Chapter 53: Reprint Requests, Multiple Uses for One Manuscript

Wei Ming hurried over to answer the call, and several heads leaned in to eavesdrop, including Biaozi, whose head was wrapped in bandages.

The caller was an editor from the Wen Hui Bao.

“Huh? Reprint? Two of them? Guangzhou Youth Daily and Qingnian Bao, right? Sure, sure, no need to ask me again in the future—I approve everything. Yes, just send the fee directly to Peking University…”

Just as Wei Ming was about to hang up, the other side suddenly told him to wait—a colleague had whispered something to the editor, and then the voice grew excited: “Comrade Wei Ming, another newspaper wants to reprint your story—China Youth Daily! Now it’s three!”

After hanging up, his colleagues all turned to look at him. Biaozi spoke for the group: “What’s a reprint?”

Wei Ming explained: “It means when an article is published in one newspaper, another newspaper thinks it’s so good they want it on their own pages, so they request permission to reprint it.”

Biaozi: “That’s so shameless!”

An elder colleague nudged Biaozi: “Didn’t you hear? They’re paying!”

Biaozi: “Oh, then it’s fine.”

Money is money, but it’s certainly less than the original publication fee—usually no more than one-third of the first-run payment.

Now three reprint requests have come at once, meaning an extra fee equivalent to another installment of “The Duck Knows the Warmth of Spring River”—this isn’t a small sum, it’s even more than his bike.

But for three reprint requests to arrive simultaneously? That’s highly unusual!

And none of these three newspapers are ordinary: Guangzhou Youth Daily is the predecessor of today’s Guangzhou Youth Daily, a local youth league newspaper.

Qingnian Bao is a Shanghai paper, the same age as the People’s Republic, and also a Shanghai youth league newspaper.

China Youth Daily is even more prestigious—a central-level paper, the big brother to those two local youth league papers.

After its 1978 relaunch, China Youth Daily’s series of reports on Zhang Zhixin and Zhang Haidi made the whole nation remember them; even the September issue of Children’s Literature opened with an article mourning Zhang Zhixin.

For three such high-credibility newspapers to suddenly want to reprint his story? There must be more to this than meets the eye!

So Wei Ming excused himself to take a walk, then went to Weixiu Garden Apartment No. 13.

At this moment, Wei Anping’s family of four had just finished dinner and were watching TV; they’d just finished the News Broadcast, and the announcer was still Zhao Zhongxiang, whom Baiyun DaMa desperately wanted to meet—he was also the first on-screen announcer of the program.

“Xiao Ming, come in quickly,” Xiaoyan Shu invited Wei Ming inside, and the two children immediately gathered around him.

Xi Zi started muttering: “Big Brother Ming, I’ve finished all my comic books, but Le Le can still play new tunes on her harmonica—I think her gift is better.”

Wei Ming smiled: “Le Le calls me ‘Big Brother Ming,’ but you call me ‘Big Brother Ming’—she gets an extra ‘Big Brother,’ so of course her treatment is different.”

Xi Zi immediately said: “Big Brother Ming.”

Wei Ming shuddered: “Don’t you dare—I can’t handle it, my skin’s crawling!”

The room filled with cheerful air, and Wei Ming sat down to watch TV for a while.

There was no weather forecast yet; after the news came either documentaries or TV dramas, sometimes even movies.

Domestic TV series didn’t exist yet—the dramas shown were all “standalone plays,” usually just one episode, or split into two parts, like rough movie adaptations moved to television.

But dubbed foreign dramas had just begun; what was playing now was the first imported series, Yugoslavia’s “Sneak Into the Enemy’s Rear,” thirteen episodes total.

After watching one episode, Shu began coaxing the two children to bed, and Wei Ming explained his purpose.

Hearing that these three newspapers were simultaneously reprinting “The Duck Knows the Warmth of Spring River,” Wei Anping was first delighted—this was a tremendous blessing for his nephew, instantly spreading his fame nationwide, especially among the youth.

Then he analyzed possible reasons based on his own understanding.

“The writing is good, light and humorous, the story compelling, and full of depth—that’s certainly one reason, but another important factor may be the broader environment.”

“The broader environment?”

“Have you noticed these three newspapers are from Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou?”

“I have.”

Wei Anping: “The bigger the city, the greater the employment pressure on returned educated youths—not just a little. Beijing still has hundreds of thousands of unemployed youths. I hear many now are turning to art, their thinking increasingly radical—that’s a destabilizing factor.”

Indeed, trends are cyclical: in the future, unemployed people become internet celebrities or novelists—also a kind of desperate art.

