Chapter 32: The Astonishing Royalty Rates

The more readers a literary work has, the greater the power of its words. To manipulate people's emotions with heart-wrenching plots is no great feat; it is true talent to touch others with words that radiate warmth.

After finishing the latest chapter of his story, Liu Yimin checked it over carefully. Finding nothing amiss, he finally switched off the light in his room and went to bed. How convenient it was to have an electric bulb! Had he still been living with his family in Maiji Brigade, writing so late into the night, the kerosene lamp would certainly have blackened his nostrils.

Back in his high school days, it was common for teachers to stay up too late, and in the morning, without realizing it, their nostrils would be as black as a coal mine. At times like this, the students would always find ways to let others notice, and then they would exchange knowing smiles.

Tonight, the moon outside was exceptionally round. Moonlight poured through the outward-facing glass window, bathing the ground in a frost-white glow, as if covered in snow. Occasionally, the pines outside the communal building swayed, casting shadows that truly resembled the lines from Su Dongpo: "As clear as pooled water, with tangled algae and waterweed crossing each other."

On August 20th, Liu Yimin was inside the cultural center chatting idly with Director Zhang and a few others. Literary folk, when idle, love to gather and converse. They claim it’s to exchange creative experiences, but most of the time, they simply indulge in mutual flattery.

There’s an old saying: the first skill a writer learns is not the art of writing, but the art of flattery.

Since Liu Yimin had joined the writing group, Director Zhang preferred not to stay in his own office anymore. Each day, he would sit directly with the writers, and members of the performing arts and relics groups would often drop by for a cup of tea.

Yet, giving compliments in the office could be awkward. With Liu Yimin present, others were too embarrassed to flatter each other or even themselves, and the recipient felt even more awkward.

At the root of it, the people at the cultural center and in the world of letters still cared about preserving a little dignity.

Unlike in later years, when a group of university professors and famous poets would hold a special conference to praise Miss Jia’s scandalous verses. Everyone would crowd around, straining to find ways to flatter her, searching for angles or, failing that, for the right words.

Miss Jia, meanwhile, would sit in the center with a shy expression, feigning surprise at the attention.

If they could not praise literary ability, they still needed to talk. So, they began sharing stories, especially amusing incidents from the writing group.

Liu Yimin was not yet adept at flattery; he simply kept making sounds of admiration.

Just a few exclamations—“tsk,” “ah,” “oh dear”—were enough to send the speaker into raptures.

During this period of working together, everyone had grown fond of Liu Yimin. Famous from a young age, he was unassuming and respected this group of humble old colleagues. Old Li even considered making Liu Yimin his friend despite the age gap.

Old Sun, meanwhile, would occasionally sit by Liu Yimin’s side, recounting funny stories about his granddaughter, Sun Yihong, at home, all the while watching Liu Yimin’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

Seeing Liu Yimin’s face remain impassive, he felt a twinge of disappointment.

Was his precious granddaughter really so unremarkable in the young man’s eyes? She was a high school student, after all! Yet at home, his granddaughter often asked about Liu Yimin’s affairs at the cultural center.

“In the past, when the Luoshi cultural center invited me to work for them, I turned them down. I said, ‘Revolutionary work can be done anywhere!’ I used to write some decent pieces, you know. Old Zhang here can vouch for me—there was even a time when I was invited to a provincial writers’ conference.”

“Wow!” came the response.

Old Li, holding his teacup and spitting as he spoke, glanced sidelong at Liu Yimin’s reaction and felt secretly pleased. Old Zhang cheerfully agreed, “I can vouch for that. At the time, the higher-ups were afraid I wouldn’t let him go and even came to persuade me personally.”

Old Li’s account was greatly exaggerated, but Old Zhang was happy to play along. After all, a cheerful and cooperative Old Li was far preferable to one with a chip on his shoulder.

The others all gathered around with their teacups, eager for Old Li to retell the story of that writers’ conference. In truth, he had only attended once. The train was delayed, and he got lost that day, so by the time he arrived, the first half of the meeting was already over. He only officially participated the next day.

But he told everyone about the grand entrance of the many leaders on the first day, how they shook his hand and offered personal encouragement.

He wasn’t worried about being exposed, for he was the only one from the cultural center to attend that meeting!

“Let me tell you…”

The conversation was in full swing when the postman walked in at some point. He was a regular here, delivering newspapers and letters to the cultural center as if it were his own home.

But this was the first time he had delivered a letter for “Liu Yimin.” He knew the new writer was different from the others at the center—he had real talent.

“Comrade Liu Yimin, a letter for you from Poetry Magazine,” the postman announced with a smile.

“Carry on, I’ll just go fetch it!” Liu Yimin said apologetically, seeing the sudden halt in conversation.

“Has your piece been accepted? What are we talking about—let’s all share in the good news!” Old Li exclaimed enthusiastically.

Old Zhang, especially excited, was the first to take the letter. Just as he was about to open it, he felt awkward and handed it over to Liu Yimin.

“Comrade Liu Yimin:

We have received your poem. The theme is clear, the conception lofty and original. Our editorial board has unanimously decided to publish your work. We hope you will maintain your enthusiasm for creation and write more outstanding poems for the people.

Please continue to submit your work. In the future, you may send your manuscripts directly to Comrade Zou Huofan.

—Poetry Magazine Editorial Office”

“Zou himself approved it? Zou is back at work?” Old Li said in amazement.

Liu Yunsheng sighed, “He must have just returned. Yimin, this is remarkable—Zou is a pillar of our poetry scene.”

Old Zhang, trembling, took the letter again and said excitedly, “At last, my dream has come true. All these years of wishing, and finally it’s become reality.”

No one was ready to leave; Liu Yimin knew what they were waiting to see, so he opened the remittance slip: twenty-four yuan for the manuscript fee, which came to six yuan per thousand characters. The payment calculation for poetry was different from that for fiction; ten lines counted as a thousand characters.

“Six yuan per thousand? That’s so high!” The others at the center weren’t envious of the amount, but stunned by the rate.

“Even Master Su’s fee is said to be only six yuan per thousand. Yimin, your very first poem is on par with the standard set by the inaugural chairman of our province’s writers’ federation?” Old Li said in disbelief.

Liu Yimin smiled lightly, “Perhaps it’s meant to encourage me.”

“Don’t be so modest. This rate has me breathless. I need a moment… just a moment…”

The manuscript fee was a symbol of a writer’s status. To be paid more meant your writing was better and recognized by the editorial board. Of course, the money mattered, but it was more a question of face.

It took the rest of the day for the staff at the cultural center to process the news. Inwardly, they all sighed in admiration—this was true genius.

Had anyone ever heard of Poetry Magazine breaking precedent for a newcomer like this?

The office was silent for a long while. Liu Yunsheng, seeking to change the subject, tugged at Old Li and said, “Old Li, tell us more about the writers’ conference. We’d all love to hear it.”

Old Li was about to speak, but glancing at Liu Yimin already seated at his desk and picking up his pen, he lost all interest and said ruefully, “Let’s all learn from Yimin. Maybe if we write more, we’ll get published someday too.”

Old Zhang, with his hands behind his back, added as if he’d come to terms with things, “Let’s not force it too much.”