Chapter 37: Rising Reputation

The editorial office was a room facing north.

There weren’t many desks inside—about a dozen or so—placed along the windows and walls.

Each desk was piled high with manuscript stacks, and so was the floor; all were wrapped in kraft paper, with submission titles written on the covers.

Chen Xiaomi was ordinarily a person who loved to dress well, valued cleanliness, and especially adored flowers and plants.

Indeed, on her desk sat a pot of spring orchids, extremely popular this year.

Technically, she didn’t have to come to work today, but as one of the least senior staff in this office, Chen Xiaomi held her own determination and ambition.

She refused to be labeled by colleagues as someone who got in through family connections; she wanted to prove herself with her talent and make a name for herself.

How does an editor raise their performance?

Naturally, by discovering talented writers and outstanding works—the more manuscripts she published through her hands, the more recognition she’d earn from the Wenxueshe.

If she was incredibly lucky and unearthed a debut writer who shook the literary world, her reputation and status within the Wenxueshe and the entire industry would surge rapidly.

This was the fastest path for editors like her to get promoted, raise their salary, and build prestige.

In the 1980s, literature was in vogue; writers held high status, and the income from a single accepted manuscript was substantial. As one of the most prestigious literary magazines in the country, they received countless submissions daily from all over the nation.

They were swamped!

Yet unfortunately, although thousands of new writers emerged every day, finding a truly exceptional one was like searching for a needle in a haystack—vanishingly rare, a stroke of luck you couldn’t rely on.

Carrying scattered thoughts, Chen Xiaomi had already reviewed seven or eight manuscripts—none were terrible, but few were good; only one barely caught her eye.

Another one rejected…

With her right hand holding a teacup, her left hand skillfully pulled another manuscript from the pile.

She glanced at the cover name: “Alive,” by Shiyue.

It was an ordinary glance—she saw nothing special.

Another “mediocrity,” she thought, sipping tea as she skimmed through it quickly.

But as she read, Chen Xiaomi suddenly froze—she realized her teacup had been frozen at her lips for a long time; she’d been so absorbed in the story she’d lost herself.

As a manuscript editor for Renmin Literature, Chen Xiaomi’s professionalism and cultivation were unquestionable; she instantly understood what this state meant.

What did it mean?

Realizing this, her heart leapt—she put down the cup without another sip, flipped back to the title “Alive,” and immediately threw herself into it with full focus.

Yes—read it again! From beginning to end!

She abandoned her earlier rushed review, reading word by word, meticulously savoring every line.

What she found was astonishing!

She was quickly captivated by the fluid, vibrant prose, lost in it, unable to pull away.

She didn’t know how long she’d been reading…

When she finally came back to herself, she realized the manuscript had ended—there was nothing more.

Chen Xiaomi adjusted her glasses with her fingertip, her gaze still fixed on the final line of the final page, staring as if carved in stone, unwilling to look away, speechless for a long while.

“Hey, Xiaomi, what are you daydreaming about? My pen fell and broke—lend me one.”

Liao Jie, from the next desk, saw her motionless and unresponsive, so she waved her hand repeatedly in front of her face.

Blinking slowly, Chen Xiaomi came back to herself and instinctively checked the submission’s origin.

Submission address: No. 1 Middle School, Shaoyang City, Hunan Province.

Huh?

From Shaoyang? My hometown?

Chen Xiaomi thought she’d misread—she closed her eyes, opened them again—the address hadn’t changed: still No. 1 Middle School, Shaoyang.

What a coincidence!

How wonderful!

Discovering the author was her hometown compatriot filled Chen Xiaomi with an indescribable feeling—sweet, joyful, filled with pride and warmth.

Because her first thought was this: she was from Shaoyang, and so was the author. As the saying goes, “Hometown folks meet, eyes welling with tears”—just by that, they shared an innate closeness.

Added to that, she was an editor at a top literary magazine, while Shiyue was a debut writer; they complemented each other perfectly, with no conflict of interest—ideal partners who might collaborate for years.

She judged him a debut writer because she’d been following the literary scene for nearly a decade and had never heard the name “Shiyue.”

