Chapter 74: The Invitation from the Writers Association (Please Follow!)

The Beijing Writers Association has not yet been officially established, so when Liu Zhenyun says “Writers Association,” he means the China Writers Association led by Mao Dun.

The People’s Literature, Poetry Magazine, and the Literary Gazette are all overseen by the Writers Association, so these three publications hold an exceptional status.

Although Chen Jiangong is only a second-year student, this senior is a full decade older than Wei Ming—he’s already thirty, and since he was a coal miner six years ago, he’s been publishing poetry and fiction.

In the past two months, he has successively published short stories in Beijing Literature and Huacheng; it’s no surprise Wei Ming finds it normal that he’s been absorbed by the Writers Association—he truly has substance to back his leadership among Chinese literature majors.

Liu Zhenyun was curious: “Brother Wei, didn’t the Writers Association reach out to you?”

In Liu Zhenyun’s view, Wei Ming’s talent is still formidable; though his output doesn’t match Senior Chen’s, a single story, “The Duck Knows,” and a single poem, “Ideal,” have made him famous—rumor has it half the letters received daily at Dongdamen are addressed to him, earning him the nickname “Wei Half.”

Wei Ming waved his hand: “I’ve only been in the game for a few days—barely ten or fifteen days at most. Why would they come to me?”

The pen name “Wei Ming” became known only with “The Duck Knows,” which was indeed just ten-odd days ago—he’s a true rookie.

As they spoke, Chen Jiangong walked over on his own: “Mind if I join?”

Liu Zhenyun quickly made room for his senior; the big dining hall had no tables or chairs, so everyone ate squatting—ideal for Shaanxi people.

Chen Jiangong was from Guangxi, but he’d moved to Beijing with his parents as a child and spoke not a trace of Guangxi dialect.

Wei Ming had met him before, but since they were nearly two generations apart, he usually hung out with younger folks like Liu Zhenyun or female classmates.

The senior smiled, trying to join in: “What were you two just talking about?”

Wei Ming: “We were talking about you.”

Liu Zhenyun: “…Bro, that’s too blunt—be a little more roundabout!”

“Ah, me?”

Wei Ming: “Zhenyun told me you’ve joined the Writers Association.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

Wei Ming smiled: “Congratulations. Does joining the Writers Association come with a salary?”

“There’s a salary if you become a full-time writer for the association—I’m not one.”

Full-time writers get a position and salary, but their freedom is limited; sometimes they must accept assigned topics provided by the association for commissioned writing.

Wei Ming asked further: “Who else is in with you?”

“Oh, I know Jiang Zilong and Ye Wenling,” Chen Jiangong replied honestly. “By the way, you and Brother Zilong are considered the two flagbearers of reform literature.”

Wei Ming: “Ah, is my reputation that high in the literary world?”

Chen Jiangong scratched his head awkwardly: “That’s just my personal view—‘The Factory Director’ focuses on cadres of state-owned factories, while ‘The Duck Knows’ focuses on ordinary people in a great era; each has its strengths.”

Hearing praise still felt good—it even boosted his appetite—so Wei Ming asked Liu Zhenyun to get him another serving of rice noodles.

“I’m out of meal tickets~” He was used to trading meal tickets with southern classmates for noodle tickets, making a profit to eat more noodles.

“Then get a steamed bun too.”

Liu Zhenyun teased: “Brother Wei, no wonder you’re surnamed Wei—your stomach’s got serious elasticity.”

Wei Ming laughed: “I’m still growing, after all.”

Chen Jiangong couldn’t help chuckling—this young Wei was indeed as witty as his writing. He then began chatting with Wei Ming about his recent creative projects.

Chen Jiangong was currently working on one of his masterpieces, “The Phoenix Eye,” while Wei Ming told him: “I’m writing a fairy tale.”

“Ah, a fairy tale? For kids?”

Wei Ming nodded.

Chen Jiangong was stunned—a rising star of reform literature suddenly turning to children’s literature?

“Brother Wei, have you heard some gossip in the literary world? Are you feeling discouraged?”

Huh? Gossip? Discouraged? No.

But Wei Ming deliberately sighed and said nothing.

Chen Jiangong hurried to say: “They just think ‘The Duck Knows’ became popular by luck, lacking depth and humanistic concern—but they still greatly admire your prose. One elder even called your writing a rarity in today’s literary scene.”

Wei Ming strongly suspected Chen Jiangong had softened his words—no wonder newspaper reviews of “The Duck Knows” all focused on its social relevance, while literary circles remained indifferent.

They probably all thought “The Duck Knows” had been overhyped by official circles, that it was pure luck.

