Chapter 15: The Power of Reading

Even though summer days linger long before dusk, with all the pauses along the way and a stop at the commune to thank Tian Qingping, by the time they reached this point, the sun had already set. Only a sky ablaze with red afterglow remained along the horizon.

From a distance, the fiery scarlet and orange clouds seemed to have been shredded, flecked with gold around the edges, the entire sky gradually shading from one color to the next. Under such a sky, even the villagers’ most detested western mountains looked somewhat softened.

Liu Yimin spotted the dark, dense crowd at the village entrance from afar and, startled, thought something serious must have happened. He couldn’t help but stop in his tracks. Then, he heard Li Lanyong’s jubilant voice, faintly catching his own name in the commotion.

In a sudden surge, the shadowy mass barrelled toward him. Liu Yimin took a deep breath and, bracing himself, moved forward.

As Liu Fuqing ran up, Liu Yimin quickly asked, “Dad, what’s happened?”

“Yimin, how did your college entrance exams go?” Liu Fuqing, stifling his curiosity about the letter from the editorial office, put his son’s exams first.

In his eyes, the college entrance exam was more important than becoming a writer.

Liu Yimin answered, his voice weary, “Not bad. I should have done well enough.”

Hearing this, Liu Fuqing’s joy deepened. Seeing that Liu Yimin hadn’t asked about the submission, Li Dashan couldn’t hold back his impatience. “Yimin, People’s Literature sent you a letter—are you going to be a writer?”

“People’s Literature?” At those words, Liu Yimin’s fatigue vanished in an instant. He asked urgently, “Really? When did the reply come?”

His heart pounded wildly, and he silently prayed it would be an acceptance, not a rejection. Liu Fuqing hurriedly handed him the letter, not noticing how Liu Yimin’s hands trembled as he took it.

He felt the thickness of the envelope—a weight off his mind; this wasn’t the weight of a rejection. Still, there was a chance they hadn’t returned the manuscript, only a rejection slip.

With a swift rip, he tore open the envelope. Li Lanyong had already taken the bicycle from his grasp. With his left hand, Liu Yimin opened the envelope, and with his right, he quickly pulled out a letter. Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, he unfolded it:

“Dear Comrade Liu Yimin,

We have read your novel, ‘Donkey Gets Water.’

The work is fluent in language, rigorous in narrative, and its style is humorous and witty. The characters are well-crafted, and the dialogue is rich in meaning. Our editorial office has decided to accept your piece and will publish it in a prominent section of the next issue of People’s Literature. To suit publication, the editorial office will make minor adjustments. Additionally, to help readers appreciate the deeper significance of ‘Donkey Gets Water,’ our deputy chief editor, Comrade Cui Daoyi, will write a review to be published in the same issue.

Thank you for your trust. We look forward to more of your works, which may be sent directly to Comrade Cui Daoyi.

People’s Literature Editorial Office.”

“What does it say, Yimin?” someone in the back of the crowd called out, standing on tiptoe.

“My novel’s been accepted by People’s Literature!” Liu Yimin replied with delight.

Even though he knew publication wouldn’t be difficult, holding the acceptance letter in his hands, he couldn’t suppress his excitement.

“Really!” Liu Fuqing seized Liu Yimin by the shoulders, shaking him with joy. The weight in his heart finally lifted; thank goodness it wasn’t another kind of letter—otherwise, the whole Liu family would have lost face today.

Li Lanyong tossed the bicycle aside, rubbing Liu Yimin’s shoulders and hair in excitement, and shouted to everyone, “Yimin’s a writer now! Our Maiji Brigade has produced a writer!”

The letter was snatched from Liu Yimin’s hands, and the villagers vied to read it. Most couldn’t make out the words, but still pored over it with fascination. Liu Yimin quietly slipped the envelope into his pocket; he sensed something else was inside.

Surely, it must be the payment!

But with so many people around, this wasn’t the moment to check.

After the uproar died down a bit, Liu Fuqing pulled Liu Yimin from the crowd and hurried him home.

“This news must reach your mother at once. She’s been worrying herself sleepless over your job prospects—tonight, she can finally sleep well. Didn’t I say, a hero’s son is sure to amount to something—how could you spend your life toiling away in these barren gullies?

We should also send word to your elder brother. He’ll be overjoyed when he hears.”

Liu Fuqing jogged along, chattering non-stop, his words flying in all directions. With his quick pace, much of the spray from his excited speech was left for Liu Yimin, following behind, to absorb.

As soon as they reached the door, Liu Fuqing couldn’t help shouting, “Wife! Yimin is back. He really is a writer now—here’s the acceptance letter!”

Letting go of Liu Yimin’s hand, Liu Fuqing rushed inside, like a victorious soldier bringing urgent news to the capital after a great triumph.

Yang Xiuyun was making oil pancakes. At his exclamation, she rushed out, and after Liu Fuqing read her the letter in detail, she smiled at Liu Yimin. “Yimin, are you hungry? I made oil pancakes tonight. Eat plenty.”

“I am a bit hungry,” Liu Yimin replied with a smile.

Yang Xiuyun’s joy only grew. She hurried back to the kitchen to busy herself. Out of sight of her husband and son, she wiped at the corners of her eyes as she stirred the firewood.

Liu Fuqing muttered under his breath, wondering why his wife was so calm—shouldn’t she be as happy as he was? But he didn’t dwell on it and began asking Liu Yimin about other matters.

As he answered, Liu Yimin took the wrinkled envelope from his pocket, pulled out a remittance slip, and grinned. The white paper with green lines of the postal order was striking, and in the box for the amount, it read in bold characters: “Three hundred and sixty yuan only,” with Liu Yimin’s name as the recipient.

In the top left corner was a red rectangular stamp reading “High Value Money Order,” the ink still fresh. Three hundred and sixty yuan—at sixty thousand characters, that meant People’s Literature was paying six yuan per thousand characters.

People’s Literature was offering a newcomer such generous terms?

When Liu Fuqing caught sight of the remittance slip, his eyes widened with disbelief. His voice shook, “Yimin, you get paid for writing? How much?”

“Dad, three hundred sixty!”

“Oh, three yuan… What? Three hundred sixty? Really?” Liu Fuqing was stunned.

“Of course, Dad—see for yourself.”

At that moment, Liu Fuqing’s mouth could have held an egg. He knew education was useful, but never imagined it could be this useful!

He examined the remittance slip again and again, then rushed to the kitchen to show Yang Xiuyun. Sounds of her astonishment echoed from within. The composure she’d managed moments ago dissolved completely.

Three hundred and sixty yuan—that was what eldest son Liu Yiguo earned in a whole year working down the coal mine!