What did it mean to recapture the state of writing *Teen Idol*?
To put it bluntly and harshly, it meant sticking to the same genre as *Teen Idol*, endlessly replicating that initial success until readers grew tired of the style.
Chief Editor Bao and Zou Weijun had entirely different approaches and values.
Zou Weijun wanted authors to pursue literary excellence, while Bao believed authors didn’t need such aspirations, prioritizing “profit” over “literary pursuit.” As long as a book sold well, there was nothing wrong with repeatedly churning out the same genre.
Zou Weijun wanted writers; Bao wanted “word labourers.”
It wasn’t that Bao was wrong. In his position, aiming to maximize profits for the publisher wasn’t a mistake.
But their differing values made Wen Ying deeply uncomfortable.
If she only cared about making more money, having been reborn, why bother with the hard work of writing novels? She could do anything else.
In the past, she lacked capital. Now, with money from her novels, she could buy properties or invest in Maotai stocks, easily securing a comfortable life.
Seeing Wen Ying stay silent, Bao Lixin thought his lengthy speech had intimidated her. Moderately satisfied, he offered her a way out, “What do you think of my suggestions?”
Wen Ying nodded vigorously, “I think you’re absolutely right, but I’m not going to revise. If I can only write repetitive genres, I’d rather not write at all.”
Wen Ying had plenty to say to Bao Lixin. The “flaws” he pointed out, like *Seeking Yong*’s slightly convoluted opening and unclear ending, she could explain. They were deliberately crafted to fit into the broader narrative of the Nine Cauldrons series, which would become clear with the second book’s release.
She had discussed these points with Zou Weijun for hours without tiring. But with Bao Lixin, she decided it wasn’t worth the time.
“You understand—wait, what?”
Bao Lixin was taken aback.
Wen Ying repeated, “I said I don’t want to revise.”
Pfft—
Song Foxiang, whose neck was red from holding back, burst out laughing. Little Carp’s furrowed brows relaxed.
When Bao was speaking and Wen Ying kept nodding, Little Carp feared she’d been swayed. Wen Ying’s firm stance made Little Carp chuckle: Little Fish was a girl with her own mind, unshaken by anyone.
Bao Lixin’s face fell, his tone stern, “Why won’t you revise? You signed a contract with the publisher, which stipulates you must cooperate with our requirements to revise *Seeking Yong* until it meets publishing standards.”
Oh, bringing up the contract?
When it came to contracts, Wen Ying perked up instantly.
“Chief Editor Bao, you might not have read the contract carefully. I recall it also states that if the author and publisher disagree on *Seeking Yong*’s content, the author can unilaterally terminate the contract, with a penalty of three times the advance payment. Since I didn’t request an advance for *Seeking Yong* due to our pleasant past collaboration with Rongcheng Literature Press, there’s no penalty to pay.”
Wen Ying kindly reminded Bao Lixin that terminating the contract now wouldn’t cost her a penny.
Bao thought *Seeking Yong* was flawed?
If Wen Ying announced she was seeking a new publisher for *Seeking Yong*, countless publishers would jump at the chance to sign her.
Bao Lixin was speechless.
He wasn’t foolish.
Wanting to rein in Wen Ying and achieve more for the publisher was fine, but pushing her to terminate the contract would be a gross dereliction of duty.
The atmosphere grew awkward. Little Carp stepped in to give Bao a way out, mentioning she needed to discuss a short story with Wen Ying.
“Chief Editor, we’ll head out now.”
Bao Lixin waved them off, his face stern, “Go. My suggestions were well-intentioned. Whether you revise *Seeking Yong* is up to you, Wen Ying.”
“I’ll consider it carefully,” Wen Ying replied, giving Bao some face.
Bao Lixin asked them to close the office door.
Song Foxiang’s face ached from laughing.
“This Bao guy is too full of himself, thinking he’s somebody, coming in and using us to establish his authority.”
Song wasn’t clueless about social dynamics; he just couldn’t be bothered to play along.
By using “us,” he aligned himself with Wen Ying and Little Carp.
Little Carp was worried, “With Bao set on this, it’ll be hard for Little Fish if she doesn’t revise. I heard he’s contacted several award-winning authors from past competitions. He’s very ambitious.”
Bao Lixin was seeking replacements for Wen Ying.
Not to oust her, but to create a second or third “Against-the-Current Fish.” Relying solely on one bestselling author wasn’t healthy for a publisher.
Wen Ying didn’t comment.
Yuan Fenghui, who had been sipping tea and sampling the publisher’s snacks, finally saw Wen Ying emerge. She wiped her hands and stood, “Well, did it fall apart? Not surprising. A new official always starts with a few fires, and they’re bound to burn you.”
Wen Ying raised an eyebrow, “Teacher Yuan, why do I sense some schadenfreude in your tone?”
Yuan Fenghui suppressed a smile, “Schadenfreude? We’re so close, I’m worried for you. When Zou was here, you were the star of Rongcheng Literature Press; no one dared touch you. Now that she’s gone, you’re a star but also a juicy target everyone wants a bite of. You’re smart enough to handle these hiccups, but you’re not just a star author, you’re a senior high school student. Dealing with these trivial matters wastes your energy.”
“So?”
Wen Ying already guessed what Yuan Fenghui was about to say.
Yuan didn’t disappoint. She solemnly pulled a business card from her bag, “So I can be your agent. Sign a contract with me, and you won’t have to deal with these trivialities. I’ll handle publisher communications, contract terms, and book promotions. You just focus on writing. This model is already common domestically and more mature abroad. Want to try it?”
Yuan Fenghui was keen on cementing the “Tianjiao Quartet” reputation.
When Zou Weijun was around, Wen Ying didn’t want to sign, as Zou handled the publisher’s trivialities.
Now, with a new chief editor, Wen Ying had to deal with these issues and spar with Bao Lixin, which was draining.
No worries. Sign an agency contract with Yuan Fenghui, and she’d take care of it all.
Wen Ying looked at Yuan’s business card, torn between laughter and tears, “Teacher Yuan, is this necessary? I’m not going to be in the spotlight. My fame and popularity can’t reach the heights you envision, and my earning potential isn’t like Mengjiao’s. Plus, I’m stubborn. If I don’t want to earn certain money, no one can persuade me.”
Bao Lixin asked Wen Ying to revise; she refused without hesitation, having no ties with him. If he didn’t like her book, she’d switch publishers.
If one day Yuan Fenghui asked her to revise or restricted her writing genres, falling out with Yuan would hurt.
Yuan Fenghui said seriously, “If you’re worried about that, we can include it in the contract. No one will force you to do what you don’t like. Just give me some authority to boost your career, and I’ll make you China’s most popular and wealthiest author.”
