Chapter 18: The People from 《Yanjing Literature》 Have Arrived

Wei Ming teased Wei Anping.

Wei Anping chuckled: “I like bitter first, then sweet—so let me give you the bad news first.”

“The bad news is, I can’t come home for dinner this weekend.”

This was indeed bad news for Wei Anping—he’d been counting on Wei Ming to help watch the kids so he and his wife could enjoy some marital harmony.

“Why? Because your aunt’s cooking’s terrible?”

Wei Ming shook his head: “The reason is this good news—I’m going to Magu.”

Saying that, Wei Ming handed over the acceptance letter from 《Shouhuo》—no amount of words could match the proof itself.

After reading the letter, Wei Anping went back to examine the envelope, his mouth dry; he gulped down a whole teacup of water, swallowing the tea leaves without spitting them out.

Though he wasn’t from a literary background, he knew full well the weight of 《Shouhuo》 in the literary world—it was as revered as Ba Lao’s status today, the holy grail for every writer.

Every novelist aspired to be published in 《Shouhuo》.

The editor who wrote to Wei Ming, Li Xiaolin, was Ba Lao’s daughter and the universally acknowledged future chief editor.

From her words, Wei Anping could tell his nephew had written something extraordinary.

Finally, Wei Anping leaned back in his chair, face filled with regret: “Uncle’s sorry, kid—I should’ve gotten you into the office if I’d known you had this talent!”

But securing an office position was harder and would invite criticism—he’d never even considered it then, and now he felt guilty for having underestimated Wei Ming subconsciously.

Wei Anping added: “But don’t worry—once your novel appears in 《Shouhuo》, I’ll make sure this happens for you.”

Wei Ming hurried to say: “Uncle, please don’t—I really like my current job. Brother Feng just said he’s promoting me to patrol duty.”

“What? Patrol’s better than an office job? You’ll be a mental laborer then!”

Wei Ming smiled: “Writing novels is mental labor too. Sitting in an office requires thinking—and even scheming. That wears out your heart. Patrol? Just walk around. It balances work and rest, and you meet more people and see more things—great for gathering material.”

And another reason: Would the buzz from a Peking University administrative staff member writing a novel match the buzz from a Peking University security guard?

From a marketing standpoint, keeping his current image better served his fame and public discussion—he could even become an idol for today’s working-class youth!

Wei Anping thought writers truly thought differently—he didn’t push further.

“Alright, alright, do whatever you want. But I’ll definitely push HR to make you permanent and settle your hukou. Don’t even think about housing—you’re not getting that. Even Chief Qiao hasn’t gotten a unit after all these years.”

Yeah, Brother Feng was pitiful.

Wei Ming was already satisfied: “Getting the hukou’s enough.”

As for housing—if the unit won’t give it, he’d find his own way. Buying was hard now, but with money, he could overcome anything.

As he thought this, Wei Anping flipped through his notebook, then slapped the table and grinned: “How about I buy you a ticket for the day after tomorrow?”

“Fine.”

“But I’ve got one more task for you,” Wei Anping said. “Professor Qu Yude from the Chinese Department is going to Magu for a conference. I’ve arranged for you both to be on the same train—make sure you look after her. She’s Professor Jin Kaicheng’s wife, had cancer before, and her health isn’t good.”

As Director of the General Affairs Office, Wei Anping knew every detail around campus—he’d only overheard Professor Jin expressing worry about his wife’s trip, so he’d made an exception and upgraded Qu’s ticket to soft sleeper.

Usually, only full professors or associate professors over fifty got that privilege. Qu was an associate professor, in her forties.

Wei Anping told Wei Ming: “You’re aiming to be a writer—building ties with the Chinese Department won’t hurt.”

The Chinese Department doesn’t train writers—it trains literary critics!

And literature? Sometimes, beyond reader reception, you need industry endorsement—someone vouching for you makes you powerful.

Wei Anping was, in fact, paving the way for his nephew in advance.

But what Wei Ming cared about most was: “Will I be in the same carriage as Professor Qu?”

Hearing Qu was in soft sleeper, Wei Ming’s imagination stirred.

Wei Anping: “Of course not. Stick to hard seat. Soft sleeper conditions are strict—even I can’t ride it.”

He had the rank, but not the age.

“What about hard sleeper?” This trip was nearly a full day and night—his back could take it, but his butt couldn’t.

Wei Anping chuckled: “If you can afford the hard sleeper fare, I can buy it for you. But from what I know, magazines only reimburse hard seat tickets for editorial trips—the extra cost’s on you. Beijing to Magu? Hard sleeper’s about twenty yuan more than hard seat.”

Wei Ming immediately said: “Hard seat. I’ll take hard seat. I love hard seat!”

Twenty yuan? That’s the price of one of my fairy tales!

