Chapter 110: Script Battle (3000 Monthly Votes Bonus)

After entering 1980, Wei Ming soon received another royalty payment—the reprint fee for “Er Niu.”

Tianjin’s Baihua Literature & Art Publishing House had just launched a new magazine called “Novel Monthly,” issued once a month, specializing in reprints of outstanding novels, primarily short and medium-length works.

The inaugural issue included Jiang Zilong’s “Liberation,” Wang Meng’s “Cousin,” Feng Jicai’s “Carved Tobacco Pipe,” Lin Jinlan’s “Question Mark,” and Wei Ming’s “Er Niu,” among others.

This was also the first royalty payment Wei Ming received after the new royalty standards were introduced.

The State Publishing Bureau had just announced revised royalty rates, restoring levels from before 1966: original works now paid 3 to 10 yuan per thousand characters, translations 2 to 7 yuan per thousand characters, and reprint royalties were reinstated.

Because the overall royalty rates had risen significantly, even as a reprint, “Er Niu” brought Wei Ming 120 yuan.

It was foreseeable that, with Wei Ming’s growing fame, higher royalty standards, and the return of reprint royalties, his income would see a marked increase.

Now, before Wei Ming lay two sheets of manuscript paper, each with a title: the one on the left could be submitted to “People’s Literature” for payment once finished; the one on the right might yield nothing at all.

Yet Wei Ming ultimately chose the latter and began writing a foreign story.

When he arrived at the Nanmen Gang dormitory at noon, a man suddenly appeared: “Hello, are you Wei Ming, the writer?”

A seemingly simple young man, and Wei Ming felt he recognized him.

“That’s me. Who are you?”

The man smiled: “Hello, I’m Liang Xiaosheng, an editor from the Literature Department of Beijing Film Studio. I’ve come to deliver your royalty payment for ‘The Herdsman.’”

“Oh! Nice to meet you, Editor Liang.” No wonder Wei Ming felt familiar—he was the author of “The Human World,” a leading figure in the educated youth literature movement, whose works drew directly from his own experiences in the Production and Construction Corps.

“Why go to the trouble of coming all this way?” Wei Ming glanced at the amount—it was low, just the minimum rate of three yuan per thousand characters, which was normal; the script had no sales potential, just a pure loss.

“It’s only proper,” Liang said. “Besides delivering the payment, I’m also here on behalf of Director Jiang to ask: would you be willing to entrust this script to Beijing Film Studio for production?”

“Ah!” Wei Ming feigned surprise. “That’s a dilemma. Originally, Director Xie Jin from Shanghai Film Studio called me and asked me to adapt it into a script—I assumed he wanted to film it, so I worked overtime to finish it. But he hasn’t contacted me since. Maybe I should check with him.”

“So Xie Dao was the first to notice it?” Liang said in surprise. “But I heard Shanghai Film Studio is preparing Xie Dao’s new film—something called ‘Stormy Azalea Red.’”

“What? That’s true?!”

Seeing Wei Ming alarmed, Liang quickly added: “It might be misinformation—still, you should call and confirm.”

“Alright, alright,” Wei Ming asked, “If Beijing Film Studio does film it, who’s planned to direct?”

Liang replied: “The directors currently interested are Chen Huai’ai and Xie Tian.”

Wei Ming nodded, though inwardly he shook his head—neither of them could match Xie Jin’s skill.

Don’t take the internet meme seriously—“Farewell My Concubine” wasn’t directed by Kai Ge’s dad.

If it were Ling Zifeng, one of Beijing Film Studio’s Four Great Masters, Wei Ming might consider it. Of the three living Great Masters still capable of directing well, only he remains—yes, Yao Dazui’s ex-husband’s grandfather.

Wei Ping had Xie Jin’s office number. Wei Ming went to the convenience store and called, explaining the situation.

“What? Beijing Film Studio wants to film it too?” Xie Jin panicked. “And why did you submit it to ‘Film Creation’? I told you to submit it to ‘New Film Works’!”

“Oh? That must’ve been a miscommunication from our Director Wei.”

Xie Jin asked: “Did Beijing Film Studio say who would direct?”

Wei Ming scratched his head, innocently: “I didn’t quite remember—it sounded like someone with the surname Ling.”

“Ah!” Xie Jin looked as if facing a dire threat—who else could it be? Only Ling Zifeng, one of the Four Great Masters!

Ling Zifeng was even more senior than Xie Jin, having started directing in the 1940s—everyone knew “The Red Flag Spectrum.” If he wanted to film this, Beijing Film Studio would mobilize all its resources.

Xie Jin had planned to delay “The Herdsman,” but he never expected Wei Ming to finish the script so quickly, submit it to “Film Creation,” and catch Ling Zifeng’s eye!

“Don’t agree to them yet,” Xie Jin said.

“Alright, but the editor said he’ll come back tomorrow—he seems determined.”