Wei Ming smiled bitterly and shook his head. Just then Liu Zhenyun returned, handing him a steamed bun: “What were you two talking about?” Wei Ming said: “I said I’m writing a fairy tale, and Brother Jiangong panicked, thinking I’d abandon serious literature forever.”

Liu Zhenyun laughed: “Brother, you don’t know this—Wei Ming started as a children’s writer. His first piece was published in Children’s Literature under the pen name Wei Something.”

Chen Jiangong: “Ah!”

He felt deeply embarrassed—he’d blurted out some of the older literary figures’ negative opinions about Wei Ming.

But Wei Ming didn’t take it seriously—“The Duck Knows” was just a casual experiment; its huge impact was already a pleasant surprise.

So what if I’m lucky? Luck is also a kind of talent!

He patted his pocket—the cash inside was the only real thing.

During his afternoon patrol, facing Peking University’s varied scenery, Wei Ming’s resolve to buy a camera grew even stronger.

That day he was patrolling with Mei Wenhua; when they reached Langrun Garden, they spotted a familiar figure.

“Good morning, Professor Wu.”

It was Professor Wu Zuxiang, whom Wei Ming had attended class with that morning.

The old professor sized up the taller, handsomer one: “You must be Wei Ming.”

!

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Since you’ve attended my class, you can call me Teacher Wu.”

He’d recognized me even though I sat at the very back.

Wei Ming quickly said: “Hello, Teacher Wu.”

“How was this morning’s lecture? Could you follow along?”

“Very well—it’s helped my current writing a lot. I just arrived late and missed some parts, so I later caught up with Liu Zhenyun from the ’78 class.”

Wu Zuxiang nodded and added: “I read your story—it’s full of street life, a rare voice in today’s literary scene. Remarkable, considering you’ve only been in Shanghai for a few days.”

“Thank you, Teacher Wu,” Wei Ming thought—could the elder Chen Jiangong mentioned be this old man?

Wu Lao suddenly asked: “Would you like to join the Writers Association?”

“Ah?” Wei Ming hadn’t expected this sudden question.

Mei Wenhua: I didn’t expect this either—I was just patrolling with him and now I’m being shown up!

He quickly moved off to patrol elsewhere, thoroughly annoyed.

“Would joining the Writers Association help me get a Beijing hukou?” Wei Ming asked a question Wu Zuxiang hadn’t anticipated.

Old Wu thought for a moment: “It might help a bit—and future housing allocation.”

Since the Writers Association still had few members, they were considered scarce talent; Wu Zuxiang, seeing Wei Ming’s extraordinary potential and knowing they were both from Peking University, wanted to bring him in.

Wei Ming: “Then I’ll join.” After all, more titles mean more paths—should I get fed up, I can always quit later. Might as well set an example for Zheng Yuanjie.

“Alright, I’m a council member—I’ll nominate you this year. ‘The Duck Knows’ and ‘Ideal’ are more than enough. It’ll probably be approved next year, but you’ll miss this year’s Literary Congress.”

“Ah? Literary Congress?”

“Yes, it’s happening at the end of the month—the Fourth National Congress of Literary and Art Workers, after more than a decade! Talking about it, Old Wu looked delighted.

As he described who might attend, Wei Ming wasn’t interested in participating—but he became very eager to take photos there.

After work, Wei Ming immediately went to Uncle Anping’s house with his things.

Good—this time the whole family was home.

Baijiu, spicy sauce, salted duck eggs—the usual three. He’d brought them last time; this time he added two pairs of tiger-head shoes sewn by Old Lady’s hands for Xile, as Old Wei had already asked for the size last visit.

“Oh, these are so adorable—they’re practically works of art! Sister Lu, your hands are so skilled!” Lu Xiaoyan couldn’t stop admiring them, too precious to let the boys wear—fine, let Lele wear them, and Xizi can just look.

“Dinner’s ready!” Uncle Anping came out carrying dishes, wearing an apron.

Wei Ming’s timing was perfect—he’d arrived just in time for dinner.

Seeing Xizi eat with such enthusiasm, Auntie couldn’t help saying: “You’re the best at eating—never see you this eager about homework. Have you finished your homework yet?”

Wei Ming: “Huh? He’s this young and already has homework?”

Lu Xiaoyan: “Just simple number writing—write from zero to nine. Next time, no dinner if you don’t finish.”

Wei Ming “Oh”ed, just as he was about to pick up his chopsticks, Auntie Xiaoyan smiled and asked: “Little Ming, have you finished your new piece?”

(End of Chapter)