A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

At 10 a.m. on Friday, Lin Shubai sat in the conference room of the Children's Publishing House.

In front of him was a long table, on which were neatly stacked five hundred copies of "The Little Prince." This was his task for the day—to sign all five hundred copies, pack them up, and send them to the online bookstore. Zhou Mingyuan had said that the online bookstore had started pre-sales on Friday, and more than four hundred of the five hundred signed copies had already been pre-ordered. "If you sign them late, and they delay shipping, I'll be the one complaining, and you'll be the one getting yelled at."

Lin Shubai glanced at the pile of books, then at the pen in his hand. "Teacher Zhou, what do you think would happen to a person's hand if they signed their name five hundred times in a row?"

"It won't get much worse, it'll just be sore for a couple of days at most." Zhou Mingyuan pulled up a chair and sat down. "If you're bored, I'll chat with you. If your hands are sore, I'll have someone buy some medicine."

"No need for medicine—"

"I've already bought it." Zhou Mingyuan picked up a vial of medicine from the table and placed it in front of Lin Shubai. "It doesn't have much of a taste, don't worry."

Lin Shubai didn't say anything more, opened the first book, and signed it.

The meeting room was quiet, with only the scratching of pens on paper. Zhou Mingyuan sat to the side, holding his phone, glancing at it occasionally and exchanging a few words with Lin Shubai.

After signing about a hundred books, Lin Shubai's hand started to ache. He put down his pen, moved his wrist, picked up the medicine, squeezed out a little, and applied it to his hand. Zhou Mingyuan glanced at it and said, "Hmm, it's working. That means he's not too stupid."

"When did I become stupid?"

"At your last book signing, you told me your arm was sore only after you finished signing. What else could that be but stupidity?"

Lin Shubai wanted to refute, but found himself speechless. He had indeed endured three hours at the last book signing, and his right hand was swollen when he got home. Wang Xiulan rubbed his hand and muttered to him for half an hour. He thought at the time that "it would pass if he just endured it," but after enduring it, he found that it was not "passed" but "even more painful." This time he learned his lesson and used everything he could, including medicine, finger exercises, and regular rest. A person cannot fall twice in the same place, especially when it comes to something as trivial as a pen.

When it came to the 150th book, Zhou Mingyuan took something out of his pocket and placed it on the table. Lin Shubai looked down and saw it was a small packet of cookies, already opened, with a few left inside.

"Eat a piece to replenish your sugar levels. Signing autographs is also physically demanding."

By the time he got to the 200th book, his mind started to wander. With autographs, you need to concentrate on the first 50, then you start to feel numb from 50 to 100, and after 100, your brain automatically switches to autopilot mode. Your hands are moving, your eyes are looking, but your mind is thinking about other things—the book signing tomorrow, the questions reporters might ask. Several media outlets have contacted Zhou Mingyuan recently, wanting to interview him. Zhou Mingyuan has helped him deflect some of them, but there will definitely be reporters at the signing event; you can't stop them.

He needs to think carefully about what he's going to say.

After signing the last book, Lin Shubai put down his pen and let out a long sigh. Five hundred books—his hand ached from his wrist to his fingertips, a red mark appeared where he had gripped the pen, and his fingers trembled slightly. Zhou Mingyuan came over, stacked the five hundred books, and called a staff member in to pack them. He glanced at Lin Shubai's hand, "Not bad, not worn out. Can you manage the book signing tomorrow?"

"Yes. Even if it's not possible, it has to be possible."

"Go back and rest. Tomorrow at 2 PM, Pudong Cultural Bookstore. Don't be late."

......

Saturday afternoon, Pudong Cultural Bookstore.

Lin Shubai sat behind the signing table, a stack of copies of "The Little Prince" waiting to be signed in front of him. He wiggled his fingers; he had applied medicine before bed last night, and his hands felt much better this morning, but they were still a little sore. The aftereffects of buying 500 copies wouldn't disappear in a day.

The book signing had been going on for almost an hour. There were quite a few people there, and the line was very long, but he signed quickly, occasionally looking up to say "thank you" to the readers, and occasionally being asked a simple question or two—"How old are you?" "Sixteen." "Who is your favorite character in 'The Little Prince'?" "The fox." These were questions he had already answered many times.

