The second rule concerned the word count for submissions.
Short Story Division: 5,000–10,000 words.
Novel Division: 150,000–300,000 words.
Few objected to this. The organiser didn’t force participants to choose one division; writers could pick based on their situation. Seasoned authors might tackle a novel, while newcomers, less adept at controlling a novel’s pacing, could opt for the short story division. The two divisions weren’t on the same track, after all.
The third rule was the competition process.
Short Story Division: A one-month cycle, from 15 November to 15 December, for submissions to count as the first cycle. Submissions from 15 December to 15 January 2006 would fall into the next cycle, and so on, for four preliminary cycles. Each cycle, three judges would select three outstanding entries to advance to the semi-finals!
The three entries chosen from the first cycle before 15 December would be published in *Spark*’s third issue on 15 January 2006, the second cycle’s entries in the fourth issue, and so forth. In total, 12 short stories would reach the semi-finals, spanning nearly half a year.
Was that too long?
If you asked Wen Ying, Yuan Fenghui, or even Mrs. Wang, they’d answer in unison: Of course not!
If not for the risk of losing contestants’ and readers’ interest after six months, or the high cost of sustained promotion, Wen Ying thought a year-long preliminary wouldn’t be an issue!
Why evaluate submissions in cycles instead of a single half-year batch? That was the result of multiple discussions among Wen Ying and her team.
A half-year batch meant too little interaction with readers!
Half a year was long enough for readers to forget the competition. Publishing the 12 semi-final entries across issues, starting from January 2006, kept *Spark* featuring fresh, selected works each issue, sustaining reader interest and engagement.
For judges, this also reduced the pressure of reviewing manuscripts.
The main goal, of course, was to boost participation, amplify the competition’s influence, and promote *Spark*.
Didn’t make the first cycle?
No problem—submit again for the second or third cycle. Keep entering each cycle, and there’s always a chance to be selected!
Once all semi-final entries were published, the Short Story Division’s reader voting would begin, determining the ranking of the 12 outstanding works.
The voting method wasn’t specified yet, but the organiser promised the counting process would be fully notarised by a public notary to ensure fairness and transparency!
By the evening of the 15th, literary enthusiasts eager for the competition had grabbed *Spark*’s first issue, studied it all day, and felt they’d grasped the rules.
That night, authors on Rongshu gathered in a QQ group to discuss.
This time, there was no disagreement—everyone agreed: the Short Story Division’s format was brilliantly designed!
In contrast, the Novel Division was straightforward, with no phased evaluations. You either made it or you didn’t, with semi-finalists announced in *Spark*’s April 2006 issue.
The Short Story Division had 12 slots for the semi-finals; the Novel Division had only six.
This wasn’t bias against novels—the threshold was higher, and far fewer participants entered the Novel Division!
That said, what all literary enthusiasts cared about most was the prize structure, and the Spark Cup organiser was undeniably generous:
“Short Story Division: One First Prize, 200,000 yuan cash; three Second Prizes, 100,000 yuan each; three Third Prizes, 50,000 yuan each; five Excellence Awards, 20,000 yuan each… A total of 12 slots, meaning even the lowest semi-finalist gets a 20,000 yuan cash prize.”
That was genuine sincerity.
At the Short Story Division’s upper limit of 10,000 words, even an Excellence Award meant 2,000 yuan per thousand words—a manuscript fee rate that few top-tier authors in the country could match!
Winning the First Prize of 200,000 yuan would push that to 20,000 yuan per thousand words, a career-defining moment for any author.
In the QQ group, Rongshu authors debated heatedly.
With the prizes so substantial, minor details didn’t matter.
For the sake of the rewards, they could forgive the organiser’s tactic of splitting the preliminaries into four cycles.
“Novel Division: One First Prize, a publishing contract with a 70,000-copy first print; two Second Prizes, 50,000-copy first prints each; three Third Prizes, 30,000-copy first prints each.”
The Short Story Division’s 200,000 yuan cash prize made authors’ hearts race.
The Novel Division’s First Prize—a 70,000-copy first print—sent their pulses into overdrive.
A bestseller like *Teen Idol* had a 100,000-copy first print. A 70,000-copy first print already hinted at bestseller treatment!
And that was just the first print.
If reprints followed, authors would earn more.
The Novel Division was truly high-risk, high-reward!
For both divisions, a note followed the prize details: If a work catches a film company’s eye, additional fees for film adaptation rights will be paid.
Well, that was practically handing money to authors.
Such warm sincerity—how could authors refuse?
Focusing on novels to collect the best creative stories.
The genre was locked, sparing authors from innovating on format, which was great—it let them focus on the story itself.
Literary style wasn’t heavily emphasized, as the competition prioritized story quality.
But narrative strength was crucial.
Authors with strong narrative skills could make anything convincing—horror that terrified, tragedy that left readers in tears. A good story needed atmosphere, and immersive atmosphere came from narrative strength!
After much analysis, it boiled down to pleasing both judges and readers.
Judges selected the preliminary winners, while readers’ votes ranked the semi-finalists, so both tastes had to be balanced.
“Wait, they haven’t announced the judges yet?”
“Right, if we knew the judges, we could study their preferences…”
Authors were like ancient scholars before the imperial exams—studying the chief examiner’s tastes was basic preparation.
At this point, no one guessed Wen Ying was one of the judges.
No one dared to.
Even though Wen Ying starred in the promotional video, they assumed she, like Yun Chen, Zhang Yangning, and Li Mengjiao, was just promoting the competition.
When that news broke, it would shock countless people.
Zhang Guangzhen, who wrote the promo script, chuckled behind the scenes, basking in his hidden triumph. The rather cringeworthy line, “I’m waiting for you at the first Tianjiao Spark Cup,” wasn’t written for nothing—the answer was already tucked in the promo video, if only the contestants could see it.
