In 2005, Hunan TV’s *Super Girl* talent show had already held two seasons.
The era of entertainment overload had quietly begun, but most ordinary people in this time didn’t notice the shift. For young literary enthusiasts, 2005 was the last peak for *Under the Banyan Tree*. Earlier that year, it even formed a strategic alliance with Peking University Founder, venturing into the rising e-book industry… Who could’ve guessed that just a year later, due to poor management, Bertelsmann would sell it at half price!
The tides of change were sometimes as grand as China’s reform and opening in the ‘80s, full of fanfare.
Other times, like the early 2000s, they were subtle, seeping in unnoticed. People in this era were lucky yet lost. A decade later, looking back, they’d wonder how they inexplicably fell behind the times.
These slower folks began decrying society’s growing superficiality, proclaiming China’s music, films, and literature dead!
Music, films, and literature wouldn’t die—they were nearly threshold-free arts for ordinary people. They just persisted in new forms.
Songs no longer needed tapes or CDs, becoming digital music.
Films split into extremes: people flocked to cinemas for big-budget, high-grossing IP series with stunning effects, while regular films were watched online, some even exclusive to streaming platforms as web movies.
As for literature—
Print media and *Under the Banyan Tree* faded, along with *Sprout*, the New Concept Composition Contest, and youth magazines familiar to the post-80s generation, all losing their spark.
Did that mean literature was dead, that no one read anymore?
No.
Readers persisted—post-80s with families, plus post-90s and 00s. Reading habits changed: from buying physical books to e-books, from dedicated reading time to fragmented moments, from bookstores to phone apps.
Online and traditional literature were both literature. Successful online authors were skilled, but some stubborn types refused to acknowledge this—likely the same ones now calling celebrities promoting a writing contest a vulgar invasion of literature.
Resisting new things.
Rejecting the era’s changes.
Slowly turning into relics.
Wen Ying didn’t care. The contest wasn’t for relics—whether they joined made no difference to her!
On the evening of November 3, the contest’s promo aired on Hunan TV.
First was Yun Chen, then Zhang Yangning, followed by Li Mengjiao, and finally Wen Ying.
When Yun Chen’s promo aired first, viewers were thrilled and surprised.
Yun Chen!
He’s shooting an ad?
Wait, not an ad—a writing contest promo.
Yun Chen’s promo highlighted his cultured side—not his looks, ahem. Unlike typical Taiwan male models, he debuted after university, outshining many Taiwan stars in education.
The promo didn’t flaunt his degree but showed him fitting the contest perfectly, exuding both elite sophistication and literary charm.
In the promo, Yun Chen was himself, an actor craving growth, browsing libraries and bookstores, his slender fingers grazing neat book spines, seeking stories to move him, yearning for better roles.
“Your story, I’ll bring to life.”
When Yun Chen said this to the camera, female viewers’ hearts skipped a beat.
Subtitles appeared: November 15, entry forms with *Spark* magazine, outstanding works could be adapted into film or TV, possibly starring Yun Chen?!
“I can do it!”
“This is my calling!”
“Can’t we sign up before the 15th?”
Not just Yun Chen’s fans but young literary enthusiasts were stirred.
Unlike fans struggling with 800-word essays, literary enthusiasts breezed through them and, like Wen Ying, dreamed of writing.
The New Concept Composition Contest received tons of submissions yearly, proving young people’s creative drive.
Though the “Tianjiao Spark Cup” didn’t offer university admission benefits like New Concept, the chance for stories to be adapted was enticing!
Yun Chen’s promo didn’t detail prizes, leaving fans watching for fun and aspiring entrants itching for more.
They wanted a rerun, but Yun Chen’s promo was gone. Next ad break brought Zhang Yangning’s promo!
Hers highlighted her original talent.
In it, Zhang Yangning was herself, locked in a room with her guitar, seeking inspiration. Strumming, frowning, or beaming, she tore up sheet music in frustration until a smooth melody flowed from her fingers. As dawn broke, sunlight hit her face, her expression light and fulfilled.
“Creation is universal. A great story, like great music, moves people. I write songs, you write stories!”
I write songs, you write stories.
A simple line, yet stirring.
Zhang Yangning had fewer fans, outshone by Li Mengjiao and Xu Mei in last year’s contest. Her album made little splash. Insiders knew she’d joined Tianjiao, but outsiders didn’t.
Non-blog users didn’t even know she was still creating.
Zhang Yangning was a dreamer.
Everyone has dreams.
, Maybe I’ll submit to this contest?
It was a no-barrier contest.
Buy *Spark* magazine, fill out the form, mail it to the editorial office, and you’re in!
Subtitles revealed more: short stories, novels, we welcome all, only the best!
“Short and long works? Why not share more requirements? So frustrating!”
With Yun Chen’s and Zhang Yangning’s promos, viewers realized there were more.
All four blogged about it this morning, so Li Mengjiao’s was coming!
…Maybe even Xiaoyu’s?
Would there be Xiaoyu’s?
She didn’t seem to like being on camera.
After winning her lawsuit, she was interviewed by *Chengdu Evening News* but didn’t appear.
Readers left comments on Wen Ying’s blog, seeking confirmation.
Wen Ying couldn’t spill—this was Yuan Fenghui’s planned rhythm: Yun Chen and Zhang Yangning today, Li Mengjiao tomorrow, Wen Ying the day after, building anticipation. Wen Ying’s finale spot was a reward for her, as the contest was her idea!
To align with Yuan Fenghui, Wen Ying could only mentally apologize to her readers.
But another piece of news could be shared now. Her phone rang, caller ID showing “Little Salamander.” Before answering, Wen Ying knew why she was calling at this moment.
Picking up, Little Salamander’s voice was excited.
“Xiaoyu, the data’s out… 568,329 copies in total!”
