Chapter 12: Respect for Talent

Cui Daoyi was just about to leave the office when Zhang Guangnian called him back.

“I forgot to ask you about that great manuscript—who’s the author of this novel?” Zhang Guangnian asked with curiosity.

“Let me keep you guessing a bit. Why don’t you take a guess?” Cui Daoyi returned to Zhang Guangnian’s desk, his tone mysterious.

“It must be an established author. Newcomers can’t write with such depth. Just look at what the new writers are turning out these days. In the past decade, there’s been a serious gap in our literary ranks,” Zhang Guangnian said, his voice tinged with regret.

He continued, “And not just any old hand—someone of considerable talent. But it’s strange, I’ve never seen this style before. I won’t claim to have read every writer, but I’ve certainly read all the notable ones. Oh, come on, Cui, don’t tease me. You’re making me sweat with anticipation.”

“Zhang, you guessed wrong. Let me tell you, this is a newcomer. I can guarantee that I’ve never seen this name in any literary magazine in Yanjing, nor in the old issues of ‘Harvest.’ I don’t know this person at all. Look here, this is the envelope, from Yu Province. I have no idea how old they are.”

“You’re not fooling me, are you?” Zhang Guangnian snatched the envelope from Cui Daoyi’s hands, his eyes widening in disbelief. After a moment, he recovered from his shock. “It really is a newcomer. Pen names are common in our circle, but this looks like a real name. I’ve never even heard of this place. Cui, could it be that a new genius has emerged in our literary world?”

“He’s definitely a genius. Zhang, there’s another matter—how should we handle the payment for this piece? If it were a veteran, the fee would be at least five yuan per thousand words, but he’s a newcomer. By convention…”

In 1977, China officially reinstated the remuneration system for authors, which had been suspended during the previous decade. The standard rate for manuscripts was two to seven yuan per thousand words. During those ten years, writers received no payment for their work.

Instead of paying writers, publishers came up with a “clever” alternative—giving authors complimentary copies of their books, in accordance with the old payment standards. The novelist Yao Xueyin, for example, received 250 sets of sample copies from the publisher after completing his epic novel “Li Zicheng.”

After the decade ended, some authors could no longer tolerate the situation. A middle school teacher wrote to the authorities, complaining that not only did he not earn money from his book, he actually lost money.

His calculation was this: after publication, he received no payment. Yet he still had to host visiting readers and reply to their letters. His monthly salary was just over forty yuan, and when all was said and done, publishing a book cost him more than a month’s wages. Fortunately, he wasn’t famous—if he were, he’d have to borrow money just to keep writing.

That’s why, after careful consideration, the remuneration system was reinstated in ’77. Writers everywhere were elated; once their work was accepted, life at home instantly improved.

“For talent like this, we shouldn’t stick to the usual rules. We need to be bold and break convention, to show our respect for true talent. And what is respect? Respect is reflected in the payment. Let’s set the rate at six yuan per thousand words, Cui. Right now, with everything in ruins, we need to focus on both readers and writers. For a magazine, what matters most is quality. And what is quality? Quality is writers. If anyone has a problem with this, let them come see me directly.”

“Understood. I’ll take the manuscript back and review it again, but so far, I haven’t found anything that needs changing. Besides, Yu Province is quite far away. My suggestion is not to request revisions, or I’ll make minor edits myself. Otherwise, with the back-and-forth, publication will be delayed by a month or two.”

It was almost unheard of for a new writer’s work to go unedited, but since they were already breaking convention with the payment, Cui Daoyi believed they could do so with the editing as well.

“I agree. Go ahead and take care of it boldly!”

When Cui Daoyi returned to the main editorial room, the editors who had been reading manuscripts immediately looked up, their eyes fixed eagerly on the manuscript in his hands, all but ready to snatch it away.

Any piece praised by an editor as renowned as Cui Daoyi was bound to be exceptional. If he delivered it straight to the chief editor and the two had spent so long discussing it, there was no doubt—it was a heavyweight manuscript.

“Cui, that manuscript…” an editor said with a smile, gesturing for a look.

“All right, you can take turns reading it. And wipe the sweat off your hands before you touch it—don’t get it wet.”

...

Meanwhile, as Liu Yimin pedaled furiously home, a letter was delivered to Maiji Brigade by the postman. He rode a heavy-frame bicycle, newspapers and magazines hanging from the crossbar, parcels strapped to the rear rack, and a green canvas postal bag slung over his shoulder.

The bag, faded and dirtied by years of use, had turned a muddy green. It was filled with letters—small but important, and always kept close.

Being a postman was one of the most coveted jobs of the era. They earned a wage and received rationed food. Their social status was high, too, as they were a vital link in a world where communication depended largely on letters. Many households longed for their arrival.

The postman was puzzled to see the sender—Editorial Department of People’s Literature—addressed to this poor village. Then he saw the recipient: Liu Yimin. His curiosity deepened. He knew Liu Yimin, the junior high school teacher of Maiji Brigade.

With so many illiterate villagers, anyone wanting to send a letter had to ask a literate person for help, and Liu Yimin was often that person. He also regularly subscribed to magazines like “Yanjing Literature” and “People’s Literature,” so they had become acquainted.

His impression of Liu Yimin was that of a young man who loved reading—one of the few intellectuals in Maiji Brigade.

After delivering the latest newspapers to the commune offices, he hummed a tune as he made his way to Liu Yimin’s house.

“Anyone home?” he called a few times, but the Liu family was all out in the fields, so no one answered.

He considered slipping the letter under the door, but thought better of it.

Just then, he spotted Li Lanyong coming up from the riverbank and waved him over. “Lanyong, where’s that fellow Liu Yimin?”

“He’s gone to take the college entrance exam. Why? If it’s a magazine he subscribed to, just slip it under the door—you’ve done that plenty of times!” Li Lanyong replied with a laugh.

“It’s not a magazine, it’s a letter for Liu Yimin. Let me tell you, this one’s from Yanjing. I can’t rest easy unless I hand it to him personally.”

“Yanjing? He doesn’t have any friends in Yanjing. Are you sure you’re reading it right?” Li Lanyong came over, took the letter from the postman, and examined it.

After reading, he asked instinctively, “‘People’s Literature’? What’s that?”

“You really don’t read, do you? ‘People’s Literature’ is a national literary journal. This letter comes from its editorial office. Usually, when an editorial office sends a letter, it’s for one of two reasons: acceptance or revision. Otherwise, they don’t bother sending letters. But how come I never heard that Liu Yimin submitted to ‘People’s Literature’? Could it be? Has Yimin suddenly become a writer?”

The postman was in no hurry to move on; he was now most eager to learn whether this was truly an acceptance letter from “People’s Literature.”