Chapter 24: Xu Zhiqing's First Manuscript Payment
"Xu Zhiying from room 302! You’ve got a registered letter!"
Early in the morning, Aunt Wang, the warehouse manager, let out a call that pierced through the entire guesthouse.
Xu Chengjun’s heart skipped a beat in alarm.
Fearing Aunt Wang would shout again, Xu Zhiying hurriedly responded, "Coming!" He grabbed the ration coupons and cash he and Qian Ming owed for their recent stay.
Morning light slanted in through the wooden windows of the lobby, illuminating the kraft paper envelope in Aunt Wang’s hand. The red stamp in the upper right corner—"Hefei Evening News"—glimmered in the sunlight.
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The "Worker-Peasant-Soldier Guesthouse" of the 1960s–1980s, a state-run lodging facility during the planned economy era, had a management system distinctly shaped by its time. It mostly served official travelers; guests paid with ration coupons and cash, and needed a letter of introduction from their work unit. By 1979, however, policies had loosened somewhat.
Still, Aunt Wang’s job in Hefei was considered quite respectable in those days.
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"Judging by this envelope, isn’t it a remittance slip?"
Aunt Wang squinted and smiled, tapping the envelope with her knuckles.
"The other day, Xiao Ma from the provincial paper mentioned your article about the sunflower seed stall was going to be published. Looks like the money’s come in, eh?"
"I knew from the start you were no ordinary writer!"
Xu Chengjun inwardly rolled his eyes; when he first arrived, she’d eyed him as just another kid from Xujia Village.
That city-dweller’s sense of superiority was impossible to hide.
He took the envelope without a word, his fingertips brushing the stiff slip inside.
This was the first payment he’d received since arriving in 1979.
"Aunt Wang, may I borrow your scissors?" He pinched the envelope’s corner but couldn’t tear it open.
"Look at you, so eager." Aunt Wang fished out a rusted pair of scissors from under the counter. "Back when I was a sent-down youth, I never got this worked up over ration coupons from home."
With a soft "snip," the scissors sliced through the envelope. A green remittance slip slid out, along with half a sample copy of the "Hefei Evening News"—the very issue featuring "Spring Breeze Illuminates the Steelyard Star." The bold, calligraphic headline stood out sharply against the coarse paper.
The remittance slip caught him off guard: "Ten yuan and twenty cents."
Tiny characters beside it read: "Payment for 'Spring Breeze Illuminates the Steelyard Star,' four yuan per thousand characters."
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His article, "Steelyard Star," totaled 2,830 characters, earning him eleven yuan and thirty cents at the rate of four yuan per thousand.
"This isn’t much!" Qian Ming remarked, glancing at the payment slip. "‘Anhui Literature’ pays six yuan per thousand!"
"It’s not the same," Xu Chengjun replied without looking up. "Provincial literary journals pay more for long-form pieces; city papers pay less for short articles."
Actually, at this time, the "Hefei Evening News" usually paid two yuan per thousand for new contributors, three for those with some reputation. Xu Chengjun had gotten four yuan per thousand, thanks to his previous work in "Time" and the yet-unpublished "Granary."
The difference in payment between "Hefei Evening News" and "Anhui Literature" was, in essence, a microcosm of resource allocation in the cultural sector under the planned economy. Provincial journals, with policy advantages and funding, benefited most from the cultural revival of the early reform era. Local papers, with limited budgets and unclear mandates, struggled to break through the "low equilibrium" of payment.
"It’s not bad!"
By now, a crowd had gathered—morning was prime time for business.
"I went to Shanghai to resell Dacron shirts, braving wind and rain, and only earned as much as you did. You just scribble away and the money rolls in. Much more respectable than what we do!"
The young man from Wuhu, trading shirts in Hefei, sounded envious.
"But you can’t compare! Comrade Xu is a real writer now. The People’s Daily says we should respect knowledge and talent!"
"Indeed, we’ve got a celebrity in our guesthouse!"
Xu Chengjun smoothed out the sample paper, smiling at the compliments.
He rummaged in his canvas bag for a tin candy box.
"Try some, Wuhu candies—sweeter than what you get at supply cooperatives." He grinned, handing two pieces to the shirt trader, and shared some with the others.
"The money’s really not much."
He lit a cigarette for the young man, took one himself, and let the smoke drift lazily through the air. "Deputy Editor Zhang said four yuan per thousand was thanks to ‘Time.’ For new contributors, this is already good."
He gestured to Qian Ming.
"Last year Qian Ming wrote for the county radio station—only one yuan fifty per thousand."
Qian Ming stared at the headline, then looked up and smiled, "How can you compare? Your 'Steelyard Star' has the whole city talking!"
"It’s thanks to the seniors," Xu Chengjun flicked his ash and glanced around, "The editors at 'Hefei Evening News' are willing to help newcomers, and it’s really the policy—everyone’s talking about ‘respecting knowledge.’ We just happened to catch the right moment."
The crowd appreciated his words—he spoke steadily, neither boasting nor feigning modesty, always shifting credit to others, making him seem all the more genuine.
The shirt trader scratched his head. "Comrade Xu, with your literary talent, you ought to work at the newspaper."
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"No, thank you."
Xu Chengjun waved his hand and passed the candy box to Qian Ming. "I’ve got enough ink in my pen for rural stories, but at a newspaper, I’d probably mess up even a meeting report."
"Look at him—he’s planning to take the Beijing Foreign Studies entrance exam this year!"
As the conversation shifted to Qian Ming, everyone crowded in to ask about the college entrance exam.
In the crowd, Xu Chengjun caught a glimpse of Qian Ming giving him a thumbs-down behind his back.
...
Taking advantage of the distraction, Xu Chengjun slipped the remittance slip into his inner pocket, his fingers brushing the payment note. He couldn’t help but smile.
Though his earlier words had been for show, inside he was overjoyed. These ten yuan and twenty cents weren’t much, but they were the first brick he’d laid with his words to open up the world.
...
"Xu Zhiying, treat us!"
Suddenly, Ma Shengli’s voice echoed down the corridor. He carried an army-green satchel, sweat still glistening on his brow.
"My cousin said after your article was published, lots of readers called the paper asking if ‘Old Zhou’ was really Nian Guangjiu. Deputy Editor Zhang asked me to bring you a sample issue collection!"
"Wow, you’ve already received it?"
Well, there’d be no peace today!
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The fact that everyone was so interested in payment for writing was a rarity of the era—a lingering account from a special time.
In the early years of the republic, the first National Publishing Conference in 1950 established the basic framework for the new system of manuscript payments. The provisional "Manuscript Remuneration Regulations" issued that year stipulated payment in equivalent units—rice, flour, and other necessities—eight to sixteen units per thousand words.
In 1958, the Ministry issued provisional regulations, setting basic payment at four to fifteen yuan per thousand words (later cut to three to eight yuan). In 1960, royalties were abolished; professional writers became salaried employees of the state, with manuscript payments secondary.
Later, nationwide payment was suspended; authors received only symbolic subsidies, with publishing houses using a "task" system—amateur writers borrowed to write, paid for their own room and board, and received nothing.
In 1977, the State Publishing Bureau began trialing new payment and subsidy measures for news and publishing, ending the no-pay era. Payments were set at two to seven yuan per thousand words for original works, one to five for translations, but with the caveat: "low payment, paid only once."
Later generations often called 1980 the golden age of Chinese literature, thanks to the notice issued that year raising rates to three to ten yuan for original works, two to seven for translations, and restoring additional payments based on print runs—fully reigniting writers’ creative energy.