Chapter 42: The Game of Submission

Competition among peers is highly sensitive.

Upon hearing the name “Harvest” magazine, Chen Xiaomi immediately understood what was going on.

This “December” must have submitted the same manuscript to multiple outlets, but it’s unclear exactly how many.

Though she was furious at the other’s disgraceful behavior, she had seen this before—she’d been in the industry long enough.

After all, new writers lack resources and connections, and they don’t fully understand the industry’s unwritten rules.

Moreover, a new writer’s first book is usually poorly executed, making rejection highly likely.

So, under the urgent psychological need to publish quickly and gain fame, some new writers secretly submit the same manuscript to multiple places, simply to increase their chances.

Chen Xiaomi had considered this possibility before, but she still held onto a sliver of hope.

Now, that sliver of hope was shattered.

She didn’t remember how the call ended; her mind felt stiff, and she was enveloped in a cloud of gloom.

Zhou Chunlan, who had been eavesdropping intently, saw her standing frozen and immediately feigned concern:

“Xiaomi, what’s wrong? Did something go wrong?”

Chen Xiaomi suddenly felt a strong wave of disgust toward her, nearly spitting out curses—but she held back, forced a smile, gave a vague reply, then walked straight to the editor-in-chief’s office door.

“Knock knock knock…”

“Come in!”

Pushing the door open, Chen Xiaomi got straight to the point: “Uncle Zhou, I need to go to Shaodong City.”

Hearing this, Zhou Mingwei, who had been bent over writing, looked up at her, then set down his pen:

“Have you run into trouble?”

Given the rarity of a masterpiece like “To Live,” Chen Xiaomi revealed everything without hesitation—the fact that “December” had submitted the manuscript to multiple outlets.

Zhou Mingwei had seen every kind of storm in his career; his position as editor-in-chief demanded a composure few could match, and his expression remained unchanged, utterly unruffled.

For any other work, he’d ignore it—leave it to his subordinates to handle.

But this was “To Live”!

Even after decades in the industry and having read countless books, he could count on one hand the few works that had truly touched his soul—and “To Live” was one of them.

His vast experience told him this was a work that could make a name for itself.

Deep inside, a gut instinct whispered that if he let this opportunity slip away, he might regret it for the rest of his life.

Thinking this over, Zhou Mingwei asked: “How many words are left?”

Chen Xiaomi answered: “December said it’s about 95,000 words.”

Zhou Mingwei asked again: “Based on the phone call, what’s your most immediate impression of this writer?”

Chen Xiaomi paused, then summed it up in two words: “Confident! Greedy!”

Confidence? That’s exactly right!

Someone who could write a work like this would be strange if they weren’t confident—Zhou Mingwei might not have felt such anticipation for the rest of the manuscript otherwise.

As for greed—it varies by person. He hadn’t met the writer in person, so he wouldn’t judge. After a moment’s thought, he authorized: “Within reason, handle this entirely on your own.”

Chen Xiaomi had been waiting for exactly this—she immediately replied: “Alright, I’ll leave right away.”

Zhou Mingwei nodded solemnly and warned: “The competition is strong—better to act early than late. Watch your safety on the road.”

“Thank you, Uncle Zhou.”

Armed with his authority, and fearing that their rival “Harvest” magazine might act soon, Chen Xiaomi couldn’t afford a single moment’s delay.

She quickly tidied her desk and hurried toward the editorial office door.

“Hey, Xiaomi, where are you rushing off to in such a hurry?”

Sister Liao, who usually got along well with her, shouted out on behalf of the curious colleagues.

Chen Xiaomi glanced at Zhou Chunlan and replied: “I’ve arranged to meet December—I need to prepare.”

The editorial staff were all seasoned veterans; they sensed something significant in those simple words. Uncle Dai cheered:

“Little Chen, wish you success! When you come back, treat this old man to drinks.”

“I’ll take your good wishes—no problem.”

After leaving People’s Literature Publishing House, Chen Xiaomi rushed straight to the post office and sent an urgent telegram to Shaodong City.

Then she found a public phone booth and called a friend of her father’s to arrange tickets—train or plane, either would do.

…

Shaodong City, No. 1 High School.

Using the same method, the same tactics, Li Heng repeated the same performance on a male editor at “Harvest” magazine, leaving the man stunned.

When he hung up the red receiver, the English teacher asked: “Are you really sure this will work?”

Li Heng pondered and replied: “Hard to say yet—we’ll see the results in a few days.”

The English teacher sat cross-legged on the sofa, sipped her tea, and asked: “You’re just a new writer—if they don’t indulge you and just give up, what will you do?”

Li Heng was confident: “They won’t. I know the quality of what I’ve written.”

Seeing her skeptical expression, he added: “After the scholarship exam, if neither magazine has responded, I’ll submit to ‘Contemporary’ and ‘October’—no tricks this time, just honest manuscript fees.”

Hearing this, Wang Runwen stared at his face for a long time, puzzled:

“Shaodong is such a big city, full of intellectuals—yet over the years, no one here has become a famous writer, no one has managed to publish a novel.

Even teachers like Wang Qi—they’ll brag for weeks if their name appears in the newspaper in a tiny Doufukuai .”

You’re barely eighteen—why aren’t you satisfied with what you’ve achieved? Why are you so obsessed with money?”

Li Heng shook his head calmly: “I pour my heart and soul into writing a book, and I earn only a few hundred or a thousand yuan—what’s there to be satisfied with?

I have no other source of income—I can only rely on this, so I must maximize my returns.”

Hearing this, and remembering his impoverished background, Wang Runwen chose not to argue further.

She slowly finished her tea, checked her watch, and said: “Let’s go—home hasn’t cooked yet. While we still have time, let’s eat out.”

Li Heng asked naturally: “Am I crashing for a meal?”

Wang Runwen smirked: “Why not call it eating off a woman?”

Li Heng instinctively glanced at her chest—yes, it was soft enough.

Seeing this, Wang Runwen hurled her empty teacup at him.

Damn it!

Luckily, he dodged quickly—if he hadn’t, his head would’ve been bruised.

They stared at each other for ten seconds—Li Heng raised his hands in surrender: “Too brutal. I give up.”

Wang Runwen gave him a half-smile, picked up her wallet from the coffee table, and walked out first.

With the teacher accompanying him, the gatekeeper didn’t give him any trouble—Li Heng stepped outside the campus for the first time during the lockdown.

Looking across the street at Fat Brother’s Restaurant, he asked hopefully: “Teacher, are you treating me to a fancy meal?”

To his surprise, Wang Runwen ignored him completely and walked toward a nearby fried rice stall.

Li Heng was deeply disappointed: “I thought we were eating something good—I nearly got my head cracked!”

Wang Runwen coldly replied: “My salary isn’t high. If you think fried rice is bad, eat buns.”

Buns are good—big, soft, white. Li Heng shouted impatiently: “Boss! Add an egg to the fried rice!”

“Got it! Just a moment.”

(End of Chapter)