“So, why delay announcing the judges?”
At the fried skewer shop by the school gate, their old haunt, Wang Shuang asked bluntly.
Wen Ying smiled without answering. Xie Qian sighed: How could she be so dense?
It wasn’t the first time Xie Qian had felt this way.
Compared to peers, Wang Shuang wasn’t actually dim, but next to certain creative geniuses, she lacked that spark.
Her shrewd parents only made her seem even slower.
Luckily, Wang Shuang had calmed down lately, less impulsive, no longer zoning out in studies. Xie Qian figured he could be a bit more patient with the academic slacker:
“To make them read *Spark*.”
Huh?!
A flash of insight zipped through Wang Shuang’s mind, too fast to catch.
But she was determined to chase it!
“Wait, don’t tell me the answer yet. Let me think.”
Wang Shuang muttered, piecing together her thoughts: “You said not announcing Old Fu as a judge was to let him act as a stabilizing force at the peak of public debate, silencing critics with a heavy blow for maximum impact. *Spark*’s first issue is out, with all the contest rules laid bare, yet they still don’t mention you and Teacher Zhang as judges. Xie Qian, you said it’s to make them read *Spark*… Ah, I get it! I know why!”
Wang Shuang was thrilled.
“To win, you need to know the judges’ tastes. Without knowing who they are, contestants can only guess. Since *Spark* is the organiser, its style might reflect the judges’ preferences. So, contestants can’t just grab the entry form and rules and bolt—they have to study *Spark* thoroughly?”
That was the answer. Wen Ying, the planner, didn’t find it complex, but for a slacker not involved in the planning to figure it out was impressive.
Wen Ying couldn’t help but laugh: “Wang Shuang, you’re something! Big progress!”
Li Mengjiao, munching on skewers, looked up, slightly impressed.
—Did this girl just guess right by fluke?
Exactly! That’s why they delayed announcing the judges!
If contestants knew Wen Ying and Zhang Guangzhen were judges, they’d study their preferences. Not knowing it was them but wanting to win, they’d have to dive deep into *Spark*’s style.
Grabbing the entry form and ditching the magazine? Not what Wen Ying wanted.
*Spark* targeted the youth literature market, distinct from typical campus magazines. Wen Ying genuinely hoped readers would engage with it seriously.
A good magazine could gain traction with a contest, but contests eventually end. Retaining thousands of readers depended on quality content!
Some might say, with the contest’s success, *Spark* could hold a second one next year and never worry about sales.
But would the same tactic work again? Could the Spark Cup become a literary heavyweight like the New Concept Contest? Could they find another sponsor as generous as Mrs. Wang—er, scratch that, as magnanimous as Mrs. Wang?
Even if this year’s buzz could be replicated, relying on contests to draw readers would betray the magazine’s original mission.
Everyone has their own mission.
The magazine’s origin came from Xie Qian’s suggestion.
Xie Qian proposed that Rongcheng Publishing Group launch a youth literature magazine for Wen Ying’s creative platform and Zou Weijun’s career growth.
Zou Weijun, agreeing to the idea, became its executor. Her mission was to create a great magazine.
A magazine that retained readers with content, one that continuously nurtured outstanding authors!
Buyers of *Spark*’s first issue weren’t just contest entrants. There were Wen Ying’s readers, Li Mengjiao’s fans, and casual readers who loved reading—people not chasing the 200,000 yuan prize. Didn’t they deserve quality content?
No, quite the opposite—readers are exactly what a magazine needs.
To that end, *Spark*’s first issue featured a 20,000-word short story by Wen Ying.
*Spark* positioned itself as diverse, a garden of varied blooms, so this story diverged from Wen Ying’s usual style. She wrote a suspense novel set in the Republic era.
Before heading to school, Wen Ying checked her blog. *Spark* had just launched yesterday, yet her blog was already flooded with reader comments.
Readers generally found it chilling.
Scary, yet they wanted more. A mere 20,000 words was like drinking poison to quench thirst!
“I thought Little Fish only suited campus youth stories. I was wrong—her suspense is gripping too. The opening hooks you, and not a single word in 20,000 is wasted. Miss a detail, and you’ll lose key clues.”
“It’s the atmosphere—so immersive, scary yet addictive.”
“Begging Little Fish for a full-length suspense novel. 20,000 words isn’t enough!”
“Little Fish nails campus stories, nails suspense—she’d surely nail romance too!”
“No chance, upstairs. Asking Little Fish for romance is like asking Li Mengjiao for a kissing scene. Not happening.”
“Don’t forget her age just because she’s so talented. She’s still a minor…”
Reading these comments that morning, Wen Ying nearly burst out laughing. If she weren’t rushing to school, she’d have read every one—don’t ask, she was puffed up with pride. Not being puffed up would be odd; these readers could run a fan club with their praise!
These self-proclaimed “career fans” really got her.
A minor writing romance?
Plenty of authors wrote romance—she wasn’t needed.
Especially now that her parents knew she was Against-the-Flow Fish. If she dared write romance, she’d be testing how sharp Manager Chen’s blade was.
Another reason: the love Wen Ying had experienced was adult-oriented.
Adult love considered practical realities—too real to move readers, especially her young fans, who couldn’t relate.
As for youthful love—
Wen Ying instinctively glanced at Xie Qian.
Xie Qian raised an eyebrow.
“Got something to say?”
“No, no, you’re too sensitive!”
If she told her idol she wanted to experience the fiery love of youth, forget finding a suitable “puppy love” partner—leaking even a hint of that idea would get her buried under a pile of practice tests by her idol.
Like Wang Shuang, a flash of insight hit Wen Ying.
She recalled the weekend after the promo video aired, that afternoon Li Mengjiao dreaded, when Xie Qian had pushed her and Wang Shuang hard. She hadn’t thought much of it then, but now… was it because of Song Shao?