Still, a full day and night on the train—he figured he needed some small preparations.

“Uncle, can I use your sewing machine?”

“You know how to use a sewing machine?”

“I don’t. Do you?”

“I don’t either. Your aunt does.” In this era, almost every woman knew how to use one—even if they didn’t own one.

“Then wait till she gets off work. Also, I’ll need some old clothes no one uses, and cotton.”

Wei Anping eyed him suspiciously—it was summer. Was he preparing winter clothes?

Next, Wei Ming went to the Security Department to request leave, starting the day after tomorrow—he wasn’t sure how many days.

At first, his superior refused—after all, the National Games needed manpower; even if you were Wei Anping’s nephew, you couldn’t just quit now.

But when Wei Ming showed the acceptance letter from 《Shouhuo》, his superior’s face changed instantly: “Little Wei, sit down, sit down…”

After much talking, Wei Ming finally stepped out of the office building. Since it wasn’t his shift yet, he headed to the library.

No phones on the train—only books could kill time. He needed to pick out a few to bring along.

Also, he wanted to find Professor Qu Yude’s works—so he’d have something to talk about. Oh, what kind of conference was she attending?

And since they weren’t in the same carriage, how was he supposed to look after her?

At the same time, Zhang Dening, editor of the Fiction Section of 《Yanjing Literature》, returned to her beloved alma mater.

She’d graduated years ago; this time she came back primarily to solicit manuscripts.

!

Not from famous professors—but from students.

Don’t underestimate these students: Chen Jiangong from the ’77 Chinese class had already published in several major literary journals; his classmate Huang Beijia had even published a short story collection.

The ’77 Chinese class had a saying: “Five Talented Women.” Huang Beijia was just one of them; others like Cha Jianying and Cen Xianqing were also gifted—they were all potential contributors.

Chen Jiangong was the leader of the ’77 Chinese class and had previously submitted to 《Yanjing Literature》, so Zhang Dening went to see him first.

Nowadays, dorms were open to both genders—except in summer, when clothes were light, and everyone rushed to strip upon returning.

It was mid-September, still hot, so Zhang Dening stopped a male student and asked him to call Chen Jiangong down.

Liu Zhenyun was especially eager: “Sure, I’ll go right away.”

Though Zhang Dening was an editor and senior, Chen Jiangong was older than her.

“Dening, you’re chasing manuscripts even into the men’s dorm?” Chen Jiangong greeted her with a smile, Liu Zhenyun trailing behind.

“No choice—《Dangdai》 has risen. All the writers around Beijing are submitting there. I’ve got to turn to my juniors.”

《Dangdai》, launched in July this year, had only released two issues, yet already surged in popularity thanks to new works by Shi Tiesheng, Ma Shitu, Qin Mu, and others—its circulation was now nearing that of the long-established 《Yanjing Literature》.

This put immense pressure on 《Yanjing Literature》’s editorial team, so Zhang Dening came straight here to beg for submissions.

“You just published in 《Huacheng》—do you have any more manuscripts?” Zhang Dening asked.

“Not a single one.”

“What about Huang Beijia? Or the rest of your class?”

“As far as I know, no one does—they’re all busy with the launch of 《Weiminghu》. I am too. I’ve written a few pieces for it, but they probably don’t meet your standards.”

Zhang Dening asked eagerly: “Oh? Is 《Weiminghu》 coming out? When?”

When she studied at Peking University, the venerable May Fourth Literary Society had shut down due to political movements. It was only revived after the ’77 cohort entered.

“Layout’s underway. Should be out by early next month.”

Zhang Dening: “Make sure to save me a copy.”

“Of course.”

“Can you think of anyone else? Any writers you’d recommend?” Zhang Dening hadn’t given up.

Nearby, Liu Zhenyun wanted to shout: Me! I’m good too—I can write stories!

“Got it!” Chen Jiangong finally spotted Liu Zhenyun and pointed at him: “This is Liu Zhenyun, from the ’78 Chinese Department…”

Liu Zhenyun wanted to kowtow to Chen Jiangong—no wonder he was the leader of the Chinese Department! From now on, you’re my real brother!

Chen Jiangong continued: “His classmate Zhang Manyu is excellent—a sent-down youth from Yunnan with rich life experience. She published before entering university. Honestly, I think her talent rivals mine. And I heard she’s working on a novella.”

Liu Zhenyun: …

“A novella? Perfect! I’m desperate for novellas!” Zhang Dening exclaimed. “Where is she?”

Chen Jiangong looked at Liu Zhenyun.

Liu Zhenyun swallowed hard: “Right now, Sister should be at the 《Weiminghu》 editorial office.”

Zhang Dening grabbed Liu Zhenyun’s arm: “Brother, can you show me the way?”

…

(End of Chapter)