Logically, if he were an established writer with such profound literary skill, he couldn’t possibly be unknown!

He couldn’t possibly have been buried!

As she thought this, her excitement grew harder to contain.

Debut writer! Debut writer is perfect!

If Shiyue was a debut writer, her advantage was greater—she could seize him more firmly.

Once this thought took root, Chen Xiaomi couldn’t hold back her emotions—she felt the path ahead suddenly brighten; the opportunity she’d been waiting for was right before her.

It truly proved the old saying: “When storms rage, hold fast—clouds will part, and the moon will shine.”

Her gaze unconsciously returned to the author’s information.

No. 1 Middle School…

That was Zijin’s former school.

Was the author a teacher?

Probably a teacher—perhaps even a Chinese language teacher with years of immersion in literature.

Seeing Chen Xiaomi’s smiling lips and sparkling eyes, Liao Jie forgot about borrowing the pen and leaned over curiously:

“Xiaomi, I’ve known you for nearly two years—I’ve never seen you this energized. Did you find a divine manuscript?”

Liao Jie didn’t say this without reason.

She’d heard whispers about the Chen family’s background; Chen Xiaomi was a top graduate of Renmin University—ordinary manuscripts couldn’t possibly make her lose control like this.

Worried her judgment might be biased, Chen Xiaomi calmly handed “Alive” to Liao Jie:

“Liao Jie, please take a look.”

This office handled only preliminary reviews; any promising manuscript had to go to Deputy Editor-in-Chief Zhou Mingwei for final approval.

So to avoid mistakes, colleagues sometimes asked trusted peers to review first before submitting.

Usually, this happened either when someone was unsure—or when the manuscript was so good they needed a second opinion.

Today, Chen Xiaomi’s manuscript was so good—so explosively good—that she couldn’t control herself.

She wasn’t worried someone would steal it; first, everyone was watching—who’d dare openly do that?

Second, the Chen family wasn’t to be trifled with; Liao Jie couldn’t stir up trouble in front of them.

“Alright, if it moves you this much, it must be extraordinary—I’ll read it,” Liao Jie took the manuscript and began reading intently.

Forty thousand words weren’t many, but they weren’t few—Liao Jie spent over twenty minutes finishing it.

Chen Xiaomi asked immediately: “Liao Jie, what do you think?”

Liao Jie steadied herself, then said with deep admiration: “It’s amazing! Truly amazing! No wonder you’re so moved—I’d probably be even worse.”

“Xiaomi, this is your chance—grab it.”

Hearing Liao Jie’s praise, Dai Shu, who had been resting his tired eyes, couldn’t hold back anymore—he stood up and reached out: “Give it to me—I want to see if it’s really that good.”

Chen Xiaomi smiled and personally handed the manuscript to him: “Here, please take a look.”

Dai Shu was a senior editor; rumors said the higher-ups had once planned to make him head, but due to poor health and age, he generously gave the position to a younger person.

With such a respected senior on board, Chen Xiaomi was delighted; she waited quietly, quietly observing his expression.

Dai Shu had endured hardship—the opening lines of “Alive” immediately gripped him.

As he read, his expression shifted constantly, as if the story stirred up long-buried memories.

At this point, Chen Xiaomi felt assured—she had her confirmation.

Dai Shu was so absorbed he read slowly, taking nearly forty minutes to finish.

Liao Jie asked anxiously: “What’s your verdict on the manuscript?”

Dai Shu removed his reading glasses and sighed deeply: “Little Chen has found a treasure. The last time I felt this way was reading Hemingway’s ‘The Old Man and the Sea.’ Extraordinary, extraordinary…”

In this office, Dai Shu was nearly an authority—his evaluation often carried more weight than even the editor-in-chief’s.

If he said “Alive” was good, it was good—no falsehood, no doubt.

Hearing Dai Shu’s high praise, hearing it compared to “The Old Man and the Sea,” the others in the office lost their composure—curiosity fully ignited, they all chimed in:

“Xiaomi, let me see.”

“I want to read it.”

“Me too…”

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PS: Pen name changed to “Shiyue”—auspicious.

(End of Chapter)