Poor Old Wen’s creative journey lingered at the stage of desperately trying to conceal his authorial pseudonym, while on the other side, Song Fotian, having received Wen Ying’s guidance, had already completed the first draft of his “emotional magnum opus”.
Wen Ying had been spot on: a writer ought to pen what he knows best. Song the great poet, long out of practice, found his poetic inspiration and fervour diminished from his youth, yet crafting tales of emotion flowed from him effortlessly.
How men and women ought to interact.
The joys of courtship and the true nature of love.
Why a bond might fade from fervent to tepid.
Editor Wan, having read Song Fotian’s draft, was utterly entranced.
The two had known each other since their youth, back when Editor Wan was still young and ungreasy, yet his way with women paled beside Song Fotian’s.
He had always supposed those ladies drawn by Song Fotian’s renown as a poet, but now it seemed that was not the whole tale!
If mere fame had lured them, why did none utter ill of Song Fotian after parting?
To conquer the field of romance for years on end, Song Fotian truly possessed genuine prowess!
“Old Wan, do not just read. Once done, offer your thoughts.”
Song Fotian urged him on. Editor Wan reluctantly set the manuscript aside, “I find it splendid. Have you shown it to anyone else?”
By “anyone else”, Editor Wan meant Xiao Niu, yet Song Fotian took it to heart as Wen Ying: “Not yet. I meant to show it to you first, amend any trifling flaws, then present it to little Wen.”
“…Showing it to little Wen may not be fitting.”
All published books must pass review. “Hush, Little Secret”, a primer for adolescents, had drawn furious backlash from parents merely for touching on hygiene and physiology. A book by Song Fotian delving into adult romantic entanglements ill suited a young girl like Wen Ying!
Unconventional as ever, Song Fotian struggled to fathom his old friend’s mindset: “What makes it unfit?”
Editor Wan faltered, then shifted tack:
“Would you show the manuscript to little Chan?”
What one might share with one’s own daughter could then extend to others’.
Song Fotian grew all the more perplexed: “Of course I shall show it to little Chan, though the final draft, mind.”
How could he foist an unpolished first draft on little Chan? Old Wan spouted utter nonsense!
Editor Wan fell silent for a beat, then laid his cards on the table, speaking plainly of “boundaries”. This time, Song Fotian grasped it and eyed Editor Wan up and down: “I misjudged you. Who would have thought you such a staunch reactionary! My book is no smut. Why bar it from young ladies? Fools grown accustomed to fooling themselves, you suppose adolescents glean naught from proper channels, so they truly hear and see nothing? Naive!”
A quick search online revealed truly brazen volumes aplenty.
Publishing demanded scrutiny, so Song Fotian could not depict anything overly graphic. He bore no qualms about potentially corrupting the young, for people were no stones; sooner or later, all navigated matters of the heart. With guidance from a master like him, they might sidestep pitfalls, no?
Song Fotian came perilously close to dubbing himself a cad.
On second thought, being a cad held its merits.
Without the wealth of a cad’s experiences, how now could he selflessly enlighten the smitten swains and scorned damsels of the mundane world?
Naturally, Song Fotian deemed himself no cad. Cads toyed with women’s affections for gain in purse and pleasure, whereas he treated each liaison with utmost sincerity. Love arrived in a blaze of glory, only to ebb with shocking swiftness, and that was no fault of his—
Editor Wan rubbed his gleaming pate, “You have a point, yet I sense something amiss…”
Song Fotian waved it off grandly: “Overthink not. Act from the heart, is all!”
Act from the heart?
Editor Wan held his peace.
Old Song acted ever from the heart, squandering his early post as magazine chief editor. Now, after scraping back as a publishing editor, further caprice might see him minding the gates!
Editor Wan simply pocketed Song Fotian’s manuscript: “It truly shines. I finished one read and crave more. Let me take it home for a couple more passes!”
Song Fotian saw naught amiss: “Very well, though make haste. I still mean to show it to little Wen anon.”
—Ere it reached little Wen, it must first pass Xiao Niu’s discerning eye!
Though young, Xiao Niu brimmed with zeal at work.
As deputy chief editor of Spark, she held no sway over Editor Wan in his separate department, yet he dreaded that in a few years, she might vault across divisions to lord over him!
…
Little Wen, subject of Song Fotian and Editor Wan’s deliberations, had just helped Old Wen secure a fresh QQ account when Old Wen shooed her away.
Wen Ying clung to the doorframe, refusing to budge: “You had best not do aught unseemly behind our backs!”
Every family member bore the duty to safeguard harmony at home. Wen Ying had laboured long to reconcile with her parents; she truly desired no further upheavals.
Truth be told, her bond with Wen Dongrong ran shallower than with Deng Shangwei. She might muster the patience to redeem a wayward uncle by marriage, yet scant zeal to salvage a meddling sire…
“What ill could I do? Cease your wild prattle!”
Wen Dongrong pried her fingers from the frame one by one, “Off with you, off. I have serious matters afoot. Do not hinder me.”
What harm in chatting with periodical editors?
Small wonder Wen Dongrong missed Wen Ying’s veiled caution; for all his myriad flaws, he harboured no disloyalty to marriage. Once wed, it was for life, and divorce lay utterly beyond him!
Even emotional infidelity held no appeal.
In his youth, cooling his heels on the bench, he honed his resolve daily, his mind fixed on escaping straitened straits. What business had he with the comeliness of female colleagues?
Later, off the bench, rivals like Old Li lurked ever watchful, a single misstep inviting ruin. Beyond his wife Chen Ru, every woman encountered in work or life fell into useful or useless in Wen Dongrong’s ledger. Heart-stirring? Impossible. If she aided his career, a few extra words sufficed; if not, best she keep from his sight and spare him the distraction!
Now… now it proved even less feasible. Wen Dongrong’s thoughts brimmed with reclaiming his role as “head of the household”. His wife scorned him, his daughter needed him not; his life revolved round work and kin. Where lay the spare wit for wandering fancies?
Had he known Wen Ying’s suspicions ran so foul, Wen Dongrong might have rolled up his sleeves and laid into black-hearted cotton!
In the study, Wen Dongrong chatted via QQ with the editor. In her room, Wen Ying wrestled with herself a while.
Ought she leverage her technical edge to pry into Old Wen’s secrets?
Old Wen was such a duffer, unlikely even to change the default password.
Even if he had, Wen Ying reckoned she could puzzle it out.
He never cleared search histories, nor chat logs. Cracking Old Wen’s QQ held all the challenge of a stroll!
Alas, best leave it.
Wen Ying quashed the urge.
Old Wen made a middling father, his husbandly ways rife with macho bluster, yet on fidelity, he had ne’er erred. To snoop his QQ now on a whim of cleverness differed little from her parents rifling her diary as a child.
Do unto others as you would not be done by. Respect flowed both ways!
