The new chief editor’s professional opinions were entirely acceptable to Wen Ying.
Even Zou Weijun, who was no longer the chief editor, had recently given Wen Ying feedback.
Wen Ying had her own stance on the core of her work, but she was open to suggestions from professionals regarding writing techniques and other details. If those suggestions, after discussion, genuinely improved the work, Wen Ying wouldn’t refuse to make changes.
That’s why, while Little Carp frowned and Song Foxiang glared, Wen Ying, the author herself, remained the calmest.
The new chief editor, with deep experience and a host of titles, surely had substantial expertise. Regardless of their intentions, if their advice could enhance *Seeking Yong*’s overall quality, Wen Ying would be delighted.
The new chief editor hadn’t expected Wen Ying’s attitude.
They had imagined Wen Ying to be arrogant, given her young age and notable achievements. They assumed she’d have the typical flaws of literati, perhaps even more pronounced.
Most writers held themselves in high regard, unwilling to let editors change a single word beyond typos. After a brief moment of surprise, the new chief editor pressed on with their planned approach.
Wen Ying listened humbly, but the chief editor was blunt, thoroughly criticizing *Seeking Yong* in front of Little Carp and Song Foxiang.
Their critique boiled down to two points:
First, the opening of *Seeking Yong* was too convoluted, with excessive background setup. Some readers had already expressed dissatisfaction during serialization, and the opening should be revised before publication. The beginning was overly detailed, while the ending felt rushed and lacked a clear resolution, making it hard to accept.
Second, the story of *Seeking Yong* was too grounded in reality.
“This issue was already evident in your second novel, *Star River and You*,” the new chief editor said sharply. “Do you remember the public’s feedback? When your first novel, *Teen Idol*, was published, readers were moved by its warmth and positivity. Your book became a hit because it stood out from other youth literature writers. They wrote about pain, suggesting youth should be full of suffering, but you took the opposite approach, portraying youth as uplifting. That difference made you soar to fame, am I right?”
*Teen Idol* was indeed unique.
Not only did Wen Ying nod, but even Little Carp’s resistance halved upon hearing this.
This new chief editor, a seasoned publisher with a string of accolades, clearly had substance.
Evidently, the chief editor had thoroughly analyzed the publisher’s bestselling author before meeting Wen Ying.
“Please continue,” Wen Ying said.
“*Teen Idol* was undoubtedly a success, proven by its sales figures. By the end of the fourth quarter, it had sold over two million copies. Two million in a year, what does that mean? It means you, still in high school, earned nearly ten million in pre-tax royalties from *Teen Idol*. Once the fifth quarter’s royalties are settled, it’ll definitely surpass ten million.”
Having been in publishing for years, the chief editor’s personal wealth was nowhere near ten million.
Wen Ying was remarkable, earning over ten million pre-tax from *Teen Idol*’s two million copies at a 15% royalty rate.
Such was the terrifying earning power of a bestselling author.
The chief editor had always felt that Zou Weijun, the former chief editor, gave *Teen Idol* an excessively high royalty rate. As a newcomer, Wen Ying should have received 10% at most, or 12% at the absolute highest. Yet Zou Weijun used a tiered royalty calculation, securing Wen Ying 15%.
A 5% lower royalty would have earned the publisher an extra three to four million, no small sum.
Rumour had it that Zou Weijun and Wen Ying were close. The new chief editor couldn’t probe whether there was any hidden exchange of benefits, but since Zou had left, they had no personal ties with Wen Ying.
Thinking of this, the chief editor’s tone grew stern, “Since *Teen Idol* sold so well, it shows your approach was right. While the market still loves your style, you should capitalize on it to replicate *Teen Idol*’s glory. But your second book, *Star River and You*, veered off course. It’s not a warm, uplifting campus story but a tale of an entertainment industry newcomer striving for fame. It’s not youthful, it’s far removed from ordinary students’ lives, and its messaging is poor. It doesn’t teach readers about truth, goodness, or beauty, instead focusing heavily on scheming and rivalry.”
The chief editor’s thoughts were coherent, and Wen Ying found their perspective reasonable. Eager to hear differing views, she maintained a smile and listened attentively.
