Chapter 65: Why Don’t You Start Your Own Magazine?

Within the courtyard, after Zhang Pengzhi finished speaking, the others remained silent. Some faces showed indignation as they turned their gaze toward Beidao. Beidao maintained his usual stern and melancholy expression. The sunlight, blocked by the ridge of the western wing, left a sliver shining at Beidao’s feet.

Liu Yu, resigned, sipped his tea. He thought Zhang Pengzhi’s words were meaningless—a single newspaper article proved nothing, and a score of 451 was indeed outstanding!

“This article in Youth Daily doesn’t really address any issues. Selecting role models is something they often do. I think we should keep a calm perspective. Newspapers, magazines, and television all report on Ningbo, praising his genius. We can’t exactly prove we’re more talented than Ningbo, can we?”

Ningbo was the prodigy widely reported on in 1978. At two and a half, he could recite over thirty poems by national leaders; at five, he entered elementary school. He could read traditional medicine books and immediately understand prescriptions; with only a little study, he could match others in reciting Tang and Song poetry. He was received by high officials, won two games of chess, entered the University of Science and Technology at thirteen, and a special youth class was created just for him...

When it comes to genius, anyone would feel humbled!

Mangke glanced at Liu Yu and said, “Liu Yu, how can these be compared? This is the literary world. I’ve heard that Ai Qing, after meeting Liu Yimin, praised him to everyone, so much so that many veteran writers returning to Yanjing now know about Liu Yimin.”

“We need to accelerate the launch of our magazine. By the end of November, the first issue must meet the readers. We don’t compete with anyone, but we must make our own voice heard and raise the flag for the new generation of poetry,” Beidao said, his tone unchanged.

Zhang Pengzhi and Mangke nodded. Their current obstacle was paper. Since their publication was underground, they had no official paper allocation and no money to buy any. Each magazine had its own quota; some newly founded magazines sold well but lacked paper for printing.

Fortunately, Mangke worked at a paper mill, Huang Rui was in the publicity department of a factory, and the group decided to smuggle a little paper each day. Once they had enough, the first issue of “Today” would finally meet its readers.

...

At Yanda, in the classroom, three large characters, “To Live Like a Donkey,” were written on the blackboard. Professor Yan Jiayan sat like a student in the front row, while Liu Zhenyun stood at the podium, stammering through his assignment.

Liu Yimin sat beside Professor Yan Jiayan. After each student finished, Professor Yan would always ask, “Yimin, what do you think?”

“Teacher, some classmates have quite novel perspectives!” Liu Yimin thought for a long time before squeezing out this answer.

“You really know how to avoid offending anyone! What are they even analyzing? Scattered thoughts, hitting here and there. You talk about the city gate tower, he talks about hip bones and elbows. Seeking novelty for its own sake, pure formalism—after a couple thousand words, there’s nothing substantial,” Yan Jiayan muttered, his voice low enough that only the two of them could hear. The students nearby kept their distance.

Yan Jiayan complained as he waited for the students to finish, then looked up at the podium and smiled, “Good analysis. Next, focus on solidifying your literary fundamentals.”

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“I still have to encourage them!”

“Professor, seeking novelty shows our Yanda literature students have backbone—they’re unwilling to simply follow the analyses in magazines and newspapers,” Liu Yimin said.

Yan Jiayan was delighted, “You always find new ways to praise.”

Liu Zhenyun analyzed the relationship between the donkey and the protagonist, Zhang Yiman, believing the donkey symbolized Zhang Yiman’s diligent service to the school and students. People treat donkeys as beasts of burden; when they can no longer work, they’re slaughtered for food, implying that Zhang Yiman is destined to be abandoned.

“That was a decent analysis. The words were rough, but the meaning came through!”

After Liu Zhenyun finished, Yan Jiayan took the podium, propped his hands on the desk, and began lecturing on literary theory and frameworks for literary analysis.

“To analyze ‘To Live Like a Donkey,’ first focus on Zhang Yiman. All analysis revolves around her; she is the soul of the novel. Through her life, we see the complexity and sorrow of human nature...”

After class, Liu Zhenyun pulled Liu Yimin aside, asking what the professor had said to him during his presentation.

“The professor said you did well—the best in the department.”

“Really?” Liu Zhenyun was overjoyed, then shyly added, “Actually, due to time, I still had much left unsaid...”

Li Xueqin came over and asked, “Yimin, we’re planning to sign up for the school’s literary society. Want to join us?”

“You go ahead, I have something to do,” Liu Yimin replied, waving his hand.

Liu Zhenyun was curious. Like Li Xueqin, he planned to join the literary society, having heard that everyone there was eloquent and talented.

“What’s up? The literary society has just been revived and is recruiting. If we join now, we’ll be founding members. The vice president is our senior from the literature department.”

“I need to visit ‘People’s Literature and Art’ to submit a manuscript.”

The novel “Hachiko, the Loyal Dog” was finished, about 45,000 words—a short novella, just as Cui Daoyi had asked for, to be submitted by the end of October.

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However, the eleventh issue of “People’s Literature and Art” would be too soon—it would have to wait until December to be published.

“Submitting again? How are we supposed to keep up?”

“Yimin, why not start your own magazine? With your output, you could easily run a quarterly journal,” Li Xueqin said helplessly. He had witnessed the writing of the novel, and before he realized it, it was already complete.

“Start a magazine? Good idea. If I do, I’ll ask you to be the editor!”

Li Xueqin’s suggestion reminded Liu Yimin of Zheng Yuanjie, the king of fairy tales, who, frustrated by stagnant manuscript fees, founded “Fairy Tale King,” filling it entirely with his own stories—a true legend.

Fairy tales were different from Liu Yimin’s novels; even writing a few thousand-word short story could exhaust him.

After speaking, Liu Yimin, under the gaze of his friends, mounted his brand-new Phoenix bicycle with a headlamp and rode off toward the city. The Phoenix with a headlamp was like a Rolls-Royce these days—riding at night would be much easier.

The distance from Yanda to the “People’s Literature and Art” editorial office was long—a ninety-minute ride. Fortunately, there were no afternoon classes, so he had time. He also planned to visit the Writers’ Association guesthouse to chat with Old Ma and gather some information on old Beijing.

He knew the plot of “Smoke Over Beijing,” but was unfamiliar with the characters and geography of old Beijing; he couldn’t risk writing something inauthentic.

As he set off for “People’s Literature and Art,” two editors from “Yanjing Literature and Art” also pedaled toward Yanda, determined to secure a manuscript from Liu Yimin.

Thanks to the generous reward of 200 points from the lord “Dominating the World With Me” — extra chapters will be added after the official release in gratitude.

Thank you all for your monthly and recommendation votes—please continue to support!

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