Chapter Forty-Five: Experiencing the Life of a Writer

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Xiao Dai had just written the word “Accepted” on the manuscript slip.

“Editor Xiao,” Xu Chengjun leaned forward, “This manuscript… really doesn’t need any revisions?”

With that, even the sound of the palm fans in the editorial department paused.

Kong Rou nearly knocked her enamel mug against the corner of the desk, and Wu Xikang lifted his head from the translation draft, glasses sliding down his nose: “Young man, you’ve never had a manuscript rejected?”

Xu Chengjun scratched his head: “I revised ‘The Granary’ seven times. Yesterday on the train, I even dreamed of Editor Li circling my manuscript with a red pen.”

Li Xiaolin let out a laugh, the hem of her navy-blue work pants brushing the floor: “So you’re actually hoping for revisions? Teacher Xu, that’s quite the peculiar habit.”

She pushed the manuscript toward Xu Chengjun. “Your ‘Fitting Room Mirror’—the rebellious shadows are wild; revise it, and it loses its vigor. Like fresh river fish—steamed is best, too many spices only add a muddy taste.”

Xu Chengjun stared at the slip with “Accepted” written on it.

Three seconds later, his face suddenly fell.

“So…” he rubbed his fingers, “Since there’s no need for revisions, can I still stay at the editorial department’s guesthouse for free?”

That made the roomful of editors burst into laughter.

A timely joke can close the distance, but only if you have the talent to back it up.

Sure enough, the atmosphere now was much warmer than when he first arrived.

Kong Rou was laughing so hard she slapped the desk, splashing strong tea from her enamel mug: “Teacher Xu, one moment you’re discussing magical realism, the next you’re thinking about the guesthouse?”

“Isn’t that right,”

Xu Chengjun replied confidently, “It’s not just about thinking—I want to experience a writer’s life!”

What boldness!

Li Xiaolin covered her mouth, laughing: “You calculate things better than an abacus. So if we don’t make you revise, we’re committing a crime?”

Truth is, in these days, there’s hardly a new writer whose manuscript doesn’t get revised.

One reason is lack of credentials; without credentials, your writing lacks confidence, and any deviation becomes a problem.

But once you gain some fame, become a seasoned writer, even if you push boundaries, someone will vouch for you.

That’s the benefit brought by writing “The Granary” and “The Weighing Star.”

Another reason is many writers, in their early days, become obsessed with ornate language, and their narratives are mostly linear, making their works immature.

As Hemingway said: First drafts are crap; the important thing is whether you’re willing to shovel it and reshape it until it becomes what you want.

Take Brother Xun’s first vernacular novel, “Diary of a Madman”—the initial draft had a mix of classical phrases and vernacular, making it awkward and obscure.

During revision, all obscure references were removed, using minimalist language to create the chilling atmosphere of “cannibalism.”

It ultimately became the starting point of modern Chinese literature.

So you see, even the great Brother Xun had to revise—how can ordinary writers be exempt?

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Isn’t that right, Teacher Yu Hua!

Speaking of Yu Hua, his debut work “Leaving Home at Eighteen” was also rejected!

The editor’s comment: narrative confusion, unclear motives.

But Xu Chengjun, the rookie writer, had spent fifteen years as a Chinese literature trainee in his past life.

His writing and structure were solid, and he knew how to stand out.

Li Xiaolin turned to Xiao Dai and winked, “Old Xiao, why don’t we tidy up the magazine storage room in the editorial department? Lay a plank and it’ll make a bed.”

Xiao Dai tapped the table with feigned seriousness, spinning his red-blue pencil between his fingers: “The storage room won’t do. Last year it leaked, and the peeling wall could hurt someone. But…”

He shifted gears, a sly glint in his eyes, “There’s a vacant room at the Writers’ Union guesthouse, reserved for authors revising manuscripts. Eight cents a day, billed to the editorial department.”

Xu Chengjun’s face brightened instantly, and he slapped his thigh with joy. “So does this make me a revising author? Even if I didn’t revise, the manuscript was accepted!”

“Of course you are!” Li Xiaolin stuffed the slip into his hand.

