Chapter 109: 1980 (Bonus Chapter for 2000 Vote Tickets!)

"Hah! Staying put? My turn now!"

On the dorm supervisor’s bed, Melinda picked up the dice and tossed them casually, “Six!”

Then she picked up her white piece and moved it six spaces forward, only to receive the penalty: return to the starting point.

Wei Ming didn’t laugh at her; this kind of game was like this—you never knew who would win until the very end.

Melinda had dug it out from her suitcase; when she first came abroad, she’d played it with her first roommate, then put it away, and only found it again while packing today, so she quickly brought it out to share with Wei Ming.

Xiao Cha: I wasn’t worthy to begin with.

Today Melinda hadn’t even returned to the dorm to rest; before locking the door, she openly played games with Wei Ming, and after locking it, she pulled the curtain and kept playing even better games.

After the game ended, she told Wei Ming: “I’ve finished my thesis.”

Wei Ming’s hand paused slightly as he rubbed her waist: “Then the defense is next.”

“Mm.”

Wei Ming: “When are you leaving?”

Melinda: “Probably mid-next month.”

Wei Ming asked again: “Any unfinished wishes? Or places you still want to go?”

Melinda traced circles on Wei Ming’s chest: “I want to eat donkey fire.”

Wei Ming laughed; he hadn’t expected her to still be thinking about this.

“Alright, we’ve got over half a month left—I’ll figure something out.”

Two days later, Wei Ming completed the screenplay for “The Herdsman”; it posed no difficulty for him—the main effort went into rewriting and copying it out again.

If only he had a computer, it would’ve been easier.

Every time he went to the Nan Ge Art Team to see Teacher Gu Jianfen, he’d pass by the Bei Ge Computer Room and wonder whether the computers inside could now be used by him to write novels.

In his past life, before the 1990s, he had no concept of computers and didn’t know how advanced they’d become by now.

But he knew typewriters were already quite mature; during the Republic era, Lin Yutang had invested in one, and the Wan brothers had even made an animated advertisement for typewriters; still, without his own home, keeping such a device in the dorm was too bulky and disturbed others’ sleep.

Moreover, once typed, the text couldn’t be edited; mistakes had to be crossed out by hand, but revising was inevitable in novel writing, so the advantage wasn’t clear to Wei Ming.

After finishing the screenplay, Wei Ming didn’t delay—he immediately submitted it, racing against time by going straight to Beiyingchang.

Just as poets had “Poetry Magazine,” lyricists had “Lyrics Magazine,” playwrights had “Script Magazine,” filmmakers typically submitted their screenplays to “Film Creation.”

“The Legend of Tianyun Mountain” had been published in “Film New Works,” a journal newly launched this year by Shangyingchang to compete with “Film Creation.”

Director Xie Jin’s suggestion was for him to submit to Shangyingchang’s “Film New Works,” and once he finished handling “The Legend of Tianyun Mountain,” he’d deal with “The Herdsman.”

But Wei Ming pretended not to understand and submitted directly to the more famous “Film Creation,” even coming in person to Beiyingchang.

Beiyingchang was now located at No. 77 North Third Ring Road, same district as Haidian, not far from Peking University.

After the guard at Beiyingchang’s gate asked about this kid’s background, though he’d never heard of him, the name sounded impressive, so he carefully took the manuscript.

When the chief editor of “Film Creation,” Cao Shuolong, arrived for work, the guard immediately handed him the screenplay.

“‘The Herdsman’?” Chief Editor Cao was surprised; this novel was wildly popular right now, with major official media reporting and discussing it—he hadn’t expected the original author to adapt it into a screenplay so quickly and come in person to submit it.

Back in his office, Cao Shuolong immediately began reading it seriously.

He hadn’t read the original novel; Jiang from the Literature Department had bought a copy of “Contemporary,” and he himself was about to read it—but somehow, some damn fool had stolen it, and now he couldn’t find it anywhere.

But that was fine; now he could read a completely unfamiliar story.

He read straight through until noon, and a smile still lingered on his face.

“Emotion is the foundation of belief: this land has been soaked in my sweat; these are my companions through hardship; this is my wife, who shared my life; this is the root of my existence...”

After a week spent with his father, Xu Shengfang ultimately decided to stay; the final scene of the screenplay froze on Xu Shengfang returning to the pasture, together with his wife Wei Fenfang and their son Xiao Qingqing.

“So good~”

Cao Shuolong murmured those two words; his “so good” didn’t refer just to the screenplay—though the screenplay was certainly excellent—but more importantly, the feeling of having ideals, beliefs, and family waiting for you to return home—so good!

He immediately decided to publish “The Herdsman” in the January 1980 issue, then went to Beiyingchang’s Literature Department to find Director Jiang Huaiyan.

…

After submitting the screenplay, Wei Ming didn’t return to Peking University right away; instead, he wandered around restaurants large and small in Yanjing, asking if anyone sold donkey fire, and if not, whether they sold donkey meat at all.

If he didn’t find it today, he’d look again tomorrow.

If he couldn’t find it in the city, he’d go look in the villages.

