My era, 1979!

Chapter 15 Editorial Department of "Anhui Literature"
In the bicycle shed of the Workers, Peasants and Soldiers Guesthouse, Xu Chengjun was inflating the tires of his "Forever" brand bicycle.

The tripod was still stained with blue ink from the Education Bureau's typing room, and the bicycle bell rang once when pressed.

The car was borrowed by Lin Xiaomei.

Who is Lin Xiaomei?
Last month, on a long-distance bus, it was her brother Lin Jianguo whose money was stolen, and she stepped in to help.

Yesterday, while I was handling some business at the Education Department, Lin Xiaomei happened to be delivering documents to Deputy Director Wang. She recognized him and blushed, saying, "My brother always talks about you. Feel free to use the bicycle."

Got it!
Good deeds are rewarded (page 79)!
Xu Chengjun rode his bicycle across Changjiang Road, the canvas bag in the basket swaying slightly with the bumps, inside was the revised version of "The Granary".

A tall and straight figure, a calm gaze, and a 3/7 parting that's standard for this era.

Well, what a fine young man of the new era!

In one word, handsome!

Two words: He's fucking handsome!
-
Passing by a newsstand, I saw a poster for the Hefei Evening News that read, "Call for Submissions for the Supplement: New Era, New Look."

I suppose his little poem will be posted here.
The old Western-style building housing the editorial office of Anhui Literature is hidden in an alley, its walls peeling and the locust tree at the entrance lush and verdant.

Xu Chengjun had just locked his car when he heard coughing coming from the second floor, mixed with complaints that "this month's royalties haven't been checked yet."

"Who are you looking for?" The old lady in the mailroom poked her head out.

"I am Xu Chengjun, a former educated youth from Fengyang. I made an appointment with Editor-in-Chief Zhou."

Xu Chengjun smiled sweetly.

"Oh! I know you. The editorial department has been in an uproar because of you lately."

The woman's voice suddenly rose as she shouted upstairs, "Old Zhou! Xu, the educated youth from Fengyang, has arrived!"

He muttered under his breath, "The educated youth from this small place are quite good-looking!"

Look at this damn charm!
-
At the corner of the stairs, a figure suddenly pushed open the wooden door, the hem of a gray jacket brushing against the cobwebs on the railing.

Zhou Ming, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses slipping down to the tip of his nose, suddenly took the cigarette out of his mouth when he saw Xu Chengjun.

"Wow, Old Liu wasn't lying, you're a really fit young man."

He patted Xu Chengjun on the shoulder, the smell of cigarette oil mixed with the scent of ink on his palm: "Come on, let them see what Comrade Chengjun, who can write 'granary', really looks like!"

The editorial office was a large, open-plan office with four desks arranged in a "田" (field) shape. In the middle, a metal ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts.

The calendar on the wall circled "August 5th" in red pen, and next to it was a printed sheet of paper that read: "Anhui Literature Monthly, published on the 5th of each month, deadline is two months in advance, and no additions or deletions are allowed after the final draft is completed."

The three editors looked up at the sound, their pens nibs stopping on the paper.

Zhang Qiming, wearing silver-rimmed glasses and with gray hair, was drawing wavy lines on a manuscript paper with a red pen.

He was a veteran in the editorial department.

It is said that he started editing publications in 1958 and was very particular about "articles having a solid foundation". There was always a well-worn copy of "Literary Gazette" on his desk.

Lin Xiuying, wearing a floral shirt, was twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. Her braid was tied with a red ribbon. She was the youngest editor in the editorial department, in charge of the poetry and prose sections.

Her husband is a playwright for the provincial drama troupe, and he often says that she is "more particular about choosing scripts than about choosing fabrics."

Li Jianguo, in his early thirties, was clicking away on his abacus beads. He had a shirt jacket draped over his elbow and was the editor in charge of finance and copyright.

Of course, this only refers to the people who work with Editor-in-Chief Zhou; the editorial department has far more than just these people.

"This is Xiao Xu?"

Zhang Qiming pushed up his glasses, his gaze shifting from Xu Chengjun's worn-out trouser legs to his straight back.

"He doesn't look like someone who writes articles; he looks more like a skilled worker in the fields. But his eyes are bright, and he has a certain energy."