A five- or six-year-old boy was carried by his mother to the book signing table, holding a copy of "The Little Prince." He turned to the title page, looked up at Lin Shu-bai, and Lin Shu-bai looked down at him, asking his name. The boy replied, "Hao Hao." Lin Shu-bai wrote "Wishing Hao Hao happiness every day" on the title page, then signed the book. The boy took the book and suddenly asked, "Brother, do you know the Little Prince?"

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "I don't know him. But I've read his story."

"Could you take this to him for me?" The little boy took a chocolate out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

Lin Shubai stared at the chocolate for a moment, then picked it up and put it in his pocket. "Okay, next time I see him, I'll give it to him for you."

Around four o'clock, the last reader finished signing.

Lin Shubai stood up and stretched his neck and shoulders. Zhou Mingyuan walked over and handed him a bottle of water. "Have some water. Don't rush off yet. There are a few reporters waiting in the lounge who want to interview you."

Lin Shubai unscrewed the bottle cap and took a sip. "How many?"

"Three: Shanghai Youth Daily, Shanghai branch of China News Service, and a publishing magazine. I've already booked them all. It won't be long, about ten minutes each." Zhou Mingyuan glanced at his watch. "Take a five-minute break, then head over."

Lin Shubai nodded. He didn't really like giving interviews or being in the public eye, but he knew it was part of the job. The book was published, and it needed to be promoted, it needed exposure, and it needed to be known by more people. He wasn't giving the interview for himself, but for the book.

Five minutes later, he walked into the small lounge behind the signing table.

The first person to enter was a female reporter from the Shanghai Youth Daily, in her thirties. She sat down opposite Lin Shubai, turned on her recorder, and placed it on the table.

"Lin Shubai, thank you for your time. I don't have many questions, please answer them as quickly as possible."

"It's alright, go ahead and ask."

The female reporter opened her notebook. "My first question: 'The Little Prince' is your second book. Compared to 'Charlotte's Web,' which do you think is better written?"

"It's not a good comparison. The two books are different. Charlotte's Web is about friendship and commitment, while The Little Prince is about growing up. Just like you can't ask which tastes better, an apple or an orange, I'm only responsible for writing them down. Whether they taste good or not is up to the readers."

The female reporter nodded, scribbled a few lines in her notebook, and said, "My second question is, as your readers know, you're still in your first year of high school. Does writing affect your studies? How are your grades?"

"It definitely has an impact. While others do their homework after school, I write my draft first and then do my homework. So I go to bed later than them, but my grades are still pretty good. I was in the top few dozen in my grade at the end of last semester."

The female reporter looked up at him, probably thinking that the phrase "top dozens" was a bit vague, but she didn't press him for details.

"My third question is, I heard that you are writing a novel set during the War of Resistance against Japan. Is this true?"

Lin Shubai tapped his knee lightly with his fingers. He had expected to be asked this question and had prepared his answer in his mind.

"true."

The female reporter leaned forward. "Could you tell me the book's title and a brief summary?"

"The book is tentatively titled 'Four Generations Under One Roof,' and it tells the story of an ordinary family in Beiping during the War of Resistance against Japan. It follows four generations of the family as they live, die, and make choices during the war. This is the longest novel I have ever written, with about one million words."

The female reporter paused, her pen still. "One million words? You're only sixteen! How did you manage to complete such a massive project?"

"Write slowly, a little bit every day, and it will add up." Lin Shubai tried to keep his tone as calm as possible.

"You used to write fairy tales and heartwarming short stories, why did you suddenly switch to such a heavy subject?"

"There's no particular reason, I just felt that this subject matter should be written. During the War of Resistance Against Japan, the stories of ordinary people are especially worth remembering. They weren't generals or leaders, they were just ordinary people in the alleys, worrying about daily necessities. Suddenly one day, war came, and I think how they faced it, what choices they made, and how they survived are all important stories."

The female reporter scribbled rapidly in her notebook. After finishing, she looked up, closed the notebook, and said, "Thank you for your time. I wish you success with your new book."

She stood up, extended her hand, and Lin Shubai shook her hand.

The second person to come in was a male reporter from China News Service. His questions were similar to the first reporter's, but from a different angle.

"Don't you think this subject matter is too heavy? After all, you're only sixteen. Won't writing this kind of thing affect you?"

