Chapter 463: Gentle Zhou Hui, Bold Wei Ming (Requesting Monthly Votes)

This year’s National Outstanding Novella Award, besides Wei Ming’s “Days of Splendid Sunshine,” also saw Li Cunbao’s “Flower Wreath Below the Mountain” win by a large margin as the top prize winner—the most influential novel of last year, with both film and television adaptations already targeted; the film adaptation rights were secured by Xie Jin, director of Shanghai Film Studio.

Additionally, Lu Yao’s “Life” has also been confirmed for production under director Wu Tianming, but they are still waiting for Zhou Lijing’s schedule—he is their chosen lead actor, and the TV adaptation of “Flower Wreath Below the Mountain” also wants to cast Zhou Lijing.

Among Wei Ming’s acquaintances, Wei Junyi’s “Baptism,” Wang Meng’s “Hard to Meet,” Chen Rong’s “Secrets of Crown Prince Village,” Wang Anyi’s “Ebb,” and Jiang Zilong’s “Red Orange Yellow Green Blue Purple” were also selected; the collected edition will soon appear in bookstores nationwide, allowing readers to devour it all at once.

But Wei Hong was dissatisfied: “Why isn’t ‘District Nine’ included? Isn’t that an outstanding novella?”

She loved this novel so much that, in terms of impact, “District Nine” was even more impressive.

Wei Ming smiled: “Serious literature and pure literature remain clearly distinct—even abroad, they’re judged separately. People still remember my last literary work from two years ago.”

Indeed, at the National Outstanding Novella Awards ceremony, peers all assumed Wei Ming had abandoned serious literature—he hadn’t produced anything since “Days of Splendid Sunshine,” two years ago.

Chen Rong and Wang Anyi had expressed this regret more than once; although Wei Ming’s songs like “My Motherland and I” were profoundly moving, they still felt he wasted his talent unless he wrote novels.

Editors, meanwhile, eagerly probed for news of his next work, but Wei Ming genuinely had nothing ready.

First, he had no time—he had to meet monthly KPIs: one “Black Cat Detective” episode and several comic outlines each month.

That alone consumed most of his free time outside eating, sleeping, and sex.

Moreover, Melinda’s publishing company had just launched, and Wei Ming needed to write English-language novellas for this venture, so he truly had no spare moments.

Also, his desire to express had diminished—he had already written about educated youth literature, trauma literature, reform literature; he didn’t want to repeat himself, nor did he want to compromise.

Now he was completely financially secure—he no longer needed to force out a story every week for ten yuan per thousand characters—so he would only write when he had something meaningful to say or something that genuinely interested him.

But he couldn’t say this outright—it would seem pretentious—so he told the editors: “I now prefer novels; I’m brewing a new book, like Nata’s mother—it might take years to give birth.”

To ease everyone’s eagerness for his new work, Wei Ming revealed: “Actually, last year I wrote a play script—it’s currently at the People’s Art Theatre. If you want it, you can negotiate with them to see if it can be published.”

Wei Ming left the decision to the People’s Art Theatre; they had no reason to refuse—it would serve as early promotion for the stage version—and ultimately, “Donkey Water” was snapped up first by Zhang Dening of “Beijing Literature.”

It had been nearly four years since Wei Ming’s last major work appeared in “Beijing Literature”—a heartbreaking gap.

“Donkey Water” might be published in March or April, but at the end of February, when Peking University reopened, Wei Ming merely showed up briefly, officially launched the “Wei Ming Scholarship,” held a donation ceremony, and then returned to Shanghai Film Studio to focus on post-production.

At the same time, Wei Hong began preparing for her study-abroad application; there was no difficulty domestically—she declined a state-sponsored scholarship to save foreign exchange, covering her own expenses, and neither her university nor the Ministry of Education would block her—the key was whether Stanford would accept her.

Her academic record was flawless—she aced the TOEFL—and her million-copy bestseller “Magic Cube? You Can Play It with Your Hands” was a strong plus.

Still, to be absolutely safe, Wei Ming wrote a letter to his aunt, asking her to help secure a recommendation letter.

To his surprise, his aunt acted swiftly—before Wei Ming left for Hong Kong, she replied that the recommendation letter was ready and would be sent directly from the esteemed scholar himself to Stanford.

The scholar’s name was Chen Shenshen.

When Wei Hong learned this, she sighed: “I never expected it would be Chen Shenshen of Berkeley recommending me to Stanford.”

Chen Shenshen was a professor at the University of California, Berkeley, the first director of the National Institute for Mathematical Sciences in the U.S., and among the top few living mathematicians globally—calling him a patriarch was no exaggeration.

Since both were elite Western universities in the San Francisco Bay Area, Stanford and Berkeley had a certain rivalry, especially in mathematics; as fellow Chinese, Chen Shenshen was Wei Hong’s ideal mentor.

“Why not apply to Berkeley now? The recommendation letter hasn’t even been written yet,” Wei Ming teased. “You might even become Chen Shenshen’s final disciple.”

Wei Hong shook her head: “I’ve studied Berkeley before—it’s produced more Nobel laureates than Stanford, perfect for deep research—but I don’t think I’m suited for it. Stanford is more closely tied to Silicon Valley; choosing Stanford means getting familiar with Silicon Valley, which will help me invest later.”

Silicon Valley—if Xiao Hong could master it, acquire more equity stakes, then from this generation onward, the Wei family’s wealth for three more generations would be guaranteed.

“Alright, keep working on your application materials. I’m going to see Uncle Anping—he wants to see me.”

“Two things: first, I’m going abroad to visit Ni Guangnan in Canada—he’s doing research as a visiting scholar—and discuss Han Cards. We’ve exchanged letters several times already; he’s an expert in this field, and Professor Wang Xuan and I plan to visit him personally to recruit him.”