Zhou Ming slammed the manuscript of "The Granary" onto the table, sparks flying from the ashtray: "Forget about the appearance, look at the manuscript first! Old Zhang, Cheng Jun has already corrected all the problems you mentioned last time, take another look."

"I"

"Hey, Editor-in-Chief, Mr. Zhang, please wait a moment."

Lin Xiuying suddenly spoke up, glancing at Xu Chengjun and taking out a manuscript, "The author of this 'Time' is also named Xu Chengjun, is it also written by you?"

Xu Chengjun was surprised and replied, "Yes."

Amazing!

Can this poem grow legs on its own?

Before he could speak, Lin Xiuying excitedly waved the manuscript paper: "Editor-in-Chief Zhou, listen to this first! It's a short poem, but it's extraordinary!"

She cleared her throat and began to recite a line from "Time":
"Time is a tree, taking root in waiting / Annual rings are unspoken messages."

"This metaphor is much more thought-provoking than the poem 'Ode to the Reformed G' that we posted last time!"

Zhou Ming and the editors remained silent for a moment, seemingly still immersed in the charm of the poem.

She looked at Xu Chengjun again, her eyes shining.

"Comrade Xu, I have read your poem 'Time' three times in a row. Each time it is like encountering a newly sprouted bud in the morning mist."

"Fresh! Yet it carries a heavy, earthy feel, and within that earthiness lies an indescribable comfort."

"I can't quite explain how good it is! I really like it!"

Zhou Ming laughed, "I didn't expect Comrade Cheng Jun to be such a poet; this poem captures the essence of the poem."

"If I publish it, I guarantee I'll receive a sack full of letters from readers."

"It's not because it's written in fancy language, but because our Comrade Chengjun has written time as a living, breathing thing, as the patches on our sleeves and the gray in our temples. It's right there, gently turning the pages, waiting for people to talk to it."

Old Zhou may look rough around the edges, but his words have a certain intellectual quality to them!
Great job!

reward!
Old Zhang nodded in agreement, "What's most remarkable is the phrase 'pieced together broken porcelain to form a window.' These days, who doesn't have a few broken pieces of porcelain in their heart? But Comrade Chengjun insisted on piecing them together to form a brighter window, even allowing light to recognize 'the direction of the past.' That kind of spirit is truly invigorating!"

Li Jianguo stopped using his abacus and looked up at Xu Chengjun.

"Did you write this poem? I was just calculating that if it were published, each line would be worth three cents, and thirty-two lines would be exactly ninety-six cents."

The scriptwriting department was bustling with activity for a while.

Only cultured people know how to speak, but of course, what came out of their mouths was, "You flatter me, seniors, I don't deserve such high praise!" You know what I mean by that~
"However, how did I end up with this manuscript?"

Lin Xiuying has a lively personality and explained the whole story in just a few words.

Oh, I see.

She had just intercepted it from Xiao Ma's cousin half an hour ago.

Cousin Xiao Ma originally wanted to keep the poem manuscript, but coincidentally, Lin Xiuya went to the evening newspaper to deliver exchange publications and caught a glimpse of "mud on the toes of her shoes" on the manuscript paper.

He immediately told his cousin Xiao Ma, "This poem needs to be published in a monthly magazine. The evening paper is too short to support these lines."

Little Ma's cousin: WTF?

After explaining, Editor Lin chuckled and praised, "Editor Chen is a good comrade!"

After hearing the whole story, Xu Chengjun felt deeply moved.

The cultural sphere in Anhui in 1979 was both large and small.

The give and take, it's all about human relationships.
They were all accidents.
The scriptwriting department remained silent for a moment.

Zhang Qiming took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on, his gaze softening: "The poetry is good, it has an earthy feel, it's not superficial. But the novel..."

He pointed to the passage that read, "Old Xu smashed open the copper lock and melted the key into a plowshare."

"This is using the cracks in the barn as a metaphor for how the cracks in the system will eventually be widened by individual needs. It's too realistic. Last month, the prefectural committee held a meeting and said that we should be wary of using historical themes to reflect reality. If this article is published, I'm afraid some people will find fault with it."

Do those who nitpick even know what "concealing one's strength" means?

Zhou Ming suddenly stubbed out his cigarette in the jar with a loud thud.

