name 'Lin Shubai.' Are you free at noon today? Let's go out for lunch. Lao Ban Zhai, you know? The one on Fuzhou Road. I've made a reservation. Let's eat and talk about 'The Little Prince.'"

Lin Shubai was taken aback. Zhou Mingyuan rarely invited him to dinner; they usually met in the publishing house office. This time, he specifically asked to meet at a restaurant and even made a reservation in advance, which meant that the matter to be discussed was quite important. He quickly ran through the possible scenarios in his mind—was there a problem with the sample book? Was there a problem with the distribution? Or was there some good news to share in person?

"Are you free? What time?"

"11:30, don't be late. Lao Ban Zhai's lion's head meatballs are limited, they'll be gone if you go too late."

After hanging up the phone, Lin Shubai sat on the bed without moving, feeling that the New Year was not over yet, but some people had already started work.

While washing up, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His hair had grown a bit long, and his bangs were covering his eyebrows. The last time he got a haircut was before the Lunar New Year. Wang Xiulan had said, "Don't cut your hair in the first month of the lunar calendar." He didn't believe in such things, but he was too lazy to go out, so he just left it as it was.

The boy's eyes in the mirror had changed a lot compared to six months ago. It wasn't an act; he had really changed. Six months ago, he had just transmigrated, his mind containing the memories of a 28-year-old online writer, but his body was that of a 16-year-old high school student. That mismatch lasted for a long time. Now, his face and eyes were finally in sync. He couldn't say whether it was a good thing or a bad thing—the good thing was that he no longer felt like an old man pretending to be young, and the bad thing was that he seemed to have really become younger. Sometimes, he even felt like a stranger to himself.

At noon, Lin Shubai walked to the entrance of the residential area, stood by the roadside and waved. An empty taxi drove up from a distance, he raised his hand, and the car pulled over.

"Master, Fuzhou Road, Lao Ban Zhai."

The car stopped on Fuzhou Road. Lin Shubai paid the fare, got out of the car, and the sign of Lao Ban Zhai was on the side of the road. It wasn't very conspicuous, but it had been on this road for decades, and the old customers could find it with their eyes closed.

At the end of the corridor was a private room, the door half-open.

There were two people sitting in the private room.

Zhou Mingyuan was sitting by the window with a pot of tea in front of him, flipping through the menu. He looked up and saw Lin Shubai, and waved to him. Sitting opposite him was Chen Yuanshan.

Lin Shubai paused at the door for half a second. Zhou Mingyuan hadn't mentioned Chen Yuanshan's arrival on the phone. However, he quickly realized that since Chen Yuanshan was there, it must be something, and it was related to "Four Generations Under One Roof." He had given the manuscript, nearly a million words, to Chen Yuanshan before the New Year, and the old editor had probably finished reading it and couldn't wait to discuss it in person.

"What are you doing standing at the door? Come in." Zhou Mingyuan waved to him.

Lin Shubai walked in and sat down at an empty seat at the round table. "Happy New Year, Teacher Chen."

"Why is Teacher Chen here too?" Lin Shubai asked directly. He was already familiar with Chen Yuanshan, so there was no need to beat around the bush.

"He happened to be in my office this morning," Zhou Mingyuan answered for Chen Yuanshan. "He was sitting right next to me when I called. When he heard I was going to have dinner with you, he said, 'I'll go too. I have something to tell him.'" Zhou Mingyuan glanced at Chen Yuanshan, his tone carrying a sense of helplessness, as if he couldn't shake off the guy. "I'm treating, but he's freeloading and made me order extra food for free."

Chen Yuanshan picked up his teacup and took a sip. "You always order too much food. Even if I weren't here, you would still order too much. Now that I'm here, at least I can remind you to order less."

"Did you remind me that I got less?"

"It's my business to remind you, whether you click it or not is your problem."

Lin Shubai sat to the side, watching the two of them go back and forth. Since Zhou Mingyuan still had the mood to bicker with Chen Yuanshan, it meant that the matter of "The Little Prince" was probably not bad news.

The waiter came in with the menu, and Zhou Mingyuan took it, flipped through a couple of pages, and ordered in a rapid-fire manner: "Three lion's head meatballs, braised eel in sizzling oil, stir-fried shrimp, braised pork belly, braised pork with bamboo shoots and vegetables, and a vegetable dish, that's enough."

Before the food was even served, Chen Yuanshan spoke up. He wasn't the kind of person who could wait—not that he lacked patience, but he felt that he could do many things while waiting for someone, such as reading manuscripts, writing annotations, or discussing revisions with the author, all of which were more meaningful than just sitting and waiting for the food.

"Xiao Lin, I've finished reading your book, 'Four Generations Under One Roof'."

