The acquaintance was none other than the male writer who had appeared with Wen Ying on the Hunan TV variety show earlier: his real name Mu Fan, pen name “Fan Sheng”. He had debuted several years before her and already had a string of published novels. In the past couple of years, while Wen Ying had rocketed to fame, Mu Fan’s sales had quietly slid downhill. His latest book had launched on the same day as Lan Jing’s The Crown of Thorns: first printing 300,000 copies, yet the response had been lukewarm.
Mu Fan loved gossip and had a good attitude. Even though his own books weren’t selling, he felt no jealousy towards the currently red-hot Wen Ying.
Whether a novel became a bestseller sometimes had nothing to do with the author’s skill.
In the information age, selling books was inseparable from marketing (marketing the work, and often marketing the writer themselves).
Mu Fan was proud deep down. When he first debuted he had still listened to his publishers, but these past two years he had grown increasingly wilful: choosing his own topics, ignoring editors’ suggestions, and refusing to top it off, refusing to cooperate with publicity after release. The publishing house was at its wits’ end with him.
Under those circumstances, the fact his new book still got a first print run of 300,000 copies was entirely thanks to the reputation he had built up earlier.
Cases like Mu Fan (someone who openly went against their publisher) were rare. When Bao Lixin was still editor-in-chief at Rongcheng Literature & Art Publishing, he had even used Mu Fan as a cautionary tale to try to persuade Wen Ying to toe the line.
“If you don’t listen to the publishing house, a writer’s career can only go downhill!”
Wen Ying had never agreed with Bao Lixin’s view. Afterwards, she deliberately read every one of Mu Fan’s novels, from the breakout hit that made his name to the newest release.
Once she finished, she reached a conclusion: the drop in sales wasn’t because Mu Fan was getting worse. On the contrary, his writing had improved with every book!
It just wasn’t the kind of “improvement” that pandered to mass-market tastes. He had shifted from caring about the market to caring far more about “literary merit”.
Young as he was, Mu Fan’s creative direction was already quietly pivoting towards “depth”.
He was in the middle of transforming from a commercial bestseller author into a pure literary writer.
So when Wen Ying saw Mu Fan at the College of Literature, she wasn’t surprised in the least.
“Of course I’m going. Let’s walk and talk.”
Mu Fan burst out laughing. “You’re really eating in the canteen? I thought you’d go out. This training session is pretty lively, and the relationships are complicated. I bet you don’t know the half of it.”
Wen Ying had only decided to attend a few days ago. As a high-school student she spent most of her time locked away at school and had little contact with the rest of the literary world.
The only person she was really close to was Old Fu.
And given Old Fu’s age and status, he obviously wasn’t going to gossip with her.
Wen Ying nodded honestly. “I really don’t know anything. I’m counting on you to fill me in.”
As Mu Fan had predicted, most of the trainees had chosen to eat out. Looking around the canteen, only the two of them looked like participants; the rest were a few college staff members.
They had barely sat down with their trays when Mu Fan dropped the first piece of juicy gossip. “I bet you had no idea: Lan Jing was on the preliminary shortlist for this training session!”
“She was?”
Wen Ying was stunned. “On what grounds?”
Mu Fan chuckled. “Of course she qualified. She debuted through that writing competition (the very first one judged by Old Fu). If she’s thick-skinned enough, she can claim to be Old Fu’s student. In terms of literary pedigree, she’s absolutely legit. Plus she’s already published two full-length novels, so she meets every requirement.”
Wen Ying suddenly felt as though tonight’s cold cucumber salad had far too much vinegar; it made her teeth ache with sourness.
Good one. The “writing competition” Mu Fan mentioned was the very event Wen Ying herself had proposed, and on which she had served as a judge.
Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.
“But she’s not on the final list,” Wen Ying pointed out.
Mu Fan studied Wen Ying’s expression carefully, puzzled. “Exactly. She didn’t make the final cut. I thought you must have pulled strings to get her knocked out. Looks like it wasn’t you?”
His melon-eating heart felt oddly disappointed. Wen Ying didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I don’t have that kind of influence. If you hadn’t mentioned it, I wouldn’t even have known she was on the preliminary list.”
This training programme wasn’t open to just anyone.
There were three routes to nomination:
1. Provincial writers’ associations had recommendation quotas.
2. Provincial Youth League committees had recommendation quotas.
3. Personal recommendation from an established literary figure.
Wen Ying had come through the third route. She had no idea which route Lan Jing had used.
All three channels submitted names, then the College of Literature screened them rigorously. The final list often differed greatly from the preliminary one. Some were eliminated for insufficient credentials; others withdrew voluntarily because of scheduling conflicts.
Mu Fan had assumed Wen Ying and Lan Jing were already mortal enemies and that Wen Ying, not wanting to see her during the training, had arranged to have her removed. If that had been true, he would have found it immensely satisfying.
Wen Ying suspected Lan Jing had backed out herself. “She collapsed on stage at the Shanghai signing the other day. Maybe her health really isn’t great.”
Health was just an excuse; Lan Jing was probably afraid of being publicly humiliated.
Mu Fan remained half-sceptical. “Withdrew because of poor health? Unless a writer is bedridden, they’ll crawl here if they get the chance! You might think we bestseller authors are glamorous with million-copy sales, but the real literary establishment looks down on us. Some don’t even consider our novels ‘literature’. To earn proper recognition, we still have to go the traditional route.”
And the traditional route?
Come to the College of Literature, build credentials, receive systematic training, slowly transform from a wild-card amateur into an officially sanctioned writer.
Join your provincial writers’ association, then the national one, win a couple of major awards, and only then could you call it mission accomplished.
Mu Fan explained everything in detail. Wen Ying listened and felt a little let down. “I thought the recognition you wanted was just for the work itself. Isn’t the reason we’re here to improve our writing?”
That stumped Mu Fan.
He fell silent for a long time, then suddenly looked as though he’d woken from a dream. Slightly embarrassed, he said, “Compared to you, I really am a vulgar. Thank you for setting me straight!”
Wen Ying grew even more embarrassed. “Actually I’m pretty vulgar too. I love writing, but I also love the money and fame it brings me. You couldn’t pay me to give up the income just to chase pure literary merit. I think no matter which path you take, the most important thing is still the work itsel—”
Mu Fan was clearly moved, but a voice behind Wen Ying cut in with scepticism.
“So you admit you only write for the money?”
The speaker was a young woman holding a tray, standing right behind Wen Ying. Heaven knew how much of their conversation she had overheard.
Wen Ying felt a spark of irritation, but kept a smile on her face. “I said an awful lot, and that’s the only sentence you picked up on? Isn’t that a little out of context?”
They say you don’t hit a smiling face, but this young woman was the exception. Wen Ying’s smile didn’t faze her in the slightest. “I didn’t want to listen; you were simply talking too loudly. You still haven’t answered my question. Do you admit you only write for profit?”
