A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

March 25th, Saturday.

The celebration was held in a long-established restaurant on Nanjing West Road. Zhou Mingyuan said it was to "show off" – since "The Little Prince" had sold 100,000 copies, they couldn't just eat boxed lunches in the publisher's conference room. They had to find a decent place to let Lin Shubai know that the publisher took him seriously.

When Lin Shubai arrived, there were already more than a dozen people seated in the banquet hall.

The hall was small, with only three round tables covered with dark red tablecloths. On each table was a small pot of orchids and a few dishes of cold dishes. On the wall in front of them hung a banner that read, "Congratulations on the sales of 'The Little Prince' exceeding 100,000 copies."

"Xiao Lin! Over here!" Zhou Mingyuan stood up from the table by the window and waved to him. Perhaps because he was in high spirits, he looked several years younger.

Lin Shubai walked over and saw several people already seated at the table. Some of them were people he recognized, but most were unfamiliar faces. Chen Yuanshan was sitting next to Zhou Mingyuan, with a cup of tea in front of him. He was talking quietly to a man with gray hair. Chen Yuanshan's expression was more relaxed than usual today, with a faint smile on his lips.

Zhou Mingyuan pulled up a chair and gestured for Lin Shubai to sit down. "Come on, sit down first. Everyone's not here yet, we'll start later."

Lin Shubai sat down and draped his coat over the back of the chair. He was wearing a navy blue casual jacket over a light gray crew neck sweater. He glanced around at the people present. Most of them were wearing suits or dark jackets, and a few female writers were wearing simple dresses. Zhou Mingyuan had said "just wear whatever you want," and it seemed that only he had believed him.

He mentally deducted a point from Zhou Mingyuan's credit score.

After a while, people arrived one after another, and the three round tables were almost full, with about twenty people. Lin Shubai recognized a few faces: Qin Wenxiu was sitting at the next table, and Cheng Depei was sitting at the main table.

There were a few others whose names he couldn't recall, but he vaguely remembered seeing them in newspapers or magazines. Fang Chongguang, the vice chairman of the Shanghai Writers Association, was sitting next to Cheng Depei, talking to a middle-aged woman wearing glasses; critic Sun Yu sat in a corner, a notebook open in front of him, occasionally glancing down to write a few words.

These people all came because of the name "Lin Shubai".

Zhou Mingyuan stood up, cleared his throat, and tapped his wine glass lightly with his fingers. The conversation in the banquet hall gradually quieted down.

"Dear teachers, thank you all for coming today." Zhou Mingyuan's tone was much more formal than usual, with a solemnity that he rarely showed in front of Lin Shubai. "I invited you all here today mainly to celebrate something—the Little Prince has sold over 100,000 copies in less than two months since its release."

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping around the room. "One hundred thousand copies. Everyone here knows better than I do what that means. In recent years, the market has been tough, and original works have been even tougher. The fact that Xiaolin's book has reached this number is not only due to his luck, but also to the support we've all put in over the years. Finally, it's starting to resonate."

As soon as he finished speaking, applause broke out. Lin Shubai clapped a few times, but then realized that his pace was a little faster than the people next to him, making him look a bit silly. So he slowed down. He noticed that one person was clapping rather perfunctorily. Lin Shubai memorized this person's face; he was still a bit of a grudge-holder.

Zhou Mingyuan continued, "Today isn't a formal meeting; it's just a chance for everyone to sit together, eat and drink, and have a good time!"

Applause rang out again, and the atmosphere in the banquet hall relaxed a bit. This time, it was noticeably more sincere than before—probably because "eating and drinking well" was more pleasant than "the market is not doing well." The waiters began to serve hot dishes: braised pork, stir-fried shrimp, squirrel-shaped mandarin fish, and crab roe tofu, one dish after another. Some people started to pick up their chopsticks, while others took their wine glasses to other tables to offer toasts.

Zhou Mingyuan stood up, holding a glass of red wine, walked to Cheng Depei's side, bent down, and whispered a few words. Cheng Depei nodded, picked up his teacup, and clinked it with his—everyone in the industry knew that he didn't drink.

Lin Shubai picked up a piece of braised pork and ate it slowly. He was still not used to this kind of occasion. In his previous life, when he wrote online novels, he did not need to socialize. At most, he would chat a few words in the author group. Now, he suddenly had to sit at the same table with a group of seniors and eat. He did not know what to say or not to say, so he simply said less.

On Cheng Depei's side, someone went over to offer a toast, and he responded to each one with a teacup. Lin Shubai watched from afar, hesitating whether to go over or not. He was not sure whether he should take the initiative to go over or wait to be called. He was not very good at this kind of social etiquette. In his previous life, when he wrote online novels, he did not need to socialize. At most, he would post "requesting monthly votes" in the author group.

Chen Yuanshan sat down next to him without him noticing.

"Don't overthink it. Eat and drink as you please. They came because they read your book, not because you offered them a drink. Besides, who would dare let you drink at your age?"

Lin Shubai turned to look at him, "Then I won't go?"

"Go or don't go, it's up to you. If you go, Teacher Cheng won't think you wrote well just because you toasted him. If you don't go, he won't think you're being rude. At his age, he's seen all kinds of situations. He won't miss your drink."

Lin Shubai thought about it and agreed that it made sense, so he picked up another piece of braised pork.

Chen Yuanshan glanced at him. "You really do listen to advice."

"You're right."

"I've said a lot of things that are right, but you haven't listened to everything I said." Chen Yuanshan picked up his teacup and took another sip, his gaze falling on Sun Yu. Sun Yu was writing something in his notebook with his head down, writing very quickly.

"That person," Chen Yuanshan nodded with his chin toward Sun Yu, "don't let his quiet demeanor fool you, he'll be writing reviews when he gets back. Most of the people who came today will write something after they go back, some for magazines, some for blogs. Whether your book can gain a foothold in the industry depends heavily on what these people say."

Qin Wenxiu walked over from the next table with a teacup and sat down next to Lin Shubai.

"Xiao Lin, why aren't you eating?" She glanced at the plate in front of Lin Shubai.

"I ate it." Lin Shubai pointed to the piece of braised pork with a bite taken out of it on his plate.

Qin Wenxiu nodded. "The part about the fox in your 'The Little Prince' is well written." She said it directly, without any preamble.

Lin Shubai was taken aback for a moment, then said, "Thank you, Teacher Qin."

What will you write about next?

"I'm writing a picture book novel set in the 1930s, about an orphan hiding in a train station clock tower."

After hearing this, Qin Wenxiu raised an eyebrow. "A picture book? Who drew the illustrations?"

"A classmate of mine."

"Didn't the publisher provide it for you?"

"No, she draws very well."

Qin Wenxiu glanced at him, probably judging whether his words were just polite or genuine. She didn't press him, picked up her teacup, and stood up. "Alright, you've got quite a wide network of connections."