The chief editor’s tone grew harsher, shifting from suggestions to outright criticism. Little Carp tried several times to interrupt but failed.
Little Carp wasn’t afraid of the chief editor holding a grudge against her but worried about their impression of Wen Ying, so she held back.
Song Foxiang, never one to prioritize the bigger picture, initially listened patiently to the chief editor’s ramblings. But the more he heard, the more it grated, and he couldn’t help interrupting, “Chief Editor Bao, I disagree with you. What’s this about capitalizing on *Teen Idol*’s glory? Are you saying a writer shouldn’t innovate and should just churn out the same type of work for sales? That’s not a writer; that’s a labourer of words, mechanically stacking bricks to build identical houses. I don’t think Wen Ying’s wrong for trying new genres. *Teen Idol* sold well, and *Star River and You* isn’t doing badly either. The market seems to embrace her innovation.”
The new chief editor, surnamed Bao, was Bao Lixin, a well-known figure in the industry.
Since joining Rongcheng Literature Press, Bao Lixin had taken time to assess the situation, identifying which authors to promote and which editors to utilize.
Little Carp was temporarily unusable.
Everyone knew she was Zou Weijun’s confidante, handpicked by her, embodying Zou’s vision. Promoting Little Carp would mean the publisher retained Zou’s style.
Song Foxiang was also unusable.
Once a magazine chief editor, now a junior editor, he was a complete troublemaker.
Rumour had it that when Zou Weijun first joined the publishing group, Song Foxiang had pursued her. What a mess of people and affairs. Regardless of the publishing group’s state, in this small domain of Rongcheng Literature Press, things had to align with Bao Lixin’s vision.
Seeing Song Foxiang act contrarian, Bao Lixin cursed his lack of tact. No wonder he’d been demoted from magazine chief editor to a regular editor. If Bao had faced such a punishment, he’d have left the group long ago. Song Foxiang’s shamelessness was astounding.
For contrarians and troublemakers, Bao Lixin showed no mercy, loudly rebuking Song Foxiang, “Do I need your agreement? I’ve produced bestsellers. What have you achieved in the industry? If you don’t understand, don’t pretend to. *Star River and You*’s market success doesn’t prove her transition was great. It rode the coattails of the TV drama aired on four satellite channels. Most buyers were viewers of the show. This isn’t the novel’s success; it’s the drama’s push and the stars’ popularity.”
Song Foxiang was sprayed with spittle. From his angle, he could see Bao Lixin’s throat, red and gaping, as if it could swallow a head whole.
Song Foxiang scrutinized Bao Lixin, confirming no prior enmity, and his anger flared, “What’s this about pretending to understand? You’re giving your grand opinions, and I can’t share mine? You—”
Wen Ying cut Song Foxiang off, “Editor Song, I’d like to hear more from Chief Editor Bao. You can speak later.”
Wen Ying didn’t particularly like Song Foxiang.
But compared to Bao Lixin, she was closer to Song Foxiang.
With Song Foxiang’s temper, cursing the chief editor was normal; even fighting him wouldn’t be surprising.
Wen Ying intervened only because Song Foxiang was a good father and Song Shaoxing’s uncle. Besides, his views aligned with hers. She didn’t want to be a “labourer of words” and kept challenging new genres.
Realizing the new chief editor’s views were worlds apart from hers, Wen Ying’s smile faded.
This was her expressing displeasure.
Whether Song Foxiang noticed was unclear, but since Wen Ying had once guided him on writing bestsellers, he owed her. He shut up, refraining from further clashing with Bao Lixin.
Poor Old Song, never so stifled, his neck red from holding back.
Whether Bao Lixin noticed Wen Ying’s mood shift was uncertain. He might have, but he didn’t care.
He was the chief editor; Wen Ying was the author.
If he didn’t seize this chance to rein her in, Bao Lixin’s work at Rongcheng Literature Press would be untenable.
“I’ll continue. *Star River and You* already went astray, and *Seeking Yong* veers even further. This story is too heavy; I don’t think you can handle it well. But since you’ve signed a contract, I’ll still publish it. My suggestion is to delay *Seeking Yong*’s release. Revise it thoroughly first, and proceed once you recapture the state of writing *Teen Idol*.”