“When he comes, stall him,” Xie Jin insisted. “Comrade Wei Ming, believe me—only I can bring this film its soul.”

After hanging up, Xie Jin immediately had someone fetch the latest issue of “Film Creation” and began reading “The Herdsman” from start to finish.

After reading, he found it incredible—was Wei Ming really only eighteen? Or had “Film Creation”’s editors revised it before publication?

The format was precise and rigorous, scene setups clear, internal monologues perfectly placed—it read like the work of a veteran screenwriter with fully formed visuals already in his mind.

Shooting this script would be effortless!

Xie Jin paced his office. His inner scale had tipped completely toward “The Herdsman”; “The Legend of Tianyun Mountain” was still being revised by Shanghai Film Studio’s screenwriters.

Once decided, he immediately pushed open the office door of Deputy Factory Chief Shi Fangyu.

“Director Shi, I’ve decided—we’ll shoot ‘The Herdsman’ first.”

“Huh? How did you change your mind? Weren’t we agreed to start with ‘The Legend of Tianyun Mountain’?”

“No, if we wait, Beijing Film Studio will snatch it away.”

Director Shi grew serious at once: “What?! Sit down, sit down and explain…”

Meanwhile, Liang Xiaosheng returned to Beijing Film Studio and reported that Xie Jin had already claimed “The Herdsman.”

Chen Huai’ai was frustrated. He belonged to Beijing Film Studio’s Second Creative Group; since Director Cui Wei’s death, he had effectively become its leader.

Yet his abilities were constantly questioned—he had few dramatic films, mostly co-directed with others, like “Little Soldier Zhang Ga” and “Hai Xia,” while his solo works were all opera films.

Last year, the studio paired him with Xie Tieli from the Fourth Creative Group for “The Great River Flows”—it seemed they intended to make Xie Tieli the new head of the Second Group. He resented it.

He’d heard of Wei Ming through his son Kai Ge, heard of “The Herdsman,” and learned the author had submitted the script to Beijing Film Studio. After reading it, he felt capable again—such a detailed script could be filmed as-is!

He wanted to prove himself with this film, but now Xie Tian was also competing.

Worse, Xie Jin from Shanghai Film Studio had emerged too. Though younger, Xie Jin’s directing skill was universally acknowledged as superior.

Fortunately, Factory Chief Wang Yang still supported him.

“Beijing Film Studio isn’t inferior to Shanghai Film Studio, but Xie Jin is formidable. How about this—you collaborate with Tieli.”

!

Though reluctant, Chen Huai’ai feared he couldn’t outmatch Xie Jin. After thinking it over, he nodded: “Fine.”

Factory Chief Wang pulled an envelope from his drawer, filled with photos: “I’ve known Writer Wei for years. I’ll call Peking University—he’ll owe me this favor.”

Old Wang chuckled as he spoke—he’d never imagined he’d one day need Wei Ming’s favor when he first received that photo.

But the call didn’t reach Wei Ming—he’d left early that morning and hadn’t returned.

Wang Yang left a message: Wei Ming must come to Beijing Film Studio to discuss script revisions.

Meanwhile, Director Xie Jin feared delays might cost him the project, so he bought a train ticket to Yanjing that same day to meet Wei Ming in person.

He’d collaborated with many screenwriters and authors, but never one with Wei Ming’s stature.

Lying on the train berth, Xie Jin couldn’t help but smile bitterly.

Because Chen Huai’ai had told his son Kai Ge about the situation, and Kai Ge had been present.

Soon, in the directing department classroom of the Film Academy:

“Do you know how hot Wei Ming’s ‘The Herdsman’ is? Beijing and Shanghai Film Studios are about to fight over this script!”

“No way!” classmates exclaimed. The novel was good, but could it surpass classic masterpieces?

Tian Zhuangzhuang said slowly: “Kai Ge, you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. My dad’s frantic, and Shanghai Film Studio is equally determined.”

Li Shaohong said: “I love this novel. Kai Ge, if your dad directs, can we join the crew as assistants?”

Hu Mei added: “Count me in too.”

Chen Kai Ge acted as if the film was already his father’s: “Sure, as long as you don’t ask for pay.”

Zhang Yimou was also among them, so this rumor quickly spread to the cinematography department.

“Chang Wei, let me tell you—I know a guy who’s incredible…”

Soon, even the art department heard.

In the dorm, Liu Rulong’s ears twitched—wait, I think I just heard my brother showing off!

At that moment, his brother had just returned from Chaoyang, a donkey leg and dough rounds hanging from his vehicle, snow still falling from the sky.

He didn’t take Nanmen Gate—he entered through the west gate and returned to Shao Yuan.

“Melinda, look what I brought you!”

“Is this… donkey meat?!”

…

(Sorry, this chapter is under 3000 words, but that doesn’t stop me from asking for monthly votes—please, the Old Buddha will post another chapter soon~)

(End of chapter)