"Yes, there are parts where it's very difficult to write. For example, when I write about the characters dying one by one, I stop several times because I don't want to continue. But that's how the story unfolds, and I can't change it just to make myself feel better."

The third reporter was from the publishing industry, surnamed Gu. "Lin Shubai, I'm from Publishers Weekly. Our magazine is mainly for people in the industry—publishers, bookstores, copyright agents, etc. So my questions may be a little different from the first two. Don't be nervous, just say what you don't know."

Lin Shubai nodded.

"My first question is, what's the current publication progress of 'Four Generations Under One Roof'? Has the publisher provided a rough timeline?"

"The manuscript has been submitted and the editor is reviewing it. The specific publication date depends on the publishing house's arrangements, so I can't give a precise time."

"My second question is, what are your expectations for the market performance of 'Four Generations Under One Roof'? Or, do you have a rough sales target in mind?"

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "No, once the book is finished and handed over to the publisher, the rest is beyond my control. Of course, I hope it can be seen by more people, but I will not set a sales target for myself. That is not something I should worry about."

Reporter Gu looked up at him and said, "Isn't this something you should be worrying about? Many authors don't think that way."

"Many authors even handle cover design, marketing plans, and distribution channels themselves. My editor once told me, 'You write the book, and we'll take care of the rest.' I think he's right. If I were worried about sales every day, I wouldn't have time to write the next book."

Reporter Gu smiled, scribbled a few lines in his notebook, and asked, "My third question is, what are your future creative plans? After 'Four Generations Under One Roof,' will you continue writing on this theme, or will you return to fairy tales?"

"I can write about anything. I'll write whichever one feels right first. I don't want to tie myself to just one topic."

Reporter Gu nodded, put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and adopted a more relaxed posture. The previous questions were just routine; the questions that followed were what he really wanted to ask.

"One last question: You're currently the youngest member of the Shanghai Writers Association. What are your thoughts on this role?"

Lin Shubai was stunned for a moment; he hadn't really thought of this angle before.

He joined the Writers' Association last year, but he still writes articles and attends classes as usual. His life hasn't changed much because of this new identity—except that occasionally someone will call him a "great writer," such as Su Wan.

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "To be honest, I don't have any special thoughts. The day I got the membership card, I opened it and took a look, then put it in the drawer. It's not that I don't cherish it, but I feel that this thing is not the end, but a new beginning. Joining the Writers Association does not mean that I have become successful. Writers speak through their works, not through membership cards."

"Being the youngest sounds impressive, but I don't think there's anything to be proud of. People younger than me can also write great things; they just haven't been discovered yet. Part of the reason I was able to get in at this age is luck—I met a good editor, a good publisher, and the right timing. These are things I can't control."

"Isn't there pressure? People are watching you, seeing what your next book will be like and whether you can maintain the same level of quality."

"Yes, but pressure isn't a bad thing. Pressure makes you realize you can't be lazy. But I don't care too much about what others think of me. I know in my heart whether my writing is good or bad. If others think it's good, I won't think I'm great; if others think it's bad, I won't stop writing. Writing is ultimately about competing with yourself."

After listening, reporter Gu did not speak immediately. He lowered his head and wrote a few lines in his notebook, writing very slowly, as if he was carefully considering his words. After finishing, he closed the notebook and turned off the recorder.

"Thank you, Lin Shubai. I will write down what you said exactly. I think readers will want to read it."

Reporter Gu stood up, extended his hand, and said, "I hope 'Four Generations Under One Roof' will be released soon."

"Thank you, Teacher Gu."

The lounge quieted down, and Zhou Mingyuan pushed open the door and sat down next to Lin Shubai.

"Are you tired?"

"It's alright, it's easier than a book signing."

"What did that Publishers Weekly reporter ask? I saw him stay inside for quite a while."

"They asked some industry-related questions, such as publication progress and market expectations."

Zhou Mingyuan stood up. "Let's go. I'll take you home. School starts soon, so get some rest these next couple of days."

The two walked out of the lounge. There were hardly any people left on the first floor of the bookstore. The tables and chairs in the activity area had been put away, but the posters were still hanging.

Everything will be different after the reports come out. Everyone will know that he is writing "Four Generations Under One Roof" and that he is the youngest member of the Writers Association. Some people will have expectations, some will question, and some will wait to see him make a fool of himself. He can't control these things. All he can control is to write the book well and say what needs to be said clearly.