Chapter 40: A Long-Form Invitation at Twenty Yuan Per Thousand Words

The next morning, just as the edge of the sky began to turn a pale, fish-belly white, Lin Junsheng rose quietly from bed.

Mulling over the tasks he needed to accomplish today, he decided to first cook a pot of steaming sweet potato porridge.

Lin Junsheng walked skillfully to the kitchen, picked up the old pair of metal tongs he had used for years, and carefully clamped a few pieces of dry firewood, tossing them into the stove.

With a few crisp, crackling sounds, the flames gradually grew stronger, casting a warm red glow across his focused face.

Lin Junsheng washed the sweet potatoes, cut them into irregular rolling chunks, and dropped them into the pot.

Then, turning around, he scooped a couple of ounces of rice from the earthenware jar, gently poured them into the pot, added an appropriate amount of water, and put the lid on, waiting quietly for the enticing aroma to spread.

However, just at that moment, an unexpected and foul odor assaulted his senses.

It was a stench mixed with rot and bitterness, drilling straight into his nostrils and making him involuntarily knit his brows.

Lin Junsheng’s heart tightened; this smell clearly did not come from the sweet potato porridge in the pot.

He put down his work and, following the unpleasant stench, walked step by step toward the pile of firewood in the corner of the courtyard.

The closer he got to the firewood, the stronger the stench became, as if some ominous thing were hidden within it.

With a deep frown, Lin Junsheng speculated inwardly.

Finally, he reached out and gently brushed aside a few pieces of dry wood on top of the pile.

The moment he parted them, he received quite a shock—there, lying quietly, was a dead rat. Its body was stiff, its fur messy, and it had clearly been poisoned.

Lin Junsheng suddenly understood. A few days ago, in order to prevent rats from ruining the family's grain, he had deliberately scattered some rat poison near the firewood stack.

He hadn't expected the poison to actually work so effectively, though the result had arrived rather abruptly.

Sighing, he used the tongs to carefully pick up the dead rat and threw it into the stove to burn.

Soon, the fragrance of the sweet potato porridge began to fill the air.

At this point, Li Aimei also came into the kitchen.

"I packed some dried fish and fried fish balls yesterday. We can heat them up to eat."

Lin Junsheng followed her instructions, and soon breakfast was finished.

Right now, he had no money.

As for Li Aimei, she had to go out to work and earn her labor points.

For rural folk, the primary way to make money was by earning work points at the commune, and raising chickens and ducks was strictly counted by the head.

You could not exceed three; any more than that, and you would be scrutinized over whether you belonged to the "capitalist" or "socialist" camp.

Why was it that only Liu Changgen's family could raise so many cattle?

For one thing, they were daring, and for another, they had some connections in the county seat.

This was how they managed to raise more and more cattle and earn more and more money.

It was still 1982, and after years of repeated, severe crackdowns, many people were still gripped by fear.

The old village party secretary raising long-haired rabbits was based on the exact same reasoning.

Now that the policies from above were loosening up again, people's minds were becoming active once more.

Otherwise, anyone engaging in such breeding ventures would have been dragged onto a stage two years ago and publicly denounced.

Lin Junsheng knew clearly in his heart that engaging in breeding nowadays was indeed a profitable path, and quite a few people were lifting themselves out of poverty through it.

However, his ambition did not lie there.

Breeding required a massive investment of time and energy—it was a long journey with no room for quick success.

And he, Lin Junsheng, a young man harboring literary dreams, held a far more passionate pursuit in his heart: writing, especially writing fiction.

In his view, the world of words was his true destination.

Through the strokes of his pen, he could depict the myriad worlds within his heart and express emotions that were otherwise hard to put into words.

Moreover, compared to breeding, writing was much more likely to earn him recognition in a short period of time, especially if he could write a full-length novel; the manuscript fees naturally would be much more generous.

