Writing Can Make You a Fortune

"Xiao Qi?"
"Xiao Qi?"
"Mm!"
On the wooden bed in the outer room, Chen Qi blinked sleepily. Yu Xiuli patted him and said, "Get up, time to wake up and liven up!"
He sat up, feeling dazed for a moment. After the grueling train journey, he had come home late last night and fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He thought Yu Xiuli had already left for work, but when he looked outside, the sun was high in the sky.
"Why did you come back at noon?"
"To make you some food. I have to rush back to work soon, and both your father and I will be late coming home tonight, so just make do with whatever you find for dinner."
"Where are you two going?"
"What else could it be, if not because of the National Writers' Congress? Our work unit is responding to the conference by organizing a book fair, and every Xinhua Bookstore in the city is rushed off its feet."
Yu Xiuli efficiently whipped up a meal. To welcome her eldest son, she had specially bought a little pork to make a stir-fry, alongside a dish of radish and cabbage, and some pickled side dishes.
Having eaten so much radish and cabbage in Lushan that he felt like vomiting, Chen Qi felt nauseous at the sight of them. With a steamed bun in his left hand and chopsticks in his right, he attacked the meat with full force and laughed, "Having a mother means you'll never starve. It's still best to be home."
"Was the food in the film crew that bad?"
"It was alright, just standard mess hall fare. When does your book fair start?"
"In a few days. You can go wander around if you've got nothing to do; literary figures like Ye Shengtao and Bingxin will all be there, right at the Beijing Working People's Cultural Palace. The last book fair was held back in 1957 to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the October Revolution—it was a sea of people, people even lost their shoes in the crush. This time there'll definitely be even more."
"Can you just buy whatever books you want at the book fair? Then I'll go take a look, since I just happened to earn a bit of money..."
As he spoke, Chen Qi pulled a small book out of his bag, tapped it, and said, "Look at this. Your son has some skills; I earned more writing fees."
"You got published again? Which magazine?"
Yu Xiuli was suddenly pleasantly surprised. But when she saw the three large characters of *Story Stories* printed across the cover, she clicked her tongue and said, "Tell me, my boy, why don't you submit to *People's Literature*? Even *Harvest* or *October* would do! This crappy magazine isn't even worth looking at in our bookstore."
"Huh? You know *Story Stories*?"
"Which domestic magazine don't we know? They want to distribute nationwide through two channels: one via the Xinhua Bookstore system, and the other via the post office. At the beginning of the year, *Story Stories* wanted to break into Beijing, but the bookstore didn't think much of it... Let me see what you wrote. Oh my, it's a martial arts novel!
My boy, after writing about romance, now you're writing martial arts—you'll never get into the Writers' Association this way.
You need to be profound, you need to critique the past, to capture that release of emotion after the suppression of human nature. Have you ever heard of Scar Literature? The Writers' Association loves that kind of stuff; you need scars!"
"Scar my ass!"
Taking in his mother's sarcastic tone, Chen Qi rolled his eyes, snatched the magazine back, and said, "My ambitions don't lie with the Writers' Association. I just love writing popular stuff. Alright, alright, you hurry up and get going!"
"I haven't finished talking yet!"
"Off you go, off you go!"
Chen Qi chased Yu Xiuli away and took a fierce bite of his steamed bun. A child with a mother might not starve, but they could certainly be driven to exasperation. Everyone looked down on authors of popular fiction—and to think this large courtyard was once the former residence of Zhang Henshui!
This was a grand mansion with seven inner courtyards!
After finishing his meal, he washed the dishes and put the remaining food into the cupboard.
The dish cupboard—a piece of furniture many post-90s generations have probably never heard of, being a small wooden cabinet specifically used for storing bowls, plates, and chopsticks.
Don't think there were no betrothal gifts in this era; the bride prices back then were fierce! The famous "Three Turns and One Sound": a bicycle, a watch, a sewing machine, and a radio. In addition to those, there were "thirty-six legs."
One double bed, one square table, four stools, one wardrobe, one dressing table, and one food cabinet/dish cupboard—adding up to exactly thirty-six legs.
