Chapter 73: Bursting with Gold Coins! (Request Follows and Monthly Votes!)

She was also a female reader, hoping that if Wei Ming had time, he could visit her hometown of Heze, Shandong, and have mutton soup with her.

You’re not craving the mutton soup—you’re craving my talent!

Wei Ming considered returning the money and tickets, but seeing the color photos she sent—the pretty dress, the background—clearly not an ordinary family.

Forget it, keep it. All of it is the readers’ goodwill. He moved on to the next letter.

Most letters addressed to the poet Wei Ming came from female readers, and they were all generous.

After opening ten letters, Wei Ming found three with grain coupons or cash enclosed—nearly identical in wording, all inviting him to visit, treating the money as travel expenses.

As for the readers’ psychology, Wei Ming could roughly guess.

First, the influence of Poetry Monthly was immense—the number one poetry journal in China, its reach among poetry lovers equivalent to Harvest + People’s Literature + Yanjing Literature + Contemporary + … and so on.

So this poem “Ideal” had been read by at least a million people.

Second, the quality of “Ideal”—poems selected for Chinese textbooks are never mediocre, and “Ideal” arrived just in time, lighting a lamp for confused youth; its popularity among the public was no surprise.

Third, Poetry Monthly’s introduction of Wei Ming: eighteen years old, employed at Peking University—meaning he was neither teacher nor student, just a worker. Though this lowered his prestige, it made him more likable, hence this “tip” behavior.

Another key point: poetry fans idolize poets far more intensely than novel fans idolize novelists. Look at Mei Wenhua—he tore through half his letters and didn’t find a single cent. As for popularity, “Ideal” couldn’t even come close to “Ducks Know the Spring River’s Warmth.”

The passion poetry fans feel toward poets resembles today’s fandom culture—so giving money is just a minor thing.

For example, Zha Jianying and Wang Xiaoping from the 1977 Chinese Department, both diehard fans of Bei Dao, volunteered to promote Today magazine and organize events. But after spending more time with Wei Ming, they’ve started showing signs of defecting.

As for Gu Cheng, someone even volunteered to be his third wife, wanting all three of them to live together happily.

“Wait, Ming-ge, there’s money in your letters?!” Biaozi was the first to notice.

Qiao Feng and Mei Wenhua both stared over in shock—holy shit, it really is money!

Wei Ming clasped his hands together: “Poetry pays only a few yuan in royalties. Maybe kind readers worry I’ll starve to death.”

He opened another letter—again, money inside, not much, two yuan.

This made Mei Wenhua envious—he hurriedly sped up, trying to find cash in his own pile of letters. He didn’t even know what he was competing for; even if he found it, it’d still be Ming-ge’s.

Even Zhao Debiao joined the race, starting to open letters whose recipient was unclear—poet or novelist?

Men’s damn competitiveness!

His first letter yielded something—and he grinned.

“Ming-ge, guess who wrote this letter?”

“Who? Yanzi?”

“Don’t joke,” Biaozi pouted. “This letter’s from your hometown, Hengzhou. It’s got five jin of grain coupons and five yuan, hoping you’ll visit, tour the distillery, and write a novel similar to ‘Ducks Know the Spring River’s Warmth,’ but swap the Can Gui Yang Rong wine for Lao Bai Gan. Hahaha!”

Wei Ming couldn’t help but laugh and sigh—the guy writing this clearly didn’t even know where he was from. Promoting hometown specialties is his duty, but this whole act? He really thinks I’m a ghostwriter for ads!

Still, this guy had real business sense—Wei Ming took special note.

After that, no one cared about reading letters anymore—it became a game of opening red envelopes. Wei Ming’s pile often had cash, Biaozi’s occasionally, Mei Wenhua’s almost never.

“Almost never” still meant sometimes—eventually he found fifty fen and two jin of coupons, leaving Mei Wenhua utterly depressed. Do these novel readers not realize how vital tips are to an author?!

In the end, Wei Ming totaled it up—the cash hidden in the letters reached a staggering 132 yuan!

Poetry was still the most profitable per word—equivalent to one yuan per five characters!

There were also over a hundred jin of various grain coupons and other vouchers. Wei Ming sorted them by province, carefully keeping the nationwide coupons and those from Beijing and Hebei—too bad no Sichuan-Chongqing ones.

One male reader from Qingdao contributed significantly—he alone gave twenty yuan, which in later times would be a Gold Patron!

