Chapter 26: Offering Me a Column?

The clatter of typewriters in the editorial office ceased abruptly.

The young typist by the window paused, tweezers in hand, and turned her head to look over, her braided hair swaying gently with the movement.

Across the table, the senior editor pushed his reading glasses up his nose, his red pencil halting mid-sentence on the manuscript. His Adam’s apple bobbed as if he wished to speak.

Even the messenger passing by the door, arms full of newspapers, slowed his steps, angling his ear toward the commotion.

Just moments ago, when Xu Chengjun had declared, “Making a living with your own hands knows no ideology,” the messenger nearly let his stack of newspapers slip to the floor.

Editor-in-chief Li set his teacup down with a crisp smack, the enamel bottom clattering against the desk and startling the dust from the cactus on the windowsill.

He removed his glasses and polished them on his shirt, his eyes gleaming behind the lenses. “Xu, you’ve really hit the nail on the head!”

He snatched the newspaper clippings from his desk and waved them in the air. “Just for those few sentences alone, I’ll review this interview myself! Front page headline, with an editorial note!”

…

Li poured a bit more water into his cup, his gaze filled with approval.

“How do you think young people should view private enterprise?” Ma Shengli continued, his voice softer than before.

“I think of Qian Ming.” Xu Chengjun turned to look at the young man sitting beside him, who was scribbling on the back of the interview outline.

“When he was preparing for university, some said, ‘All that studying is useless for an educated youth,’ but he still studied late into the night every day. Private enterprise is the same. What matters is not what others say, but whether you can do the job well yourself.”

“Qian Ming memorizes English words, and people scoff, ‘Educated youth make no contribution, just stir up trouble’; a sunflower seed vendor sets up a stall, and people say, ‘Not a proper occupation.’ But in this world, things are never decided by others’ opinions.”

He picked up the sample issue of the Anhui Youth Daily from the table, pointing at the headline: “Young People in Xiaogang Village Compete to Become Leaders in Contract Farming.”

“Look at these young people, daring to divide the land among households—not because they’re unafraid of criticism, but because they know that living an honest life matters more than anything else.”

“Private enterprise isn’t a shortcut; it’s blazing a new trail. The youth must dare to forge ahead, but not blindly. They must be true to their own efforts, and also worthy of the flexibility that policy allows.”

The recorder in Ma Shengli’s hand was still spinning with a faint buzz when he suddenly slapped his thigh, tossing the outline onto the table. “I knew I found the right person! Last time I interviewed a self-employed lad, he burst into tears, saying he always felt people whispering behind his back when he put out his stall.”

“Tomorrow, when the paper comes out, I’ll have him bring it to his stall!”

Qian Ming flushed, hurriedly stuffing his densely written paper into his pocket, only to have Ma Shengli snatch it away. “Well, what do we have here?”

He read aloud, “‘The individual is a star; the collective is the moon. With enough stars, the night sky shines bright!’”

“What a vivid metaphor!”

Laughter filled the room, drowning out even the wind outside the window.

-----------------

By the time the interview ended, dusk had crept leisurely into the editorial office.

The shadow of the cactus stretched long, falling precisely over the clippings Editor-in-chief Li had just pushed forward.

The red pencil circled phrases: “The scale star is fixed, but the human heart is alive,” and “For every inch policy loosens, life gains a foot of width,” the ink still fresh.

“I plan to weave these into the interview headline. Xu, does that sound good to you?”

Xu Chengjun smiled, pushing the clippings back across the table. “You’ve been wielding the pen for decades, no one reads the policy winds better than you. Whatever you decide will be right.”

“Then let’s go with ‘Labor Theory under the Scale Star’!” Editor-in-chief Li slapped the desk. He rapped his finger firmly on the line about policy, “And add a subtitle: ‘Young Xu Chengjun and His Observations of the Times.’ It’ll run next Monday—ten thousand copies! Every educated youth station and youth center in every county must get one!”