"When Comrade Cheng Jun wrote the revised version of the text, he didn't shout a single slogan. He only let the weight of the wheat grains and the cold glint of the plowshare speak for themselves. This kind of writing style, which is like 'hearing thunder in silence,' deeply captures the essence of 'concealing the sharpness' in Chinese literature."

"The value of 'The Barn' lies in its presentation of how 'practical rationality' breaks through 'institutional inertia'."

"This kind of thing hidden between the lines is more powerful than shouting 'change g' a hundred times!"

Lin Xiuying nodded in agreement.

“I think this article is better than the previous one, ‘Chronicles of the Commune.’ That one was written like a report, but this one has substance. Every mark on the key is a letter to the land.”

Li Jianguo adjusted the abacus beads and looked up.

“Old Zhang, I checked last year’s publication records. Shanghai Literature published something similar and nothing happened.”

"Besides, we're a monthly publication. If we finalize the manuscript a month in advance and publish it in September, the policy might be more lenient then."

Zhou Ming suddenly laughed, "Old Zhang, we've already agreed to use the manuscript, there's no need to put more pressure on Comrade Xu."

"He'll get what's coming to him tomorrow!"

Then, he pulled out a green royalty schedule from the drawer and lit a line with a cigarette butt.

"Comrade Chengjun, we have accepted this manuscript from Anhui Literature, and it is expected to be published in September."

"But we have rules. For new submissions, it's four yuan per thousand words. But the editorial board has decided that your submission is good enough to be featured on the front page, so we'll give you six yuan per thousand words."

He paused, then tapped the table with his fingertip.

"Forty thousand words, totaling two hundred and forty yuan. Send it to your commune post office before the 10th of next month. You can pick it up with a letter of introduction. You won't be able to get away with it."

In this day and age, royalties are not taxed. It will only start to be taxed next year, with a threshold of 800 yuan.

Most people can't get there.
"and this."

Lin Xiuya folded the manuscript of the poem "Time" into squares.

“I applied to Editor-in-Chief Zhou to have your work published in the poetry section of the September issue, right next to your novel. The 9 cents payment will be sent together with the novel payment, saving you two trips.”

Just as Xu Chengjun was about to express his gratitude, Zhang Qiming took out a bound volume from 1965 from the tin cabinet and pointed to one of the articles.

"This is a piece called 'Field Ridge' written by a sent-down youth back then. It's similar to your style, but it was taken down because of its 'gray tone'."

He paused for a moment: "I'm not stopping you, I just want you to know that writing requires both deep roots and the ability to be humble."

"Old Zhang is right."

Xu Chengjun took the bound volume, his fingertips touching the yellowed pages.

"When I was revising the manuscript, I was thinking that I should write about the matter thoroughly, but not in a glaring way."

Zhou Ming suddenly grabbed the copper bell on the table and shook it, which startled the sparrows on the windowsill with a "clang".

"We're having a revision meeting at nine o'clock the day after tomorrow. A few veteran writers will be there; they know how to make a manuscript 'stand firm and go far'."

"However, these writers may not all be as lenient with newcomers like you as I am. Study your manuscript thoroughly, and present it well."

He pushed over an invitation card that read "September issue revision meeting".

"Remember to bring the revised manuscript. Once it's finalized, it can go to the printing factory."

Okay! This manuscript!

It's finally stable!
-
The setting sun cast long, striped patterns of light on the floor through the windows of the old Western-style building.

As Xu Chengjun pushed his bicycle back, he heard the sound of Li Jianguo's abacus beads coming from the editorial office, mixed with the tune of Lin Xiuya reciting poetry.

He stopped and bought two bowls of wontons as he passed a wonton stall on Changjiang Road.

We must save a bowl for Xiao Ma. Although his cousin didn't win the poem manuscript, he still helped a lot.

As the warm, fragrant steam enveloped his face, Xu Chengjun suddenly felt that even the wind carried the scent of ink and anticipation in the summer of 1979.

He touched the cigarette pack in his pocket; it was the "Crossing the River" brand that Zhou Ming had given him, much milder than the "Great Production" cigarettes from Fengyang.

The "rustling" sound of wheels rolling over the asphalt road.

I accompanied him to the guesthouse.

(End of this chapter)