Wei Ming just wanted to say: God-tier spender, let’s get to know each other!

But the God-tier spender merely said he greatly admired the poem and hoped the author would stay true to his ideals—no further personal interest, no invitation to Qingdao for beer and clams. Clearly, this guy had more than enough money, and his attitude was utterly detached.

After opening all these letters, everyone was tired but exhilarated—but it was already late. No story today. Time to sleep.

After the lights were out, Mei Wenhua insisted: “If there are more letters tomorrow, I’ll open the ones addressed to the poet.”

Wei Ming yawned: “Fine, fine. Just don’t pocket the cash.”

That night, Wei Ming dreamed a sweet dream—lots of tips, at least a Patron, many Silver Patrons, even Gold Patrons.

Female readers didn’t just tip—they asked: “Little Wei, want a wife?”

Why not? If you offer, I’ll take it. Wait, no need to give so much…

The next morning, Wei Ming first changed his underwear, then went for morning exercise and breakfast.

To accommodate his return, they’d scheduled him for an afternoon shift, letting him rest in the morning. But how could he sit still? First, he rushed to Tiger Cave to collect the reprint royalties from the post office.

Adding what he had left and the readers’ tips, Wei Ming’s cash balance soared back above 400 yuan!

Li Bai was right—money truly comes back after it’s spent!

With so much money, Wei Ming’s first thought was to buy a camera. Beijing changed daily—he wanted to record these changes, and the people around him.

Last time he couldn’t make it to the Trust Store—next chance, he’d bring Biaozi into the city. Maybe something suitable would turn up.

Then he hurried back to school to audit classes.

This was another masterclass—Professor Wu Zuxiang’s course on classical vernacular novels, one of the Four Elders of the Chinese Department.

Professor Wu Zuxiang was seventy-one, educated at Tsinghua, taught at Peking University, specialized in classical fiction, especially Ming and Qing novels, and also a Redologist.

The old professor was cheerful and optimistic, most proud of the time he swept toilets at Peking University—he was the cleanest of them all.

Wei Ming’s current work, “The Book of Heaven,” drew from Ming and Qing fiction—this course would help him.

!

He arrived after class had started, so he slipped in through the back door.

Unexpectedly, Liu Zhenyun—who usually sat up front and was always the most eager—was now sitting in the last row, with an empty seat beside him.

Reserved for me? Wei Ming sat down immediately.

“Sorry, this seat is…” Liu Zhenyun started, then saw Wei Ming and quickly urged him to sit, sit, sit.

The two whispered quietly.

“Who did you save this seat for?”

“Little sister.”

“Why isn’t she here?”

Liu Zhenyun sighed: “She’s mad at me.”

“What did you do?” Wei Ming listened to class while playing relationship advisor.

“I didn’t do anything. Yesterday, I finally got a piece of gum through a classmate—just one piece. I didn’t even chew it—I gave it to her.”

“What did you say when you gave it to her?”

Liu Zhenyun: “I just told her this gum isn’t just sweet—it clears bad breath. Chew it, then spit it out. All your advice, Ming-ge. Then she looked a bit unhappy.”

Wei Ming chuckled: “Oh, just one piece—you didn’t eat it, you made her eat it, and told her it clears bad breath. Maybe you should think about that again.”

Liu Zhenyun’s eyes widened—wait, you can interpret it like that?!

The girl might even think deeper: He wants to kiss me, but thinks my breath stinks.

Zhenyun, you’re doomed!

Liu Zhenyun paced frantically. “What do I do? Brother, teach me!”

Wei Ming remained calm: “We’ll talk after class.”

After class, Wei Ming gave Liu Zhenyun advice: “Since your classmate has connections, ask him to buy you a chocolate.”

“What’s chocolate?” Zhenyun asked.

Wei Ming: “It’s a candy shaped like shit. When it melts, it looks even more like it. Then you do this… and this…”

Zhenyun was overjoyed—he nearly bowed his head to the ground.

The usually frugal man even treated Wei Ming to lunch in the big dining hall—of course, no meat dishes—he got two servings of fried tofu.

While eating, Liu Zhenyun spotted Chen Jiangong from the 1977 Chinese Department lining up for food. He whispered to Wei Ming: “Ming-ge, have you heard?”

“What?”

Liu Zhenyun: “Brother Chen Jiangong joined the Writers’ Association!”

(End of Chapter)