Chapter 30: A Different Kind of Sent-Down Youth Literature

Chen Rong didn’t truly enter the literary world until she was forty, but she was best known for her children.

She had two sons and one daughter.

Her eldest son, Liang Zuo, was a famous screenwriter; her second son, Liang Tian, was a famous actor; her youngest daughter, Liang Huan, was a screenwriter and also the third wife of the renowned director Ying Da.

When Wei Ming was on duty, both Liang Zuo and Ying Da had seen him—he was from the Chinese Department of ’77, and they from the Psychology Department of ’79.

More importantly, during his years at the People’s Art Theatre, he was close to Song Dandan and had heard her curse Ying Da and his wife many times.

“My apologies, I’ve read your ‘Ten Thousand Green,’ let me call you Teacher Chen.” Since Chen Rong was also a middle school teacher.

“No, no, no, just call me Big Sister—I entered the field late, everyone calls me a young writer,” Chen Rong smiled, studying Wei Ming curiously: “Can I call you Little Wei?”

“Of course.”

“Did you just arrive today?”

“Yes, how long have you been here?”

“A week already, and I haven’t finished revising yet.” She sighed, feeling a pang of homesickness.

“Then I must be too optimistic—I thought I could finish in five days.”

“Maybe I’m just overly meticulous. By the way, where are you from?”

“Hebei, from Yanjing.”

“I’m from Yanjing too,” Chen Rong felt a sudden warmth, and asked, “Are you a college student?”

“No, I guard the gate at university.”

“Really?”

“Guess my demeanor really is off—everyone’s first reaction is to doubt my identity,” Wei Ming said helplessly.

Since he said that, Chen Rong had no choice but to believe him and asked, “Then which university do you work at?”

“Peking University.”

“Peking University! My son is at Peking University too!”

“Which department? Maybe I know him,” Wei Ming asked knowingly.

“Chinese Department, class of ’77, named Liang Zuo—not tall, a bit fat, wears glasses, always smiles when he sees someone, very good-natured,” Chen Rong described her son, then added, “Not good-looking.”

Wei Ming smiled: “I remember him—I think I’ve seen him, but not well. I’ve only been on duty for a bit over half a month and am still a temporary worker.”

“You’re about to publish a novel in ‘Shouhuo’—no need to worry about your future career; you’ve got a bright future ahead.”

“Haha, then I’ll take Big Sister’s good wishes.”

After finishing her meal, Chen Rong exchanged room numbers with Wei Ming and agreed to call out if they ran into trouble—they both lived on the second floor.

After eating, Wei Ming went upstairs, slept for a while, then visited the ‘Shouhuo’ editorial office again around four in the afternoon.

Li Xiaolin pulled out Wei Ming’s original manuscript and her list of over ten revision suggestions, the first being the novel’s title.

“‘Donkey Five, Donkey Six’—you’re mocking the sent-down youth who act all high and mighty, right?”

“Exactly—why can’t I mock them?” He had deliberately changed the original donkeys’ names from Hei Liu and Hei Qi to Hei Wu and Hei Liu.

At the time, sent-down youth literature mostly portrayed the group’s miserable rural lives from their own perspective; with so many such voices, Wei Ming wanted to write something different—about sent-down youth who stole chickens and dug up vegetables, loathed by everyone.

Both kinds of life existed, both had countless real-life examples, but those who could write novels were mostly returned sent-down youth, whose voices were loud enough to dominate, so naturally they wrote only of their own suffering—hence stories like ‘Donkey Five, Donkey Six’ were extremely rare.

Li Xiaolin immediately spotted this novel, one key reason being its fresh perspective, distinct from the popular sent-down youth literature of the time.

Still, she didn’t recommend directly insulting in the title: “It could escalate conflict—many young writers in today’s literary scene rose to fame through traditional sent-down youth literature.”

Wei Ming humbly accepted the suggestion and reverted the title to the original, ‘The Tale of Two Donkeys.’ Then came the sexual descriptions—the donkeys, the men and women.

Wei Ming, perhaps influenced by writers like Jia Pingwa and Chen Zhongshi from the northwest school, portrayed sex in a wild, primal way.

Maybe in a few years it would be acceptable, but now, with reform just beginning, Wei Ming was moving too fast—ordinary readers couldn’t keep up, so some parts had to be toned down; several revision notes were precisely because of this.

After arguing his case, he cut back some of the human sexual scenes but kept the donkey ones—these were his precious life experiences, rural knowledge city folks would never encounter.

Have you ever seen the thing used to drag the floor!

The conversation then turned to deeper themes in ‘The Tale of Two Donkeys’—systemic oppression of the individual, and the individual’s resistance to the system.

From this angle, whether the sent-down youth Ma Jie or the donkey brothers Hei Wu and Hei Liu, they were all beasts of burden, all worthy of sympathy; the true evil came from Team Leader Dalian.

This character carried strong symbolic weight—Wei Ming modeled him after Zhao Chunlai, the team leader of Gouzi Village, even more autocratic and tyrannical than the film version.

Li Xiaolin hoped Wei Ming would hide his intentions deeper, not reveal them so obviously.

The rest of the revisions were minor issues—this was what Li Xiaolin truly wanted to emphasize: don’t erase the author’s ideas, but protect them as much as possible, seek a balanced solution.

!

Wei Ming pondered: “Hmm, I’ll think about it carefully when I get back.”

After listing the revisions, Li Xiaolin began praising: “Your novel is brilliantly darkly humorous, with a uniquely distinctive style—some might say it’s like Lao She, but it’s even more accessible to the masses; this Beijing-style, rough-and-tumble prose is incredibly compelling—someone might even imitate your style later.”

Wei Ming merely smiled at the praise, still lost in thought about how to revise.

“No rush—you’re probably here for the first time, take some time to relax, maybe new inspiration will come.”

“Better to get to work first, Editor Li—if I revise quickly, can you schedule it for the November issue?” Wei Ming asked.

“Are you in a hurry for money?”

“That’s one reason—I don’t have a single representative work yet, so I feel embarrassed asking for higher fees from other magazines; ‘Yanjing Literature’ has also accepted one of my novellas, but I don’t know if it’ll be published next month—really frustrating.”

“‘Yanjing Literature’ is a monthly, and it’s published at the start of the month—its publication date will definitely come before ours.”

Li Xiaolin added, then suddenly realized: “You mean, when ‘The Tale of Two Donkeys’ is published, you won’t be a newcomer anymore, so your fee shouldn’t be set at the newcomer rate, right?”

Wei Ming smiled innocently: “I don’t really understand these things—you decide what’s fair.”

Li Xiaolin laughed—since the moment she first met him, when he accepted those two yuan in the bet without hesitation, she knew this kid wasn’t one who treated money like dirt.

Wei Ming thought to himself: If I had more money than I could spend, I’d treat money like dirt too.

As she saw Wei Ming off downstairs, Li Xiaolin said: “I’ll argue with the chief editor to get you a price worthy of this manuscript.”

“And try to publish it as soon as possible.”

“Got it, got it—go back and revise quickly,” Li Xiaolin said, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

Back at the guesthouse, Wei Ming immediately spread out paper and began writing.

Two hours later, someone knocked on the door.

He opened it to find Professor Qu, there to collect her luggage.

“You’ve finally returned—here’s the key, room 205 next door.”

Professor Qu saw the papers already laid out on Wei Ming’s desk and asked: “Already revising?”

“No, I wrote a short story,” Wei Ming said, “only two thousand words—could you submit it to ‘Story Weekly’ for me? See how much I can get for it.”

(End of Chapter)