“Most unemployed youths are still waiting for the state to assign them jobs, but that’s extremely difficult,” Wei Anping said, picking up yesterday’s Wen Hui Bao.

“And ‘The Duck Knows the Warmth of Spring River’ appeared at the perfect moment—it encourages people to strive boldly in the tide of reform and opening-up, especially that line, ‘The brave enjoy the world first,’ which left a deep impression. It can be seen as urging those unemployed youths to be brave: why wait to be assigned a job? Be bold, take action yourself, like the duck that knows the water’s warmth—if you’re clever enough, you’ll find your own way.”

Wei Ming’s mouth dropped open: I never thought of any of this when I wrote it! Because it aligned with the era’s needs, Wei Anping speculated: “More media will likely reprint this story later—you’ve hit the pulse of the times!”

After hearing his uncle’s analysis, Wei Ming was delighted—fame and fees were linked.

But he also felt some unease: “Uncle, so many city people still don’t have jobs, yet I’m a rural boy who already has a temporary job and will soon be regularized. No one paid attention to me before, but now with all these reprints, I can’t stay under the radar anymore—should I delay my regularization?”

Wei Anping paused, then praised: “Didn’t expect you to have such political awareness now—you actually thought of this.”

Wei Ming scratched his head—he was mainly afraid of causing trouble for Uncle Anping, since he’d gotten his job at Peking University through him.

But Wei Anping waved off his nephew’s suggestion: “No need. Peking University has never had a rule favoring urban applicants only. Your story is known by the secretary and the president—all the teachers are proud you’re one of ours. If reporters ask, just say the school was moved by your talent and specially recruited you to let you study on your own while working—blame it all on the school, and you’ll have support.”

Wei Ming had only revealed his talent after joining; though this reverses the order, it makes the story easier to accept.

As he left, Uncle Anping gave Wei Ming the newspaper containing the third installment of “The Duck.”

“You’re going back to your hometown—take these achievements to show your father.”

“Mm!” Thinking of Old Wei’s smug expression, Wei Ming couldn’t help smiling.

Back in the dorm, Wei Ming continued reading “Ping Yao Zhuan.” He’d bought himself a desk lamp, and in his bag was a battery-powered one, meant to give to Xiao Hong.

!

Over an hour later, Qiao Feng returned and calmly shared his thoughts on the movie.

“I watched ‘Ji Hongchang.’ It was okay.”

That meant it wasn’t great—it was Changchun Film Studio’s tribute film for the 30th anniversary of the PRC, starring Da Qi, who played King Zhou in “The Investiture of the Gods.”

Wei Ming said: “Why didn’t you watch ‘Little Flower’?”

“Is that movie good?” Brother Feng asked.

Mei Wenhua knew more: “I know—it stars Chen Chong and Liu Xiaoqing!”

Wei Ming: “‘Little Flower’ is Beijing Film Studio’s anniversary tribute. Tang Guoqiang is in it too. I read the review in Mass Film—it sounded good.”

Qiao Feng: “Alright, we’ll watch it in a few days. There are too many new movies now—I don’t know which to pick.”

After all, it was the 30th anniversary—the film industry didn’t hold back, and dozens of new films flooded theaters around National Day, though watching them all would require visiting several cinemas.

Biaozi asked: “Any other movies? Any good for young couples?”

Mei Wenhua sneered: First get someone to agree to go out with you.

Qiao Feng remembered a few titles.

“There’s ‘From Slave to General’ with Yang Zaibao and Zhang Jinling, ‘Dawn’ with Da Shichang, and Sang Hu’s ‘They and Them.’”

Wei Ming said: “This one’s about dating—Biaozi, pay special attention to this one.”

This year, Shanghai Film Studio was on fire: besides these three, they also released “Aolei Yilan,” putting out four films to celebrate the motherland.

The August 1st Studio, Xi Film Studio, Pearl River Film Studio, and Emei Studio also brought their best, but they were overshadowed by Beijing Film Studio’s “Little Flower” and Shanghai’s film barrage.

“By the way, Xiao Ming, I mentioned the radio to my wife—she remembers her unit once issued a radio purchase voucher. She’ll ask about it for you.”

“Oh, thank you so much, sister-in-law! When I get my next fee, I’ll treat you both properly.”

Biaozi: “Hey, what about me?”

Wei Ming laughed: “If you can get Yanzi to come, you’re included.”

Mei Wenhua quickly added: “Biaozi, take my advice—never let Yanzi meet this guy.”

Brother Feng understood and let out a chuckle in the dark.

Who would’ve thought?

Before Biaozi could even invite Yanzi, Wei Ming’s fee arrived the next day…

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(End of chapter)