Back to 17, My Brother is the Cult Leader

Fang Jianguo was reading the newspaper in the living room when he looked up at him and asked, "How's it going?"

"Not bad, it's a good start."

"What are you writing?"

"A story about a girl who takes her sister's place in a murder mystery game."

Fang Jianguo put down the newspaper: "What game?"

"The kind you wouldn't understand." Fang Yuan smiled and carried the water back to his room.

He sat back down at his computer, deciding to finish writing his impressions of Capitol City's exterior first—through Katniss's eyes this unreal, bizarre spectacle—before focusing on the real main event: the training center and the scoring process.

The interactions between the offerings at the training center are what set the tone for the entire story.

The twenty-four tributes included professional tributes—those from Districts One and Two, trained from a young age, who considered entering the arena an honor—and others like those from District Twelve, who were so poor they couldn't even afford to eat.

Katniss was targeted by the professional tributes on her very first day, not because of her bow and arrows, but because of the defiant look in her eyes.

By 2 p.m., he had written over 6,000 words of the first draft of the first and second chapters.

Some parts need further refinement, but the basic structure is there.

Fang Yuan saved the document and then opened a new document.

Title: The Martian.

Mark Watney, a botanist and mechanical engineer, was a member of the Ares III mission.

During a sandstorm, he was mistakenly thought to be dead by his teammates and left alone on Mars.

Without communication equipment and enough food, the next spaceship won't arrive for another four years.

He and a bunch of equipment were the only people on the entire planet.

Fang Yuan liked the beginning of this story.

This is not a story about despair; it's a story about how his mother solved problems.

"I'm not fucking going to die here."

This is Mark Watney's first entry in his journal.

Fang Yuan began writing.

He used a first-person diary format, which is completely different from The Hunger Games.

Mark's tone should be a bit more jerky, more optimistic, and more sarcastic. He'd start any problem with a swear word before getting down to business. He had an antenna pierce his abdomen, so he performed surgery on himself, using vodka for disinfection.

He inventoried the supplies, counted calories, and found that there wasn't enough food.

What should I do?

Plant potatoes.

The Martian soil is no good, but there's human excrement in the base.

Mix feces with Martian soil to create organic soil.

What about potato seeds? NASA happened to have raw potatoes in their Thanksgiving meal.

Water? It's produced using fuel—hydrazine is broken down into hydrogen, which is then ignited to produce water.

Every step requires precise calculation; a single miscalculation can be fatal.

Fang Yuan spent two hours writing the paragraph about Mark planting potatoes.

From the moment the planting pod was set up to the first sprout, Mark stood by, watching the green leaves and grinning.

There was no other life on the entire Mars except for him, but he managed to create 300 million bacteria and 12 potato seedlings underground.

After writing this, Fang Yuan leaned back in his chair and laughed at himself.

The thrill of solving a problem is more satisfying than any fancy writing technique.

The phone rang. It was Huang Xiaoming calling.

"What are you doing at home? Come out for dinner."

"Write something."

"Write again? What are you writing on the fourth day of the Lunar New Year? Are you sick?"

"I'm going back to Beijing on the fifth day of the Lunar New Year. I'll write as much as I can while I'

"Okay, what are you going to write?"

"The story of a man growing potatoes on Mars."

Huang Xiaoming remained silent for a full three seconds on the other end: "What exactly are you talking about?"

Even if I told you, you wouldn't understand.

"Your mind is always filled with strange and bizarre thoughts."

"This is for you."

"What? You want me to go to Mars to grow potatoes? Are you out of your mind?" Huang Xiaoming was speechless.

After hanging up the phone, Fang Yuan continued writing "The Martian".

In Chapter Four, he writes that Mark discovers the Pathfinder is still usable, but its communication equipment needs to be modified to contact Earth.

He sat alone at the workbench, facing a pile of circuit boards and a soldering gun, with a circuit diagram drawn on the surface next to him with a marker.

There is no trash on the table because every bit of organic material is used for composting.

This isn't some romantic fantasy about outer space; it's an engineering application problem with the highest stakes.

It was six o'clock in the evening when it got dark.

Fang Yuan saved the document and rubbed his eyes.

I wrote three chapters in the first draft of "The Hunger Games" and four chapters plus a detailed outline for "The Martian".

He stood up and walked to the window. People were setting off firecrackers downstairs, and a string of red lanterns was hanging on the balcony of the building opposite.

Qingdao's winters are dry and cold, but just before sunset, there's a faint orange hue on the horizon.

He recalled the ending of yesterday's meal.

Ding Yuchen held the watercolor pens, completely captivated by them. She touched the patterns on the packaging box with her little fingers, looking at them over and over again.

The mother said, "Don't break it," and the little girl quickly put away the colored pencils and sat down obediently.

Fang Jianguo watched from the side, wanting to say something but not saying it.

Fang Yuan placed the water glass on the windowsill, took a deep breath, and then slowly exhaled.

He pulled himself back to reality and sat down at the computer again.

The Hunger Games needs an additional scene—the night before the lottery.

Katniss was in her attic, unable to sleep, her mind racing with thoughts of tomorrow's lottery.

There's only one card with my sister's name on it, so the probability of it being safe is very high.

But she was still afraid. The thought that this fear itself was part of totalitarian rule—you didn't need to actually be chosen, just to know that you might be chosen was enough.

Fear itself is a form of control.

After Fang Yuan finished writing this passage, he looked back at it again.

It's not great, but it's not bad either. I'll polish it another day.

He saved the document, stood up, and stretched.

Fang Jianguo was making tea in the living room; the TV was on but muted. Fang Yuan came out and sat down opposite him. Fang Jianguo poured him a cup of tea without saying a word. The two of them sat there for a while, the tea steaming.

"Dad, I'm going back to Beijing tomorrow."

"Yes." Fang Jianguo nodded. "Have you packed your things?"

"All packed up."

"Give me a call when you arrive."

"Know."

I sat for a while longer.

Fang Jianguo suddenly spoke up: "You're all grown up now, have you met a girl you like?"

Fang Yuan glanced at him: "I'm not in a hurry right now."

Comrade Jianguo nodded and said nothing more.

He picked up his teacup and took a sip, his gaze falling on the unopened box of watercolor pens on the coffee table—

That was an extra box that Fang Yuan had prepared for Ding Yuchen yesterday. The little girl took one box, and this one was left on the coffee table.

"This child is quite sensible," Fang Jianguo said.

"When she comes over, get her a nicer desk," Fang Yuan said. "Don't let her do her homework on the balcony."

"Please keep an eye on the house. Ask Aunt Zhang and Uncle Huang for help. It needs to be big, preferably with four bedrooms, and not too far from Aunt Ding's school."

"Don't worry about the money, I've transferred two million to your bank account."

Also, go back and look into buying a car; if you don't have enough money, just let me know.

Fang Jianguo paused for a moment, then nodded.