My department colleagues were gossiping about Song Foxiang getting beaten up, but Zou Weijun automatically tuned it out. She was incredibly busy today! Zou Weijun needed to discuss the publication of Teen Idol with the boss. The boss had been in meetings all morning, and now, finally free, Zou Weijun quickly grabbed her prepared materials and knocked on the office door. The boss had also heard about Song Foxiang’s incident. Glancing up and seeing Zou Weijun so calm, it seemed the matter had nothing to do with her. But Teen Idol… what kind of project was this?
“Xiao Zou, aren’t you still handling Shh, Little Secret? Can you manage both?”
“Take a look at the manuscript first. It’s young adult fiction, a different genre from popular science books. I personally think there’s no conflict.” Seeing the boss’s scepticism, Zou Weijun pulled up a chair and sat down, clearly ready to wait until the boss finished reading the 120,000-word manuscript before getting a response.
The boss: “…”
When Xiao Zou first started working, she wasn’t this assertive. It must be Editor Wan and Song Foxiang’s fault for provoking her. The boss was now a bit confused about who was actually in charge, but under Zou Weijun’s steady gaze, the boss’s hands seemed to move on their own, flipping open the manuscript on the desk. Xiao Zou was serious; there was no getting out of reading it. Maintaining harmonious relationships in the same department was a must.
“I’ll just skim through it and find a reason to reject Xiao Zou afterwards,” the boss thought.
But after starting, the boss finished 20,000 words quickly. No reason to reject it yet. Another 20,000 words. …This book didn’t seem to have any flaws. What now? Just keep reading; there must be something wrong with it! Another 20,000 words, and then another, and before long, all 120,000 words were done. The boss looked up, “And then?”
Zou Weijun smiled faintly, “Are you asking about the rest of the story? The book is still being serialised in the magazine. What I’ve shown you is the content already published publicly. If we don’t sign a publishing contract, we definitely won’t get the rest of the manuscript.”
She knew it. She just knew Wen Ying’s work could captivate people!
Although there were many things about the publishing department that dissatisfied Zou Weijun, like the crude male colleagues who made inappropriate jokes, the female colleagues who gathered in groups of two or three to gossip, and the not-so-responsible department boss, there were also things she appreciated. The staff turnover was low, and the department had no “outsiders.” Everyone had years of experience in the publishing industry. They might fall short in other areas, but their judgement was never lacking.
A book she believed in had no reason not to impress the boss.
The boss asked Zou Weijun to wait and reread the 120,000 words. This time, it took a full hour. For a cultured person who could read ten lines at a glance, this was already slow. After finishing, the boss was silent for a long while before saying, “This book… it’s not quite like the young adult fiction popular on the market now.”
Other people’s youth is all about pain, but yours is warm and uplifting. As a middle-aged person, the boss naturally preferred works like this. All that talk of youthful pain was just modern teenagers, living too comfortably, not worrying about going hungry, and thus having the energy to indulge in melodramatic suffering. Back when the boss’s generation was young, youth had its troubles, but they weren’t about puppy love, heartbreak, or abortions. They thought about their future paths, how to change their family’s hardships, how to build the nation… Teen Idol had a bit of that positive, uplifting spirit from the boss’s youth, stirring nostalgia and a touch of embarrassed warmth.
When they had no power, they dreamed of cutting through obstacles and shining brightly once they did. But when they actually gained power, their thoughts turned to vying for influence and climbing the ladder, long forgetting their original ideals. Teen Idol told a modern story, yet it took the boss’s memories back twenty or thirty years.
“Of course it’s different. If it were the same, I wouldn’t be interested in planning its publication. There are plenty of writers churning out that kind of young adult fiction; the market isn’t short of it. But this one I found is special. I believe you’ve felt it too.”
The publishing department hadn’t planned a bestseller in a long time. Shh, Little Secret was already an exception. Of course, being part of the Rongcheng Publishing Group, even without bestsellers, the department faced no risk of closing. But for the boss to swallow their pride and promote so-called young adult fiction writers? They weren’t keen. Teen Idol, though, piqued the boss’s interest. The writing wasn’t pretentious and kept them reading. Whether the market would accept it, the boss wasn’t sure.
Perhaps… test the waters a little?
The boss tapped the desk with their fingers, “Xiao Zou, tell me, what’s your plan?”
Zou Weijun shared her ideas, focusing on the initial print run and royalties. Though the boss was open to trying Teen Idol, the terms Zou Weijun proposed were too generous—not for the publishing department, but for the author of Teen Idol!
Reverse Fish? The boss had never heard of this pen name. Definitely a newcomer. For new authors, publishers typically offered an 8% royalty rate. This 8% wasn’t a tax the author paid but their income from the publisher. Royalties were calculated as “number of printed copies × book price × 8%.” For example, if Teen Idol had an initial print run of 10,000 copies priced at 30 yuan each, the publisher would pay the author 10,000 × 30 × 8%, which came to just 24,000 yuan. The author would still need to pay taxes on that.
If the book didn’t sell and there was no reprint after the initial run, that 24,000 yuan would be the total earnings for Teen Idol’s standalone publication. That was less than what Wen Ying earned for serialising 300,000 words in Aige! It wasn’t that the boss was particularly stingy or bullying new authors; this was just industry practice. Paying based on print runs meant the publisher bore the risk. From planning to printing, the publisher covered all costs. A book priced at 30 yuan didn’t mean the publisher pocketed 30 yuan! If the book didn’t sell, it would just gather dust in the warehouse, and the publisher couldn’t ask the author to refund the payment.
The publisher bore the costs and risks, so shouldn’t they earn a bit more?
Zou Weijun smiled, “So, do you think Teen Idol only deserves an initial print run of 10,000 copies?”
What else, then! Even for the most popular young adult fiction bestseller authors, their books didn’t start with a million-copy print run. They earned their status as bestselling authors and leaders in young adult fiction through sales. Some sold over two million copies of a single book—that wasn’t writing; it was printing money with a pen! For an average author, an initial print run of 10,000 copies with an 8% royalty was already quite good. Some new authors didn’t even get royalties; a flat buyout fee was enough.
