Chapter 12: Securing the Essay Prize Before Anything Else

The setting sun poured down like molten gold, casting a warm orange-yellow hue over the vast fields, where green wheat ears gently swayed in the breeze.

The old village party secretary rode a bicycle, carrying Lin Junsheng along the country path. The journey was bumpy, leaving Lin Junsheng’s backside nearly numb. Yet, a satisfied smile lingered on his face.

Clutched tightly in his arms were several newly purchased books on animal husbandry and a few crumpled, discarded newspapers. In this isolated village, information was as scarce and precious as dew, and Lin Junsheng always found ways to absorb it.

With no television or mobile phone, he had no notion of the earth-shaking changes unfolding beyond. But he firmly believed that books and newspapers were the bridges connecting him to the vast world, vital routes to understanding national affairs and acquiring new knowledge.

After all, memories are but futile attempts to grasp at the river of time. What he could remember would never compare to the breadth of knowledge gained in the present.

Back home, the rich aroma of sweet potatoes greeted him—a scent he knew all too well. Li Aimei was bent over by the stove, busy with cooking, the firelight casting a glow over her slightly weathered face.

“Mom, sweet potatoes again today?” Lin Junsheng asked with a smile.

Li Aimei glanced up, a faint trace of worry flickering in her eyes. “Xiaosheng is back, but why hasn’t Xiaowan returned from the fields yet?”

Lin Junsheng chuckled dismissively. “She’ll come back when she’s hungry.” He knew his younger sister’s temperament well.

Yet Li Aimei remained uneasy. “It’s been a whole day since I took them sweet potatoes. How could they not be hungry?”

Lin Junsheng shrugged. “She’s probably eating at Wu Yonggang’s house.”

Lin Junwan and Wu Yonggang had been childhood sweethearts, their relationship always close. Visiting each other’s homes for meals was a frequent occurrence.

Suddenly, Li Aimei’s expression hardened. “A young girl isn’t married yet—how can she just eat at someone else’s house?”

Noticing the unusual tone, Lin Junsheng teased, “She’s been to Wu Yonggang’s place plenty of times before. Mom, why are you suddenly so concerned about these little things?”

He keenly sensed that his mother was acting strangely today.

Li Aimei hesitated, then averted her gaze. “I’m just worried about her.”

Lin Junsheng’s suspicion grew. His mother had said she was visiting relatives today—could something unexpected have happened? He stared intently, trying to read her eyes.

“Nothing serious, right? Mom, don’t worry so much. You’re not thinking of changing relatives again, are you?” he probed cautiously.

Li Aimei shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and quickly changed the subject. “Oh, you child, why do you always think the worst? Go wash your hands. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Alright,” Lin Junsheng replied, still puzzled, and hurried into his room.

Once the door shut behind him, he eagerly began pondering his mother’s uncharacteristic behavior. Her eyes, her tone—every detail replayed vividly in his mind, like a suspense movie trailer stirring both curiosity and unease.

“Better to stay alert,” he muttered to himself, deciding to set aside his doubts for now and focus on the task at hand.

As dusk deepened, he quickly lit the oil lamp to save precious kerosene and opened the package from the last issue of Shanghai Literature.

That issue featured his short story “The Chess King.”

He flipped through the magazine, his eyes immediately drawn to a nationwide writing competition announcement at the beginning. The notice was straightforward, requiring a short story of 10,000 to 25,000 characters.

A wave of helplessness surged within him. Had he submitted “The Chess King” just a month later, it could have qualified for this contest.

Yet reality was often filled with regrets.

He sighed softly, his gaze lingering long on the announcement before slowly closing the magazine.

Though “The Chess King” missed the contest deadline, its value remained intact. He believed that one day, this work would earn the acclaim it deserved through its unique charm.

Still, a tinge of melancholy crept in. The path to publishing “The Chess King” seemed far more tortuous than he had anticipated.

He had hoped this piece would rapidly establish his presence in the literary world.

But the truth was otherwise.

He even wondered if the story’s distinctive style made it hard for the general public to embrace.

In fact, “The Chess King” by A Cheng had been published two years earlier. A Cheng submitted his story to Capital Literature in 1984, but it was not accepted. The editors there suggested he try Shanghai Literature instead.

Publishing standards varied across regions, often influenced by local authorities.

Sure enough, after sending “The Chess King” to Shanghai Literature, A Cheng succeeded in getting it published.

It sparked significant discussion and instantly ignited nationwide attention.

Book lovers and editors flocked to visit A Cheng’s home—sometimes several groups a day, making multiple visits each. In just a few days, they consumed five jin of tea leaves.

At the time, a student studying in the writer’s class at the People’s Liberation Army Academy of Arts was completely captivated by “The Chess King.”

He said, “Back then, A Cheng was unquestionably a colossal idol in my heart.”

That person was Mo Yan.

Hong Kong director Tsui Hark was also amazed upon reading it. He made calls everywhere, eager to adapt it into a film.

At first, A Cheng thought no one would notice his work. Now, he finally realized it was truly “good.”

He said, “I felt like a very clumsy woman, and suddenly a man said, ‘Hey, you’re beautiful.’ I asked, ‘Am I really beautiful?’”

In the two years following 1978, the mainstream literature in China was “scar literature” and “reflective literature.”

After the 1980s, new wave novels, avant-garde writing, and new realism began to emerge.

Additionally, educated youth literature and cultural root-seeking novels also rose during this period.

In the previous lifetime, in 1982, Gabriel García Márquez won the Nobel Prize in Literature for “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” gaining worldwide recognition.

This inspired Chinese writers, many young authors saw in Márquez’s Latin American-themed works a beacon of hope for third-world literature reaching the global stage.

These writers sought to root their creations deeply within the rich and ancient Chinese cultural soil.

However, many opposed this learning and imitation, believing that classic Chinese novels, particularly the Four Great Classical Novels, were already enough to astonish the world.

Thus began the root-seeking literature movement, with A Cheng’s “The Chess King” as its mainstream representative.

Lin Junsheng speculated that the timing was off; since this was not 1984, it inevitably had some influence.

Like the butterfly effect, different eras shape different people and events.

But since he had started writing, he resolved to continue.

He had many other books in mind and could write on various topics. First, he aimed to win the national writing contest prize from China Literature!

That prize was a thousand yuan!