Wei Ming nodded. In terms of Han Cards, Ni Guangnan was indeed a top expert—this would give Fangzheng an early advantage. In his previous life, Fangzheng also made Han Cards, but they started later and couldn’t avoid a man named Zhang Xuanlong.

“Second,” Wei Anping said, “you said you’re going to Hong Kong for the award ceremony. Though it seems meaningless, the school approved it—but you need to do me a favor.”

“What favor?”

It turned out Zhu Guangqian had been invited to lecture at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, also in March.

Professor Zhu Guangqian was a figure from last century—he was already 86 years old, graduated from the University of Hong Kong and the University of Edinburgh, and had taught at Peking University for nearly forty years, lecturing on aesthetics and Western literature—he was a treasured elder professor at Peking University.

Although Wei Ming had never taken his class, he often encountered him during patrols and had read his works extensively; reading Western literature alongside Zhu’s writings made understanding them far easier.

“You don’t need to care for him constantly—his grandson is too young, inexperienced, and has never even flown before, so you just need to help look after him during the journey.”

“I’m honored to help,” Wei Ming readily agreed. He added to Uncle Anping, “If you ever pass through San Francisco, visit Auntie—she and Second Auntie are close; she’d be delighted to see you.”

Wei Anping longed to meet her too—on New Year’s Eve, his mother hadn’t appeared in his dream; if he couldn’t go to Hong Kong to see his uncle, asking this aunt might be a way forward.

That evening, Wei Ming headed to Tuanjiehu to sleep and happened to meet Xiao Mei.

She was looking for him too: “Brother, the Trademark Law is about to take effect—shouldn’t we register a trademark for Dongfang Xintiandi?”

“Oh, that’s good news—enacting the Trademark Law shows the government is serious about market economy development.”

A trademark—or logo—is a simple image that gives consumers an immediate impression. Dongfang Xintiandi had never considered one before, but the idea had long existed.

Old brands like Jingdu Nianci’an, Tsingtao Beer, and China Railway already had their logos during the Republic era; in recent years, China Bank and Tongrentang had also designed their own logos—but until now, no clear law protected trademarks.

Xiao Mei hoped Wei Ming would design one, since he had an art background.

Wei Ming thought differently: “How about this—we use this opportunity for publicity. You publish an article in the newspaper announcing a contest for Dongfang Xintiandi’s trademark: the winning design gets a cash prize. I’ll submit one anonymously too. Then you and Aunt Qian and the others decide which is most suitable and creative—I trust the wisdom of the masses more.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Xiao Mei nodded eagerly—only Ming-ge could think of this.

But how much should the prize be? Too much might attract greed; too little wouldn’t motivate people or achieve the publicity goal.

Wei Ming told him this much, then went upstairs to find his sister—the date of his trip to Hong Kong was drawing near; he had to cherish every moment.

Xue-jie was there too; in a few days would be her thirtieth birthday, and Wei Ming would depart after the celebration.

Gong Ying didn’t want to celebrate—it was her thirtieth birthday. After this, she’d be a woman over thirty, while Xiao Wei was still in his early twenties.

But she couldn’t refuse—Zhu Lin chuckled: “Last year I went through this—you have to too.”

Thinking of how wild Zhu Lin’s birthday party had been last year, Wei Ming looked forward to the day.

Before that day arrived, “Night at the Museum” was officially published in “Fairy Tale King.” Although it interrupted one “Black Cat Detective” episode, sales actually rose.

After a long stagnation, “Fairy Tale King” sales finally climbed again—and even outside holidays, it sparked a surge of visitors to the Forbidden City.

Overseas, with its golden reputation and the meticulously crafted quality of “Night at the Museum,” the English edition quickly surpassed 500,000 copies in the UK and US, becoming the company’s first blockbuster.

With this flagship work, negotiating with other authors became much easier—the entire situation opened up.

Moreover, Melinda continued promoting it relentlessly, aiming to turn this picture book into a long-selling classic.

Additionally, Wei Ming’s idea for the “Goosebumps” series intrigued her—teenagers crave thrills; with a touch of horror and Wei Ming’s wild imagination, they might create a publishing miracle!

She wrote back to Wei Ming, proposing to first test the waters with “Dear, I Shrunk the Kids,” publishing it as a small booklet; if successful, they’d proceed with “Night at the Museum.”

“Also, since you’re making a series, you must work harder—stop thinking about women. Try to write two new stories every month.”

When Melinda’s letter arrived in Beijing, Wei Ming had already celebrated Gong Ying’s birthday and departed for Hong Kong.

It was a direct flight; beside him sat the 86-year-old aesthetics master Zhu Guangqian—the old professor was short, barely over 1.5 meters tall, with silver hair, and his health was worse than when Wei Ming had seen him on patrol.

His grandson, by contrast, was noticeably taller and stronger, full of energy and curious about everything.

The grandson’s name was Wan Xiaoping, in his early twenties, having just graduated from Anhui Normal University last year.

He took his mother’s surname, Wan, because his mother had given birth to four children, his father was often away working, his mother endured great hardship, and his maternal grandfather was the renowned ci-poetry master Professor Wan Minhao—so he carried his mother’s surname to inherit the Wan family legacy.

Wei Ming learned all this during the waiting period—he liked gossip.

“Little Wei, will you be staying with us in Hong Kong?” Zhu asked after the plane leveled off.

Professor Zhu was traveling to the Chinese University of Hong Kong primarily to attend the “Professor Qian Binquan Academic and Cultural Lecture Series,” one of the most influential academic forums in the Chinese-speaking world, established by New Asia College in 1978, inviting one distinguished scholar each year to deliver a series of public lectures on Chinese history and culture—all selected from the highest authorities in the field.