Fantasy Writers 1860

Chapter 120 The Clown's Position in the Britannian Literary Gazette

As word spread among the guests at the literary salon that day, becoming increasingly exaggerated and embellished, the latest issue of Bentley Weekly sold out as soon as it was released.

After discussing it, Dorian and Dickinson decided to submit the full version of the poem to Bentley Weekly.

Dickinson's dream of having her own newspaper is still just a dream, so for now, we'll just submit it to her as an excuse to help her with her job at Bentley Weekly, where she is the editor-in-chief.

Actually, for a novice poet like myself, submitting my work to the Britannian Literary Gazette would have been the most appropriate choice. However, my previous submissions to them, "The Necklace" and "The Policeman and the Hymn," were both discarded as scraps. It was Dickinson's keen eye that snagged this great opportunity.

Now he's a little less inclined to vote for them.

If you've missed something, then so be it.

In order to publish the poem, Dorian also needed to add a title to it.

The poem was originally titled "Lochsley Hall," and it was written by Tennyson in the hall of a building by the sea in Lochsley.

Dorian felt that directly copying this name seemed a bit too inexplicable. He had never been to Locksley, so why was it called Locksley Hall?

The first literary salon I attended.

Mr. Bentley was overjoyed. This issue of the magazine sold even better than when Dorian published "The Necklace." It went through three reprints in just a few days. Not only was the warehouse stock completely sold out, but many bookstores were also urging him to restock.

However, while some are happy, others are sad. Unlike the cheerful atmosphere at Bentley Weekly, the atmosphere at Britannia Literary Gazette is not so relaxed.

"Bang!" The editor-in-chief of the Britannian Literary Gazette slammed the latest issue of Bentley Weekly onto the table, knocking over the freshly brewed black tea and wetting a large stack of typed proofs.

"Who on earth threw away Mr. Dorian's manuscript as a reject?" the editor-in-chief roared at the editors lined up in front of him.

The editors looked at each other, speechless, none of them daring to speak.

The editor-in-chief had no idea that Dorian had initially submitted the article to his side, but he couldn't resist Dickinson's constant promotion of her amazing bargain story, which she embellished even more.

Now, with the added blessing of "The Hall of Foyle Street," this wondrous story has begun to spread even more widely, and has finally reached the ears of the editor-in-chief of the Britannian Literary Gazette, the very beginning of it all.

At a dinner a few days ago that brought together many publishing industry giants, someone directly asked him about "The Necklace" and "The Policeman and the Praise".

Were the two novels in "Beautiful Poems" that have recently become popular in Lentinion submitted to you first?

This question left him completely baffled.

The man then recounted the story Dickinson had told the president.

He instantly became the center of attention, with everyone asking if it was true. He maintained a straight face, saying it was nothing like that, just a publicity stunt; our *Britannia Literary Gazette* is a legitimate literary journal, and our editors are competent people who wouldn't be so easily fooled.

However, he was becoming increasingly anxious because he felt that it was very likely true.

Dickinson had indeed come to see him before, and those two articles were indeed published in *Bentley Weekly* a few days later. Based on his understanding of Miss Dickinson, while her fashion sense was rather eccentric, her character was generally reliable; she might embellish things, but she wouldn't completely fabricate stories.

He barely managed to deal with the curiosity of everyone at the banquet, and when he finally made it to the end, he rushed to the newspaper office early the next morning and hurriedly summoned all the editors for a confrontation.

Actually, it's not a big deal to have your manuscript rejected. There are so many famous writers in history, who hasn't been rejected a few times?

But if another writer finds it in the discard pile on the spot, secretly takes it and publishes it in his own magazine, and it becomes a hit, that's a different story.

That would be too clownish.

The editor-in-chief even had a vague premonition that their "Britanian Literary Gazette" might become a clown in a long-lasting legendary story, especially with Mr. Dorian's growing fame.

The office was deathly silent, with only the ticking of the wall clock echoing through the room. Everyone shrank back, afraid to make a sound.

They were afraid that making even the slightest noise would incur the president's wrath.

"—Go and ask around, has anyone seen Dickinson a few days ago? Has anyone seen her going through the scrapbook?"

Upon hearing these instructions, the editors filed out as if granted a pardon, not wanting to stay there for even a moment longer.

They went to the outdoor office area and began questioning each of their junior editors: "Did you see anyone go through our discard pile a few days ago? Did you see a woman dressed in flashy clothes and wearing a white hat?"

"what?"

"The scrapbook? Who goes through that stuff?"

"Never seen it before."

"have no idea----"

Under the intense questioning of all the middle-level managers, they quickly found their target: "I've seen her. That woman went to see the president the other day, and afterwards she stayed here with me for a while—" a young...

The new editor, whose eyes still held a clear innocence, pointed to the box on the table. "She said she wanted to see what was in the drafts box."

"So, you let her see it?"

"Yeah, right." The young, new editor looked confused. "During the training, they didn't say anything about this being off-limits to others, did they? It's all scrapped material, so what's wrong with it?"

"Does anyone really think they can find any good articles here? Impossible, gentlemen. I've read through them all. They're either garbage or the style doesn't fit our newspaper. My seniors have taught me that—"

Hearing this, the editor-in-chief, who seemed hesitant to speak, nodded and said to him with feigned composure, "Well, the president says he wants to see you. Come with me now."

"Huh? President?" The young man seemed flattered, not expecting that he, a newcomer, would be received by the president.

Could it be that my talent has finally been discovered?

"Um, the president is looking for me—"

"Just come with me, the boss won't bother you for no reason," the editor-in-chief said evasively.

The new employee didn't think much of it. He put down the trashy manuscript in his hand and excitedly followed the editor-in-chief toward the president's office.

Upon reaching the door, he noticed that the editor-in-chief who had guided him there had stopped.

"Hey, sir, aren't you coming in with me?" the new editor asked, puzzled.

"—The president said he wants to see you alone."

The president met with me alone; does that mean he's placed me in such a platonic position?

It seems I am truly highly regarded!

Does this mean I'm getting a promotion and a raise? Am I finally free from that job of reading those garbage manuscripts all day?

With that thought in mind, he lightly pushed open the door and entered the office, while the editor-in-chief quietly closed the door behind him.

This was the first time he had met such an important figure as the editor-in-chief of the Britannian Literary Gazette, and he was alone with him.

"It's you—the one who let Dickinson look through the drafts box that day?" The president's expression was solemn, exuding an air of authority without anger.

"Yes, yes." The new editor was a little nervous, but quickly adjusted her mindset.

Because he heard the name Dickinson.

So that lady from that day was Dickinson!

I've read her books myself, and I never imagined that an author who could write such words would wear such flashy clothes.

It seems I've truly met a benefactor.

She must have been captivated by his handsome figure, radiating intelligence while he worked, on that day, and realized her own literary talent, thus introducing herself to the editor-in-chief.

"Fine, very good—" the president spat out through gritted teeth.

The young, new editor didn't notice anything else; all he heard was the editor-in-chief praising himself.

Great! Now I'm going to soar to new heights!

Next, the editor-in-chief, who was standing outside the door, heard a violent, storm-like sound erupting from inside.

He shrank back and fled as if escaping.