"I finished reading it before the New Year. Every day, the characters you wrote about kept running through my mind. I dreamed about Xiaoyangquan Hutong every night. On the second day of the Lunar New Year, I dreamed that Qi Ruixuan was standing in the courtyard listening to Japanese military songs. After waking up, I lay in bed for a long time and couldn't fall asleep."

Lin Shu-bai didn't know what to say. "Your work is giving me nightmares." Was this a compliment or a complaint?

"Old Sun, the president of People's Literature Publishing House, has read the first part and said he wants it published as soon as possible." Chen Yuanshan picked up a brown paper bag from the chair next to him, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to Lin Shubai. Lin Shubai took it. On it was Chen Yuanshan's neat penmanship, with a few lines written, the gist of which was a recommendation for publication. He glanced at it but didn't look at it carefully because Chen Yuanshan had already started talking about the next thing.

"But there's one problem: the signature—real name or pseudonym?"

Lin Shubai was taken aback. "What's the big deal?"

"First, reader perception. Who are your readers now? Most of the people who buy Charlotte's Web and The Little Prince are parents buying for their children, or young female readers. What do they expect from the name 'Lin Shubai'? It's warmth, healing, touching, and bringing tears to their eyes but leaving them with a warm feeling in their hearts. When these readers see your name, they will subconsciously feel, 'This is a book that will make me feel comfortable.'"

"But Four Generations Under One Roof is different. After reading this book, you won't feel comfortable. It will make you feel suffocated, keep you up at night, and make you think about many things. If you use the same title, those readers who come for 'warmth and healing' will be stunned when they open the book and read the first page about the Japanese entering the city. It's not that the book is bad, it's just that it's not what they expected."

"Secondly, and most importantly—protect yourself. You are sixteen years old now. A sixteen-year-old author writing nearly a million words on the theme of the War of Resistance Against Japan is a topic in itself. When you are interviewed, you will be asked, 'Why are you able to write something like this?' Book critics will use words like 'genius' and 'prodigy' to discuss you. Readers will use the label 'sixteen years old' to define your work. These are not bad things, but if all the discussions revolve around 'sixteen years old' instead of the novel itself, it will be detrimental to your long-term development."

"Using a pen name is like removing this topic altogether. When readers pick up the book, open it, and see that the author is 'Mu Zibai' or something else, they don't know if the person is old or young, male or female. They can only face the text itself, which is good for your writing—because your level will be objectively evaluated, rather than being boosted or dragged down by your age. Moreover, there's a very real issue: if this book gets into trouble because of its sensitive subject matter, using a pen name can help shield you. Of course, this possibility is very small, but I've been an editor my whole life and have seen too many authors pushed into the limelight because of one article. You're only sixteen years old; it's not worth taking that risk."

Lin Shubai leaned back in his chair, staring at the teacup in front of him.

He understands this concern. Although he himself doesn't think that way, from a market perspective, this concern makes sense. It's like a dessert shop suddenly starting to sell mala tang (a spicy hot pot dish). Regular customers will feel like they've come to the wrong place, and new customers will wonder what this shop is all about.

But Lin Shubai felt a vague unease, not because of the suggestion to "use a pen name" itself, but because it reminded him of something—in other people's eyes, "Lin Shubai" had already been labeled: fairy tale, warmth, healing, young writer. He had put these labels on himself, but now that he wanted to tear them off, he found it a little painful.

He recalled the line from *The Little Prince*: "All grown-ups were once children, and few remember it." He suddenly felt as if he were doing something similar. He wrote a fairy tale under the name "Lin Shubai," and everyone remembered it. Then he wanted to write something different, and everyone said, "Change your name." It wasn't that he couldn't write it, but that he couldn't use the same name. What did that mean? Was it a gentle rejection?

Chen Yuanshan noticed his hesitation. "Don't rush, take your time to think it over. Old Sun said he's waiting for your decision. The book can be scheduled first, and the authorship will be decided later."

Lin Shubai nodded, suppressing the thought for the time being.

The waiter came in with a tray, which was filled with braised pork meatballs, braised eel in hot oil, stir-fried shrimp, braised pork belly, and braised pork with bamboo shoots. The steaming hot food looked especially tempting on a winter noon.

Zhou Mingyuan picked up a lion's head meatball and placed it in Lin Shubai's bowl. "Try it. It's Lao Ban Zhai's signature dish. I've been eating it for many years, and the taste hasn't changed."

Chen Yuanshan ate slowly and deliberately, chewing a piece of braised pork for a long time before putting down his chopsticks. "There's one more thing."

Lin Shubai raised his head.

"I've read your 'The Wrong Station'." Chen Yuanshan picked up his teacup and took a sip. "It's very well written, but it's a bit different from your previous works. We'll talk about this later."

"The Wrong Station" was written by Lin Shubai after the Chinese New Year and was given to Chen Yuanshan. I didn't expect him to be so dedicated, even during the New Year he was reading the manuscript.

