People in Tokyo, the world is clear

Ms. Flamingo looked at the writer, who had been taciturn since arriving this morning, and her eyes naturally fell on the manuscript in front of him.

The partition between her and the table opposite was removed, leaving only the side panels.

So naturally you can see everything at a glance.

Then her eyes widened slightly in surprise.

He turned his head and looked at the clock on the wall.

One hour.

The manuscript paper is still blank.

In the past, even if it weren't filled up, at least there would be a lot of ink that would make people look forward to it.

Today, Mr. Wu Mu's creative process was a bit too unsmooth.

Encountering a bottleneck?

Curious eyes cast towards the face and instantly found the source of the abnormality.

"What kind of look is that?"

Sometimes scattered, sometimes focused.

The lights of confusion, perseverance, and struggle flickered and switched like the three primary colors on a low-speed turntable.

Occasionally he would move his lips and mutter a few words to himself.

It was so soft that it was hard to hear, and it was impossible to analyze what was affecting the condition.

But one thing is certain.

"Teacher Goki, you're upset."

"Yes."

There is nothing to deny.

Lin Sen thought that putting his energy into other things would ease his strange mental illness, but things were developing in a bad direction.

You chose the wrong way to relax.

The creation of this unfinished novel is closely related to the girl named Ito Nishika, and even most of the story plot is based on the interaction with her.

It can be said that it is like a fictional bolt of lightning.

When I first picked up the pen, I had the fantasy of successfully separating the characters in the book from reality, but the result was a huge setback.

When I was thinking about new interactions between the male and female protagonists, some heartwarming scenes came to my mind again.

Qianxun's first release: 95010909

In the afternoon sun, the girl with her ponytail pinched the brim of her baseball cap and stared at herself with a refreshing smile.

The girl squatting beside him in the shadow of the building looked over with her chin propped up by her fist, her eyes full of childlike curiosity.

In addition to this kind of picture, there seems to be a faint mischievous breath tickling the neck:

[There's a photographer over there who wants to take a picture of us.]

[The subject is street photography, and it will be published in the newspaper. Is this okay with you, senior?]

It is a kind of secret joy like swallowing candy secretly in childhood, which corrodes the will like poison and forces the brain to issue instructions to create happiness.

There is the joy of recalling the past and the pleasure of creating stories.

The combination of these two kinds of happiness should result in a happy time like a dream.

But how did it turn out like this?

Whenever I recall those familiar scenes, the beautiful pictures always carry a strange melancholy.

Shaking and cracking.

Finally, it shattered like cherry blossoms in April, and was replaced by that strange smile under the lights on Saturday night.

Then, out of nowhere, there arises a piercing, unbearable pain, like vinegar being poured into the heart, which even a mind that considers itself mature cannot bear.

Finally, he could only stand up shakily.

"Sorry, Editor Sasakawa. I'm having trouble writing right now."

"I see it."

I thought I would face some unpleasant challenges, but I didn't expect that the sharp-tongued editor in front of me would be so easy to talk to, which was completely different from his character.

Changed your temper?

Then he blurted out the next casual test.

“Can you write some transitional content?”

Who would have thought that this sentence would touch upon his reverse scale.

A sharp light suddenly flashed in the editor-in-chief's narrowed eyes.

"I can agree to let you take a break for a day and make up the word count later. But please don't insult me ​​with low-quality writing, Mo Yujun."

“Yes, Editor.”

Sure enough, the thought just now was an illusion.

But I still felt the subtle care in his subsequent words.

"Keep trying. If it doesn't work, then give up. Go wash your face. Insomniac, you look like you haven't had enough rest these past two days."

"That shouldn't be necessary. I feel like I'm fine."

"I just want you to go wash your face. Can you go? That way I can feel more at ease."

"Hesitant."

He had no choice but to pull out the chair with a bit of helplessness and slip into the bathroom on the same floor which was bigger than the hotel room he rented. He wiped the tiredness from his face and finally dispelled some of the lingering melancholy.

But unexpectedly, I heard some unbridled chatting outside the door.