Just as he was sitting at his desk, immersed in his thoughts, a shout suddenly came from outside the window.

"Is anyone home? There's mail!"

The voice shattered the surrounding tranquility and pulled Lin Junsheng back from his thoughts into reality.

He looked up toward the window and saw a mailman in a green uniform standing in the courtyard, holding a letter and peering toward the house.

A stir rippled through Lin Junsheng’s heart, and he quickly pushed open the window, replying, "Coming, coming."

He strode out of the house, went up to the mailman, and took the letter.

The mailman smiled and said, "Your letter. It's even mailed from Shanghai."

A wave of joy washed over Lin Junsheng.

Gratefully, he said to the mailman, "Thank you for your hard work. Let me get you a cup of water?"

The mailman waved his hand with a smile and said, "No need, I need to hurry and finish delivering the mail; there are plenty of other households waiting."

With that, the mailman turned around and left, disappearing around the corner of the courtyard wall.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Lin Junsheng hurried back inside and tore open the envelope.

Sure enough, it was sent by *Shanghai Literature*.

On the stationery, the editor's words were like sweet dew, moistening his parched heart.

"'The Tree King' has entered the selection stage, and your talent has been recognized. Your manuscript fee has been sent in advance as our affirmation of your hard work. We earnestly hope you can create a full-length work for us. A rate of twenty yuan per thousand words is our special invitation to you."

Twenty yuan per thousand words!

This figure echoed repeatedly in Lin Junsheng’s mind.

He knew that this far exceeded the state's highest standard for manuscript fees and surpassed his own expectations.

Currently, the highest standard was only ten yuan per thousand words, and it would not be reformed to a maximum of twenty yuan per thousand words until 1984.

Lin Junsheng couldn't help but speculate: was Shanghai's economy truly this prosperous, or did the editor hold a special appreciation for him?

Perhaps there were operational mechanisms at play behind the scenes that he did not understand, but regardless, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for him.

An indescribable excitement surged in Lin Junsheng’s heart, and he seemed to see the stories from his pen shining brightly within the pages of *Shanghai Literature*.

Since they were willing to offer him twenty yuan per thousand words, there was nothing more to say!

He would write it for *Shanghai Literature*!

Sitting at his desk, Lin Junsheng calculated the word count and manuscript earnings for a full-length novel.

A full-length novel was a crown jewel in the literary temple; although there was no hard rule on word count, a length of one hundred thousand words or more seemed to be the benchmark for measuring its weight.

There were several outstanding novels in the 1980s.

Zhang Jie's *Heavy Wings*, Gu Hua's *Hibiscus Town*, Wang Meng's *The Butterfly*, and Jia Pingwa's *Turbulence*.

Especially Jia Pingwa's *Turbulence*, which spanned four hundred and eighty thousand words.

He imagined how impressive the earnings would be if *Turbulence* were calculated at twenty yuan per thousand words!

Nine thousand six hundred yuan, back in 1986, was enough to purchase a place to live in the capital or Shanghai.

Yet, the value of literature could not be measured by money alone.

Although *Turbulence* was not as universally famous as certain other works, the depth and breadth it contained were immeasurable by monetary worth.

However, faced with the pressure of reality, Lin Junsheng had to consider more practical matters—namely, writing a masterpiece that resonated within readers' hearts.

He thought of Yu Hua's *To Live*, a work with a modest word count yet profound emotional depth.

*To Live* was only one hundred and twenty thousand words, which meant a manuscript fee of twenty-four hundred yuan.

While it wouldn't make him immensely wealthy, it was more than enough to resolve his current pressing needs.

It would be more than enough to pay back the money he currently owed to his fellow villagers and neighbors.

And yet, it was precisely by relying on Ah Cheng's *The King of Chess* and *The Tree King* that he had won the appreciation of the editors at *Shanghai Literature*.

At this moment, Yu Hua, who was working at the county cultural center, had no idea that his fortune had been usurped.