Zhou Mingyuan put down his chopsticks halfway through his meal and steered the conversation back on track.

"Xiaolin, *The Little Prince* will be available next Friday. This time, the print run is 40,000 copies, much more than the first print run of *Charlotte's Web*. The distribution department says this number is a record for newcomers. Of course, you're not a newcomer anymore. Next Saturday, there's a newly opened bookstore in Pudong called 'Pudong Cultural Bookstore.' It's a large place, and there's an activity area on the first floor that can hold several hundred people. They'll hold another book signing for you. The last one on Nanjing Road was too crowded; the readers lined up all the way into the alley. This time, we're changing the location. It'll be 2 PM, so be there early."

"The online bookstore needs 500 signed copies, remember to sign them."

"Five hundred copies?"

"Not enough? Then eight hundred it is."

"Five hundred it is."

Chen Yuanshan remained silent the whole time, slowly eating the lion's head meatballs in his bowl. He only spoke up after Zhou Mingyuan finished, "For book signings, make sure the signatures look nice. Last time, my colleague saw that electrocardiogram one and asked me, 'Was this signed by the author you recommended?' I said yes, and he said, 'Is his hand shaking?'"

Lin Shubai opened his mouth, "...I've practiced it."

"How far have you progressed in your training?"

"At least it doesn't look like an uphill electrocardiogram anymore."

Chen Yuanshan glanced at him, took a pen from his pocket, and then took a napkin from the table, pushing it in front of Lin Shubai. "Sign one."

After Lin Shubai finished signing, Chen Yuanshan picked up a napkin and looked at it. "Not bad."

Zhou Mingyuan leaned over for a look. "Hmm, better than last time. Last time it looked like it had been electrocuted, this time it looks like it has been electrocuted but not as badly."

Lin Shubai was silent for two seconds. "Is that a compliment?"

"That's progress," Zhou Mingyuan said with a smile, patting him on the shoulder.

After finishing their meal, the three of them stood at the restaurant entrance. Chen Yuanshan put his scarf back on and patted Lin Shubai on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about the manuscript. I'll let you know as soon as I have any news from the publisher. Your priority right now is to make the book signing event for 'The Little Prince' a success."

Zhou Mingyuan stood to the side, his hands in his pockets. "Xiao Lin, next Saturday, Pudong Cultural Bookstore. Don't forget, arrive early. I'll have someone waiting for you at the entrance."

"it is good."

Lin Shubai smiled, turned around and walked to the side of the road. He hailed a taxi, opened the door, and got in.

The car started, and Lin Shubai leaned against the window, the scales in his mind beginning to tip again.

Should I use a pen name, or not?

After the meal, he thought he would be more inclined to accept Chen Yuanshan's suggestion. After all, the two old editors were over a hundred years old combined and had been working in the publishing industry for so many years. Their judgment was likely to be correct. Using a pseudonym was safe, secure, and error-free. Readers would not be confused, the market would not fight, and the publisher would not have to worry about the publicity. How wonderful!

But he just felt something was off.

It's hard to describe this feeling. It's as if a voice is saying: If you use a pen name, you're admitting that "Lin Shubai" can only write fairy tales, "Lin Shubai" can only write about warm things, and "Lin Shubai" can't touch those heavy, gray, sleepless themes. You're admitting that you're a labeled person, and that you can't tear off that label.

Lin Shubai opened his eyes and looked at the street scene outside the car window.

He pondered a question: If he used a pseudonym for "Four Generations Under One Roof," what about the next one? And the one after that? Would he change his name every time he wrote a different type of work? He would use one name for fairy tales, another for war stories, another for science fiction, and yet another for essays—in the end, he would have a whole bunch of names, but none of them would truly be him.

In his past life, he was someone who used a pen name. As an online writer, he understood the significance of a pen name all too well—it was an alias, a mask, a safe haven where you could hide behind it and write whatever you wanted without worrying about being recognized. But that was in his past life; things were different in this life.

As the taxi drove along the overpass, Lin Shubai looked out the window at the buildings under construction and the tower cranes at the construction site. Suddenly, a very simple truth came to mind: a writer should be responsible for his work, and the most direct way to be responsible for his work is to sign his name.

It's not because the name is valuable, but because it represents your willingness to take responsibility for every word in it. If you write it well, people will praise you; if you write it poorly, people will criticize you. There is no middle ground, no way out like "that's a pen name and has nothing to do with me."

So he picked up his phone, found Chen Yuanshan's number, and sent a text message.

"Teacher Chen, I've decided on my pen name. I won't use a pen name; I'll just use Lin Shubai."

The message came back quickly. He picked it up and saw that Chen Yuanshan's reply was only five words: "Okay, got it."