As soon as he finished, he pressed a hand on Xu Chengjun’s shoulder.

The words he wanted to say caught in his throat, swallowed back with a bob of his Adam’s apple. “Xu, wait a moment.”

Ignoring the fountain pen rolling across the desk and the puzzled stares of the editors who’d paused their writing, he called out, “Old Zhang, Xiao Wang, come to the small conference room!”

With that, he pulled Zhang, the deputy editor, and others through the door curtain and into the back room. The door clicked shut behind them.

-----------------

Ma Shengli scratched the back of his head, winked at Xu Chengjun, and spread his hands. “I have no idea what scheme he’s cooking up either.”

Xu Chengjun laughed at his antics.

Just as he was about to speak, the female secretary from the next desk approached, carrying an ink bottle, her cheeks flushed as she handed him a notebook. “Comrade Xu, could you sign your name for me? That line you wrote about ‘pumpkin pulp sticking to the signboard’ really resonated with me.”

“That poem, ‘Time’—Ma Shengli read it to us. I liked it a lot, too.”

Xu Chengjun was taken aback.

Was this his first fan in 1979?

No wonder so many writers in later years loved holding book signings.

A group of bright, lively young women crowding around, asking for autographs—who wouldn’t enjoy that?

With nothing else pressing, he signed his name.

They chatted under the lamplight, discussing their work—from the red string on a sunflower seed stall to the haystacks in Xiaogang village.

In the corner, Qian Ming mimicked Ma Shengli, spreading his hands—but a secret smile tugged at his lips.

“Chengjun’s just not as serious as he looks!”

-----------------

After a while, Editor-in-chief Li and the editors filed out. He smiled at Xu Chengjun.

“Xu, after this interview, how about a regular column in the Youth Daily? Write down everything you see and think. Young people need a voice like yours.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the editorial office fell silent again.

…

In the early days of reform and opening, newspapers were the primary carriers of information and forums for intellectual exchange. Local party papers and youth publications, in particular, served both as tools for policy communication and engines for social mobilization.

A column writer was not just a regular contributor; to some extent, their presence signaled the paper’s endorsement of their expertise and credibility.

For the Anhui Youth Daily, such a column was a focal point for the concerns and ideas of the younger generation.

Correspondingly, the columnist could become a representative voice in the province’s youth culture and social currents.

Appointing Xu Chengjun as a columnist for the Anhui Youth Daily was no small thing.

It was, by all measures, a gesture of genuine sincerity.

If Xu Chengjun were to sum it up: it was, damn it, very sincere indeed!

For Xu Chengjun,

This column—

He had a way of doing things entirely unlike his contemporaries.

It was his chance,

And a chance for the Anhui Youth Daily as well!

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Xu Chengjun’s hand, gripping the fountain pen, hung suspended in midair.

“A column?” he repeated, his tone tinged with uncertainty.

Editor-in-chief Li refilled his enamel mug with hot water, steam clouding his glasses. “No need to rush to refuse, Xu.”

He rummaged in his drawer and produced a bound volume of the Anhui Youth Daily, pointing to one of the pages. “Take a look at this ‘Youth Mailbox.’ Every day we receive hundreds of letters—half ask whether setting up a stall counts as embracing capitalism, the other half say they want to study but are afraid of ridicule. These kids don’t lack courage; they lack a mirror in which to see themselves.”

He pushed the bound volume in front of Xu, tapping the report on ‘Young People in Xiaogang Village.’ “Your piece ‘Scale Star’ became a hit not because it was a slogan, but because it spoke of the real thing—‘pumpkin pulp sticking to the signboard.’ Old Zhou’s story of changing his scale three times is worth more than ten of our editorials.”

Ma Shengli interjected, “Editor Li’s been talking about this since yesterday—finding someone who can speak from within the ranks of young people. You wrote ‘Granary,’ and there was a spark of reform; you wrote ‘Scale Star,’ and there was the warmth of daily life. Who could be more suitable?”