Most of them came from two editors in the publishing house.

"how have you been?"

I'm so tired, so alone

One of them asked in a rather subdued female voice.

Another sharper voice of the same sex quickly gave the answer with a sigh.

"Don't mention it. I'm telling you, that Dongye is really clueless."

"Dongye? Oh, is that the Dongye teacher you mentioned before?"

"Don't worry, teacher. I guess I misjudged you."

"What's wrong?"

"I just urged him to submit the manuscript, but he didn't say anything for a long time. He even replied to me saying that he needed to be more cautious about the text at hand. Isn't he just trying to delay the submission?"

"Ah, haha, that's it."

As if she was aroused to complain about something, the thin-voiced woman chatted even more enthusiastically after her colleague agreed with her.

"Really? His books used to sell well, he won the Ranpo Prize, and he was considered a big shot. Now the mystery market is declining, and he hasn't had a work that sells well in years. I took pity on his writing skills, suggested he switch to other genres, and even paved the way for him. Do you know what he said?"

"What's wrong?"

"He was telling me to write something high-quality and win with quality, and not to talk about changing the subject matter. Who is he trying to show off to!!!"

"Calm down, calm down."

"Really? He kept telling me he was a professional writer and had to be responsible for his readers... His books weren't even selling, so how could he expect readers? I should have known not to invest so much energy in him. What a waste!"

"We just don't get along with some teachers. That's normal. Teachers are stuck at home all day, so they don't understand the performance pressure we face."

"To put it bluntly, I'm just a vagrant. Who can't write a few words?"

This angry remark turned into a brutal statement and shocked the other contralto.

In this country where writers are printed on banknotes, this statement is indeed a bit sensational.

"I say, don't let anyone else hear it."

"Oh. Never mind, I'll just let it out. Wait a minute, I'll touch up my makeup."

"it is good."

"Really? This quarter's performance is a mess. That bag I told you about a few days ago will have to be put off until later."

The conversation ended with another sigh.

He seems to be very dissatisfied with the current situation.

It's ironic to think about it. People's ideas are always different.

Most writers just want to produce good works.

But for many editors, real writers are just performance machines that produce hot books, and they are divided into different levels according to sales volume.

The things that you and I pin our dreams on may just be the work of others.

Contradictions and conflicts arise from this disharmony.

Somehow, Lin Sen suddenly felt a little relieved.

A certain person who often had a sour face flashed before my eyes. He was probably sipping coffee at his desk with a pout on his face.

The depression in my heart had not yet dissipated, but I felt a little relieved by this somewhat funny scene.

Compare goods, compare people.

Compared with the editor-in-chief of Mr. Dongye just now, the sharp-tongued Flamingo seemed somewhat friendly.

Although he is a reverse mentor, he has many requirements.

But she knows how to respect.

Chapter 33: It's hard to sit or stand still

So, birds of a feather flock together?

The failed author Mori Kobayashi and his editor Rio Sasagawa.

Without expectations about performance, there will be fewer disputes and dissatisfactions related to this.

They are friendly and rarely get angry with each other.

It's the kind of lineup that could be put together to film thousands of episodes of a soap opera.

It's similar to a group that wears strange clothes, combs their hair into a crazy look, and shouts "White hole, a white tomorrow is waiting for us!"

However, although the smaller the ability, the smaller the responsibility, the most basic standards must still be met when dealing with any matter.

After working through about three pages in a daze, he suddenly let out a long sigh.

"Forget it, I won't torture Editor Sasakawa's eyes today."

Put down your pen and place your hands flat on the table.

The manuscript paper shattered in the next second, was crumpled into a ball and thrown out, hitting the center of the trash can accurately.

Lin Sen had no idea what expression was on the face of the female editor sitting upright.

But I also knew that she must want to ask something.

But, in the end.

She just sat upright and looked at him with a calm expression, maintaining the usual respect they showed each other.

silence.

Only a tolerant and concerned word escaped:

"Get some rest. I hope Mr. Itsuki can handle his troubles."

"I try my best."

But it is not so easy to be a giant in action.