Calculated at 300,000 words, Wen Ying could still earn a manuscript fee of 180,000 words from Aige.
Han Qin raised the fee from 180 yuan to 240 yuan per thousand words. Just for the serialization in Aige, Wen Ying could earn around 43,000 yuan.
43,000 yuan was not a small sum.
Han Qin had already sized up Wen Ying. The clothes Wen Ying wore were ordinary, not expensive brands, except for a pair of Nike trainers.
Given that Wen Ying knew Zou Weijun from the Rongcheng Publishing Group, Han Qin judged that Wen Ying’s family was likely between well-off and middle-class in Rongcheng.
Even for a middle-class family, over 40,000 yuan wasn’t something to toss away lightly.
Han Qin hoped Wen Ying was a clever girl who understood that one bird in hand was worth more than many in the bush, and knew when enough was enough.
How a novel would sell after publication was uncertain, but a fee increase to 240 yuan per thousand words during serialization was a tangible benefit.
Han Qin played her cards unconventionally, bringing up the fee raise before discussing the publishing contract, which indeed caught Wen Ying off guard.
Wen Ying stood to thank Han Qin for her recognition but also had questions: “Is the fee increase to 240 yuan per thousand words tied to conditions, like signing the publishing contract with the magazine?”
Han Qin smiled. Did that need spelling out? It was obviously a necessary condition.
Wen Ying guessed as much but wanted to confirm to avoid misunderstanding Han Qin.
The serialization fee had already been raised once, from 130 to 180 yuan per thousand words.
Whether it rose again wasn’t a big deal to Wen Ying.
How much could it increase?
From 180 to 300 yuan per thousand words, an extra 120 yuan, would mean just over 20,000 yuan for 180,000 words, less than 20,000 after tax.
It wasn’t that Wen Ying scoffed at 20,000 yuan; she wasn’t that arrogant.
But compared to Teen Idol’s publication, an extra or missing 20,000 yuan in serialization fees wasn’t crucial. A novel’s publication, if popular, could be reprinted repeatedly, and some authors could live off royalties from one hit book for life.
Besides, Han Qin hadn’t raised the fee to an extravagant 300 yuan per thousand words, only to 240 yuan.
For a new author, 240 yuan per thousand words was already very good. If Wen Ying wasn’t satisfied, she’d seem too greedy.
But Wen Ying cared more about Han Qin’s plans for Teen Idol’s publication and whether she had a complete strategy.
With so many new books hitting shelves yearly, Teen Idol’s serialization in Aige had built a reader base, ensuring some sales. But readers following the magazine might not buy the standalone.
Especially after the magazine published the ending, most readers would be content, with only a few die-hard fans buying the standalone for re-reads.
Teen Idol’s standalone release would need promotion to attract new readers unaware of the book.
Wen Ying could suggest ideas to Zou Weijun, who’d consider reasonable ones.
Would Han Qin listen to suggestions for Aige?
A person’s demeanor often reveals their character, and Han Qin seemed highly opinionated.
She’d need strong opinions to be chief editor.
But her personality also meant reluctance to heed others’ advice.
Not even a rookie author like Wen Ying advising on publishing plans, nor a new editor like Xiao Ni, would sway her.
Han Qin didn’t know Wen Ying’s youthful appearance hid a mature mind. Seeing Wen Ying’s gaze, Han Qin knew she’d insist.
She sipped from the cup on the table, “I don’t know what promises editor Zou made. As I said, fine words mean nothing without action. Since you’ve talked with editor Zou Weijun, you know how royalties work. Your Teen Idol is projected at 300,000 words, suitable for a hardcover, priced at 28 yuan. I plan a first print of 30,000 copies, with an 8% royalty rate. You’ll get 20% of the payment upon signing, 30% before printing after final proofreading, and the remaining 50% within a month of the book’s release.”
A first print of 30,000 copies, priced at 28 yuan, with 8% royalties.
Within a month of Teen Idol’s publication, Wen Ying could earn over 60,000 yuan.
Plus the raised serialization fees, totaling over 40,000 yuan, she’d pocket around 110,000 yuan, nearly 100,000 after tax.
This near-100,000 yuan was practically hers if she agreed to Han Qin today.
Fairly speaking, Han Qin’s terms weren’t low.
She didn’t offer Wen Ying a mere 6% royalty.
Even signing with Zou Weijun, Wen Ying would need sales over 50,000 copies to get 8% royalties. Zou’s contract bet on Teen Idol being a hit, while Han Qin’s was more practical.
Whether sales were good or bad, Wen Ying didn’t need to worry; she’d get the 30,000-copy first print royalties guaranteed, with more depending on reprints.
But Zou Weijun priced Teen Idol at 32 yuan, Han Qin at 28 yuan.
At first glance, a 4-yuan difference, with 8% royalties, meant Wen Ying earned 32 cents less per book, a negligible gap. But with higher sales, 10,000 copies meant a 3,200 yuan difference, 100,000 copies 32,000 yuan, a million copies, wake up, dreaming of a million-copy bestseller in broad daylight?
If a million sold, the price gap wouldn’t matter as much as the royalty rate.
Han Qin’s royalty was a flat 8%, whether unsold stock or a million copies.
Zou Weijun’s, at a million copies, would be 15%.
These calculations meant Wen Ying’s royalties could differ by roughly double, assuming a million sold.
Wen Ying still had dreams.
The fee rising from 180 to 240 yuan per thousand words wasn’t critical, but a doubled royalty income, over two million yuan, mattered greatly to her.
Wen Ying glanced at Zou Weijun, who nodded encouragingly, urging her to ask clearly. With no reservations, she said, “Chief Editor Han, would you consider a tiered royalty rate based on actual sales for Teen Idol’s publishing contract?”
Han Qin frowned, setting down her cup: “Little Fish, what did I say? Don’t be swayed by small gains or empty promises. I think my terms are generous. If you think they’re not enough, aren’t you being a bit too greedy?”