“Just say you’re a ‘certified author’ specially approved by ‘Harvest’—they’ll keep a room for you. By the way, there’s no braised pork in the cafeteria at noon, but there’s braised potatoes, and with a recommendation letter you can get an extra spoonful.”

Xu Chengjun clutched the slip, then asked, “So… what’s the payment?”

Wu Xikang lifted his head from the translation draft, smiling: “Didn’t expect you to be so money-minded. Seven yuan per thousand characters, one more than you got in Anhui. Eight thousand characters, fifty-six yuan—enough for two months at the guesthouse and tea eggs with every meal.”

“It’s not about being money-minded. Material foundation determines spiritual value—making money from writing isn’t shameful!”

Xu Chengjun laughed. “Thanks for your support, teachers!”

Li Xiaolin waved him off: “Hurry home and prepare for your Fudan interview. Next time you have a good manuscript, bring it to us first!”

…

Xu Chengjun walked out of the editorial office.

He looked out at the bustling crowds on Julu Road,

And smiled.

Publishing a piece in “Harvest” was a dream from his previous life.

On July 17, 1979, it came true—“Fitting Room Mirror” would appear in “Harvest” in mid-August.

That’s right, Xu Chengjun’s “Fitting Room Mirror” would be published before “The Granary.”

Since its founding in 1957, “Harvest” positioned itself as a bimonthly magazine, with Elder Ba emphasizing the principle of cultivating both talent and works. The bimonthly pace ensured quality while responding promptly to literary needs of the era.

Historically, after resuming publication in 1979, issues 1, 2, 4, 5, and 6 were released, with issue 3 missing.

Thus, Xu Chengjun’s work would appear in issue 4, but since issue 3 was skipped, to prevent too long a gap between issues 2 and 4, issue 4 would be published ahead of schedule in mid-August.

…

The Writers’ Union guesthouse was at 238 Yan’an West Road.

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After asking the editors for the address, Xu Chengjun once again pulled out the city transit map.

This time the trip was longer—route 11 wouldn’t do.

But taking route 24 and transferring to route 71 was just right.

Route 24 arrived.

Xu Chengjun clutched his twenty-four cent ticket, squeezing onto the route 24 trolleybus with the crowd.

Route 24, launched in 1938, was a classic line in SH City, and in 1979 still connected the southern and western districts—its green metal body, conductors manually opening and closing doors, and along the way one could see landmarks like Fuxing Park and Culture Square.

The green metal bus jolted along Ruijin Second Road, the overhead “braid” brushing the wires with a soft sizzling sound.

A truly dreamlike experience.

“Fuxing Middle Road—arriving!” the conductor shouted, her voice echoing. The wooden-handled metal rings swayed with the bus, colliding with a muffled clanging.

Outside the window, Fuxing Park’s cast-iron fence was covered in vines; workers in blue work uniforms squatted roadside eating spring noodles, scallions clinging to the rim of their enamel bowls.

The trolley turned the corner, and the massive billboard at Culture Square came into view—red background, white characters: “Celebrate May Day International Workers’ Day.” Below, a dense cluster of bicycles parked, mesh bags hanging from handlebars swayed with enamel lunchboxes.

“Next stop, South Shaanxi Road—passengers transferring to route 71, get ready to disembark!”

Xu Chengjun hurried to the rear door, the metal steps clanged underfoot.

After waiting for three articulated buses, the route 71 double-decker finally appeared, swaying as it pulled up.

Xu Chengjun climbed the metal stairs to the second floor, choosing a window seat.

Perfect for viewing Shanghai in 1979.

He gazed out.

On Yan’an Middle Road, the golden spire of the Sino-Soviet Friendship Mansion pierced the clouds.

The Russian-style colonnade’s pillars were gilded by the sun.

The new slogan “The motherland awaits you, the people await you, the revolution awaits you” had just been painted in red, its corners shining with fresh gloss.

“Jing’an Temple—arriving!” Suddenly, the scent of incense wafted through the bus window.

Xu Chengjun craned his neck; the yellow walls of Jing’an Temple peeked through the sycamore leaves.

Across from the temple, the sign for “Shanghai Fashion Company” gleamed brightly.

The bus rolled past Nanjing West Road, and the old clock shop’s grandfather clock struck three times, its chimes mingling with the trolley’s bell, drifting far into the winds of 1979.