Later on, this upgraded to forty-eight legs, and then seventy-two legs. One can only say that the tradition of bride prices runs in a continuous line.
Of course, if both sides agreed to waive the betrothal gifts, that was fine too. You could get married with just a thermos flask, an "East Is Red" mirror, two festive quilts, and a "Double Happiness" enamel washbasin...
Chen Qi had a sore lower back from the train ride and lazily lay back down on the bed, pulling out his little savings passbook. He still had a little over six hundred yuan left from before. *The Cotton Cassock* had brought in 350 yuan, and combined with the Beijing Film Studio subsidy, he had officially broken the one-thousand-yuan mark.
To speak of it, he was now a "thousand-yuan household," which was definitely nothing to be ashamed of. This amount of money was roughly what his parents earned in a whole year.
He knew the sales of *Story Stories* must have surged considerably, because before he returned, He Chengwei had eagerly sought him out once more, saying that they must keep in touch and maintain correspondence after returning to Beijing, and that if he ever had time to visit Shanghai, he would personally greet him and keep him company...
The flattery in his attitude and the cheesiness of his words gave away his true intentions completely!
*Story Stories* retailed for twenty-four cents; a print run of one hundred thousand copies meant twenty-four thousand yuan. Later on, when each issue sold millions of copies, that would translate to millions in revenue. If it were changed to a monthly publication, the annual revenue would exceed ten million!
Then there was *Reader*, which went on to go public in later generations.
A single magazine might seem inconspicuous, but expanded outward, it constituted a media conglomerate.
"Suddenly, I feel a sense of empathy with Zheng Yuanjie..."
Although Chen Qi liked *Story Stories* and was happy to contribute to it, he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't have other ideas once time went on.
"The 1980s are truly the golden age of literature. Writing text can make you big money, and it also builds a platform. With Mom and Dad at the Xinhua Bookstore, it would be too much of a waste not to use these resources. Who thinks they have too much money?"
He muttered a few more times, put away his savings passbook, and drifted off to sleep again in a daze.
…………
In October of this year, the most bustling event was not the National Day banquet at the Great Hall of the People, but a painting.
The Capital International Airport had recently completed its expansion and invited several painters to create murals for the departure hall. Among them, a mural titled *Water-Splashing Festival—Hymn to Life* caused a tremendous uproar. The painter's name was Yuan Yunsheng.
He had audaciously painted several nude Dai ethnic girls. At the time, overseas media exclaimed in awe: "For the first time, the female body has appeared in a public space in China, demonstrating reform and opening-up in the truest sense!"
Of course, that wouldn't fly domestically. Relevant personnel sought out Yuan Yunsheng and negotiated: "Could you make a slight change? At least have the girls wear a pair of shorts?"
Amidst all the hubbub, a top central leader heard about it, came personally to view the mural, and remarked: "What is there to argue about here? Artistic expression is completely normal. I see no problem at all; we should print more copies and sell them to foreigners."
Thus, it was preserved.
However, ordinary citizens loved the excitement. Good heavens, they could openly look at naked bodies? They racked their brains to sneak in, just to catch a glimpse of the nudity.
The airport felt this looked improper, so they hung a gauze curtain to cover it up, later replacing it with a partition board. It wasn't until the Asian Games opened in 1990 that the complete mural saw the light of day once again. Because it had been exceptionally well protected, it looked as vibrant as new.
In this era, a single painting, a single book, or a private business operator could all represent the shifting winds of the nation's direction.
There was a rumor that Huo Yingdong had once said back then: "When investing in the mainland at that time, I was most afraid of sudden policy changes. Every time I went to Beijing, the first thing I'd do was check whether this painting was still there. If it was, my heart felt a lot more settled."
...
Meanwhile, after staying at home for a day, Chen Qi hurried back to the Beijing Film Studio.
*Romance on Lushan Mountain* was shooting its indoor scenes on the soundstage, proceeding at a leisurely pace as everyone waited for the Writers' Congress to convene. Gong Xue hadn't returned to her military troupe yet and was also staying at the guesthouse.
Two days later, the book fair opened.