A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

Chapter 135 The Eve

At four o'clock in the afternoon, Allen took him to Pulteney Bridge. There were shops on the bridge. Lin Shubai stood at the bridgehead and looked down. The river was shallow, and several flocks of seagulls were looking for food on the riverbed.

Lin Shubai stopped in his tracks as he passed a bookstore.

A row of books was displayed in the shop window, with one in the very center—its cover was white, and the words "Bath" were written on it in black letters.

The "Novel Award 2011 Shortlist" is followed by thumbnails of the covers of six books, with his essay "Hell Is Where God Is Not Here" on the far left.

Next to it was a sheet of excerpts from the judges' comments, printed in small print.

Lin Shubai leaned closer for a look.

"A stunning meditation on faith, loss, and the impossibility of

transactional belief. Written by a seventeen—year—old Chinese student, this

novella reads like nothing else on this year "s list. Cold, precise, and une

pectedly moving.

"7

("A startling reflection on faith, loss, and the impossibility of transactional faith. By a seventeen-year-old Chinese student, this novella reads unlike anything on this year's list—cold, precise, and unexpectedly moving.")

）

.

Lin Shubai took out his phone and took a picture.

Allen stood behind him without saying a word. Only after Lin Shubai finished taking pictures did he speak: "Let's go, there are still many places we haven't seen."

The two walked along the riverbank for a while.

What did you think of that comment?

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "That's good."

Allen nodded. "The person who wrote this comment is Carolyn Ollie."

Lin Shubai stopped and turned to look at him. "The founder of the Bass Prize?"

"Yes, she wrote the comments herself. Every year, she reads all six shortlisted articles and writes a comment for each one."

"What kind of person is she?"

Allen thought for a moment, "She'll be direct and straightforward. If she likes your manuscript, she'll say so directly. If she doesn't like it, she'll also point out what's wrong with it. She won't be perfunctory just because you're a newcomer, nor will she flatter you just because you're an established writer."

"Do you know her?"

"I know her, but we're not close. She's the kind of person you find hard to get to know—not because she's difficult to get along with, but because she spends most of her time reading her prepared statements and doesn't have time for socializing." Alan paused. "You might see her tomorrow; she'll be attending the awards ceremony, and she might even speak to you."

At six o'clock in the evening, Allen took him to a restaurant.

The restaurant is located in a small uphill alley, and its storefront is not large.

Allen ordered a steak, while Lin Shubai ordered a pasta dish.

While waiting for his food, Lin Shubai took out his phone and flipped to the photo he had taken that afternoon.

Allen picked up his glass and took a sip. "What are you thinking about?"

"Thinking about tomorrow."

"What do you want in terms of results?"

"Consider all possibilities."

Allen put down his glass, looked at him, and said, "Do you know why I never discuss the possibility of winning awards with authors?"

Why?

"Because there's no point in discussing this. If we win, we celebrate; if we don't, we move on. No matter the outcome, by this time tomorrow night, you won't be the same person you are today."

Lin Shubai looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"This means that regardless of whether you win the award or not, you will become an author who has been shortlisted for the Bath Prize," and this identity will not disappear just because you didn't win the award.

Lin Shubai was stunned for a moment.

He had been focused on the ultimate goal of "winning the award," neglecting the significance of being "shortlisted." Out of 2,370 submissions, only 30 made it to the longlist and only 6 to the shortlist. He was one of those six, and that fact wouldn't change because of who went on stage to receive the award tomorrow night.

Allen is right. No matter the outcome, he is no longer the person he was yesterday.

The waiter brought out the food; the steak was seared to a perfect crisp on the outside and tender on the inside, and the pasta sauce was made with tomatoes and basil.

Lin Shubai took a bite of noodles and suddenly asked, "Allen, you've mentored so many authors, is there any you thought 'this person will definitely succeed,' but who ultimately didn't?"

Allen paused for a moment with his fork, then continued cutting his steak. "Yes."

"Who?"

"You wouldn't know him. He wrote a very good book. It received good reviews and sold well after publication. Everyone thought his next book would be even better, but he couldn't write a second one."

Allen forked his cut steak, put it in his mouth, chewed a few times, and said, "It's not that he lacks talent, it's that he was too focused on the success of his first book. Every day he thought, 'I have to write something better than the first one,' and the more he thought about it, the less he could write. The less he could write, the more anxious he became, and finally he gave up."

Do you regret signing him?

Allen put down his fork, looked at Lin Shubai, and said, "I don't regret it. I just feel it's a pity."

Allen actually wanted to use this incident to tell Lin Shubai not to be held hostage by success. If the first book sells well, don't think that the second book must sell even better. If the first book is well-written, don't think that the second book must be even more amazing. Writing is not a competitive sport; you don't need to break records every time.

He didn't know if Lin Shubai had listened, but judging from his thoughtful expression, he probably had.

After dinner, the two of them came out of the restaurant. Bath was quieter than London at night, and there were almost no pedestrians on the streets.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow. There's nothing much to do in the morning, so you can rest at the hotel or go out and explore on your own. We'll start preparing at 4 p.m. and check in at 6 p.m."

"it is good."

"Don't forget to iron your suit; the hotel has an iron."

Allen glanced at him. "Do you know how to use it?"

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "Probably."

"Then try it tonight. If you don't know how, come find me. Don't find out you don't know how to use it tomorrow morning."

The two walked back to the hotel. Allen's room was on the first floor, and Lin Shubai's was on the second floor.

"Go to bed early," Allen said.

"The same to you."

Lin Shubai went upstairs, pushed open the door to room 208, and found the lights on. The room had been tidied up by the housekeeper; the bed was made neatly, the curtains were drawn, and the air conditioner was set to a comfortable temperature.

After Lin Shubai finished ironing the clothes, he took out his phone and glanced at the time. China is seven hours ahead of London. It was midnight in Bath, which was already 7 pm in China.

He found Wang Xiulan's phone number and dialed it.

"Mom, we've arrived in Bath. The hotel is nice. The awards ceremony is tomorrow night."

"Are you wearing a suit? Does it fit?"

"I tried it on, and it fits perfectly."

"Are you nervous?"

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "A little."

Wang Xiulan's tone softened, "It's normal to be nervous. When your dad proposed to me, he stood downstairs at my house and smoked half a pack of cigarettes, his legs were shaking."

Lin Jianguo's voice came through the phone, muffled but tinged with displeasure: "Why are you telling the child this?"

I'm stating the facts.

"You can't tell children everything."

Lin Shubai couldn't help but smile as he listened to his parents bickering on the other end of the phone.

"Alright, go to sleep early. Don't think too much, it's no use thinking about it. Your task now is to sleep."

,"good."