That day, just after returning from Mentougou, he saw a young man wearing glasses and dressed more fashionably than most, standing at the South Gate Guard Post, pacing back and forth in the cold.

The guard on duty saw Wei Ming and immediately said: “Back already?”

The man immediately pulled his hands from his pockets and took off his leather gloves: “Hello, Writer Wei! Hello, hello!”

His accent had a hint of Liu Rulong’s. “From Guangdong?”

“Yes, yes! I’m an editor at ‘Huacheng’—my name is Chen Wenbin.” After shaking hands with Wei Ming, he even pulled out a business card.

No wonder he was from Guangzhou—he already had business cards; truly ahead of the times.

Wei Ming invited him inside to sit.

But it was still cold inside the guard post; Editor Chen sat on the chair and kept stamping his feet.

Although heating had started, the guard post couldn’t compare to the dorms; the warmest place on campus right now was Shao Yuan, where Wei Ming lived.

Wei Ming thought to himself: So this little guy finally couldn’t wait and came in person to solicit a manuscript.

Actually, Wei Ming didn’t mind; “Shiyue” and “Contemporary” were both based in Beijing, so visiting authors in person was normal—but for a Guangzhou publication to do the same? The cost was too high.

But he misunderstood; although the man did express interest in soliciting a manuscript, that was secondary—he had another purpose.

“‘Huacheng’ is organizing a symposium in Yanjing, inviting some writers and scholars to offer suggestions on how we can improve our magazine in the future.”

!

Oh, a symposium.

Wei Ming asked about the time, location, and who else would attend.

“I’ve already convinced Professor Hong Zicheng from Peking University’s Chinese Department.”

Oh, Old Hong’s going.

Since it was only one day and meals were provided, Wei Ming agreed to go—but he’d need to take a day off.

It seemed “Huacheng” was still very ambitious; though it had suffered a crushing defeat against “Shouhuo,” it still held advantages over “Contemporary” and “Shiyue.”

Wei Ming collected his mail from the guard post and returned to Shao Yuan.

Recently, his mail had increased again.

After each new publication, there was always a spike in letters; “Children’s Literature” received many too, starting at a hundred per batch, and after his second piece was published, discussions about the plot multiplied.

He read them all, then put them back in the dorm’s storage cabinet, which was nearly full.

Wei Ming read this batch of letters carefully, because besides pure readers, many were sending him information about missing relatives.

But few were credible; after reading them, he sorted these letters separately and would mail them back home for his mother to identify.

As he read the letters, suddenly something landed on the window.

Wei Ming turned his head: Ah, it’s snowing.

After snow came Christmas; on this day, international students from Christian countries led by Britain and America held a grand ball.

Wei Ming not only attended himself, but at Biaozi and Xiao Mei’s pleading, brought them along too, letting them experience it firsthand—something they could brag about later.

Some resident students also attended, like Xiao Cha.

In Xiao Cha’s diary that day, he wrote: From Wei Ming and Melinda’s wild, almost ecstatic dancing, I saw only two words: reluctance.

On the last day of 1979, Wei Ming attended “Huacheng”’s symposium with Professor Hong Zicheng.

On the way to the venue, Professor Hong told Wei Ming: “The academic community is also planning to hold a seminar on your ‘The Herdsman.’”

Although it had only been half a month since publication, “The Herdsman” was undoubtedly Wei Ming’s most literarily accomplished and influential work so far—it had already become a phenomenon.

Wei Ming smiled: “Fine. You hold your seminar, and I’ll stand guard outside—if anyone says a bad word, I won’t open the door.”

Hong Zicheng laughed heartily; this little Wei had always been irreverent—he’d seen it firsthand in class.

Besides Wei Ming and Hong Zicheng, writers like Liu Xinwu and scholars like Li Tuo also attended the symposium; Wei Ming was undoubtedly the youngest among them.

Seeing Liu Xinwu, Wei Ming felt a spark—he hadn’t been idle lately; besides hunting for donkey meat, he’d been brainstorming a new work, also about teachers.

Having sat in so many of Peking University’s classes and met Master Gu Jianfen, a musical genius, Wei Ming wanted to write a story dedicated to educators.

After the meeting, he chatted with Liu Xinwu, who told him something.

“The national selection for outstanding short stories of 1979 is about to be announced—your ‘Spring River Water Warm, Ducks Know First’ is on the shortlist.”

Last year was the first time the national selection for outstanding short stories was held; the chosen works were compiled into a volume for publication; Liu Xinwu’s “The Class Teacher” received the highest votes and established his status in the literary world.

Although “Scar Literature” derived its name from Lu Xinhua’s “Scar,” the literary world universally recognized Liu Xinwu’s “The Class Teacher” as the pioneering work—alongside Jiang Zilong, he had founded a new school.

After the meeting, Wei Ming and Old Hong enjoyed a lavish dinner, then returned to Peking University under the stars and moon.

That night, Wei Ming and Melinda danced from 1979 into 1980, completing a meaningful shared New Year’s passage.

(End of chapter)