Chapter 30: Passing the Submission at "Poetry Journal"

Liu Yimin’s manuscript circulated through the offices of Poetry Magazine, and, as expected, it would be published in the next issue. Zou Huofan even proclaimed loudly that not publishing such poetry would be an affront to justice, completely forgetting what he had said when he first opened the envelope.

“Let’s not look anymore; let’s hope we discover more poems like this!” Yan Chen waved his hand, and the atmosphere in the editorial office grew much quieter.

“For poetry like this, Old Zou, how much do you think the fee should be?”

“How much? Seven yuan per thousand characters, I’d say. Such poetry deserves better; if the fee’s too low, we’ll be embarrassed!” Zou Huofan replied with a smile. Ten lines of poetry count as a thousand characters, so ten lines would earn seven yuan!

“Seven yuan? Isn’t that too much? Many veteran authors don’t get that rate. For a newcomer to the poetry scene, such a high fee isn’t appropriate, is it? Besides, if the fee is too high, it won’t encourage young people to strive; we should leave them some room to improve.”

Deputy Editor Shao Yanxiang raised his objections.

This is often the first thought editors have when faced with a new writer’s submission. Even if the work matches the quality of veteran authors, the price is usually pressed down. Most newcomers receive three or four yuan per thousand characters, and five is rare.

This shows just how bold People’s Literature and Art is!

Yan Chen listened to Shao Yanxiang’s words and appeared deep in thought.

Zou Huofan quickly added, “Old Shao, you’re wrong. We shouldn’t restrict talent; it’s our duty to recruit poets for the poetry world. We can’t reduce the fee just because someone is new. By your logic, we should cut your salary in half—after all, a high salary might not encourage you to strive, and you too should be given room to improve.

Look at you, after so long as deputy editor, with some effort you could be chief editor.”

“Old Zou, is what you say really the same as what I said?” Shao Yanxiang grew anxious; cut his salary in half and how would he survive? If it happened today, his family would be left starving tomorrow.

“How is it not the same?” Zou Huofan retorted bluntly. In the Poetry Magazine editorial office, he respected Yan Chen, but he had no qualms about challenging anyone else.

Though Zou Huofan was newly arrived, he was like the veteran soldiers in Sword Point, of whom it was said, “He’s not new; he was already a regiment commander in the H Army, a veteran with great standing.”

Born in 1917, Zou Difan wielded his pen like a weapon, helped initiate and organize the National Association of Literary and Artistic Resistance. In 1940, for various reasons, he entered Fudan University. After graduation, he worked as a special editor for Hong Kong’s Chinese Commercial News, liaison chief at the Ministry of Culture’s Foreign Cultural Liaison Bureau, deputy secretary-general and editorial director at Literature and Art News.

His experience was extensive; he had founded various resistance literary journals and participated in the resistance movement. He was well acquainted with Ai Qing, Xia Yan, and others.

Shao Yanxiang’s credentials were also notable—he studied at the Anti-Japanese University, and as the army advanced, he worked as a military reporter—but compared to Zou Huofan, he was clearly outmatched.

Zou Huofan’s appointment as deputy editor would come soon, and everyone knew he would be the next chief editor after Yan Chen.

Shao Yanxiang could only say helplessly, “I’ll reserve my opinion.”

“I also think that if we don’t give seven yuan, at least five or six, or maybe we should consult Cui Daoyi, check their rates. In any case, too low would be inappropriate. Why did the central government restore remuneration? Besides demonstrating that our country is socialist and follows distribution according to labor, there’s another intention: to encourage outstanding writers and poets to create. I believe extremely low remuneration cannot encourage them,” Deputy Editor Ge Luo added.

“Old Ge, if you say that, I disagree. We are writers and poets; how can we discuss money? That would damage the poet’s image,” Shao Yanxiang chimed in, eager to catch a flaw.

At that time, writers were ashamed to talk about money; the public saw them as pure, untouched by the stench of money.

“Old Shao, your salary?”

“That’s different, that’s my wage,” Shao Yanxiang hurriedly replied.

“Well, from now on, Old Shao should publish more poetry in our magazine; the fee will be three yuan per piece.”

Shao Yanxiang: “......” I won’t say anything more, is that enough?

In the end, Yan Chen called People’s Literature and Art and set Liu Yimin’s remuneration at six yuan per thousand characters. When Cui Daoyi learned Liu Yimin’s poetry would be published, he repeatedly asked Yan Chen to read it to him.

He got only one reply: “Wait a few days until it’s published!”

At lunchtime, Zou Huofan met Ge Luo and said with a smile, “Thank you for speaking up today.”

Ge Luo was usually quiet and rarely voiced his opinions.

“I spoke up for selfish reasons. First, the writing is good. Second, Liu Yimin is my fellow townsman. Our hometowns are only a few dozen kilometers apart, both in Luo City. It’s not easy for our area to produce a writer or poet,” Ge Luo said happily.

“I see. Without high remuneration, we can’t attract writers. Star Magazine will resume publication next month, and then writers will have plenty of choices.”

Star Magazine, though based in Sichuan, was as influential in the field as Poetry Magazine.

...

In the dormitory of the cultural center, Liu Yimin sat beneath his lamp, diligently writing at his desk, occasionally swatting an overly familiar mosquito, studying its body for a moment before tossing it to the floor.

Suddenly, someone knocked twice on the window. Liu Yimin opened the window and drew aside the curtain to find Liu Yunsheng, astonished, standing outside.

The dormitory building was a tube-shaped structure—a long corridor connected rooms on both sides, and ventilation depended on the windows. Old Zhang had given Liu Yimin special consideration; his room was in the middle of the corridor, originally a duty room, with a window by the door.

“Yimin, you’re still writing this late?” Liu Yunsheng rubbed his eyes, incredulous.

“It’s still early—only half past eleven,” Liu Yimin said, checking his watch and smiling.

Hearing this, Liu Yunsheng’s sleepiness vanished. What do you mean, only half past eleven? Talent aside, how can someone be so diligent in writing?

“Yimin, half past eleven? I’ve already had a nap.” Liu Yunsheng had gotten up in the night and noticed the light in the room, thinking Liu Yimin had forgotten to turn it off.

“I’ll sleep soon. I just have lots of inspiration now; if I don’t write it down, I’ll forget it tomorrow.”

Liu Yunsheng perked up, asking eagerly, “Yimin, can I come in for a look?”

“Come in,” Liu Yimin said, opening the door.

Liu Yunsheng glanced at his own attire, smiled sheepishly, and said, “I’ll come back in a bit. Don’t come to the door; I’ll be right back.”

A short while later, Liu Yunsheng returned, properly dressed, and sat beside Liu Yimin, reading his manuscript and casually discussing literary creation.

“‘Gaokao 1977’? Is this a novel about the college entrance exam?”

“Yes. I took the exam, and had some insights, so I thought I’d try to write them out!”