Back to 17, My Brother is the Cult Leader

Fang Yuan arrived in Shanghai again on the afternoon of January 21, 1. Zhu Weilian sent a company car to pick him up at Hongqiao Airport.

The driver was a young man from the editorial department of Rongshuxia, surnamed Wang. He was quite talkative, and I spent half the day introducing him to the preparations for the awards ceremony.

Fang Yuan leaned back in the passenger seat, listening and occasionally responding.

Shanghai winters are colder than he expected. Although Beijing is dry, Shanghai's cold is a damp, bone-chilling cold.

The Jianjing Building remains unchanged; the plane trees at the entrance have lost all their leaves, their bare branches stretching out under the gray sky, looking somewhat desolate.

But the office under the banyan tree was much more lively, filled with people, documents, printed copies, wrapped gift bags, and cardboard boxes piled up in the corner waiting to be moved.

William Zhu was working on something on his computer in his small office. When he saw Fang Yuan come in, he didn't stand up. He just looked up at him and raised his chin as a greeting.

"You're here? Have a seat," William Zhu said, pointing to the chair opposite him.

Save what's on your computer screen, close your laptop, and turn around.

He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater today, and he looked a little heavier than when we last met.

"The awards ceremony tomorrow night, at the Shanghai Centre theater."

William Zhu picked up an invitation from the table and handed it to him. "You can sit in the front, in the same row as the judges."

Fang Yuan took the invitation and glanced at it. The gold lettering was quite sophisticated in design.

"Who are the judges?" he asked.

"Wang Anyi, Wang Shuo, Acheng, Yu Hua, Chen Cun, and a few others,"

William Zhu counted them on his fingers.

"Jia Pingwa is also there, but he might not be able to make it tomorrow due to some unforeseen circumstances. He sent a video message. Among the online authors, Li Xunhuan, Ning Caishen, Xing Yusen, and Annie Baby are also present."

Fang Yuan nodded.

"There's a welcome dinner tonight," William Zhu said.

"The judges and some of the winning authors are here, you should come too. Arrive early so you can get to know everyone."

Fang Yuan agreed.

The welcome banquet was held at a restaurant on Nanjing West Road, with a fairly large hall reserved under a banyan tree.

When Fang Yuan arrived, quite a few people had already arrived, scattered in twos and threes in the hall. Some were standing and chatting, while others were sitting and drinking tea.

William Zhu stood at the door shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with people. When he saw William Zhu arrive, he waved to him.

"Come on, let me introduce you to a few people." William Zhu pulled him forward.

The first person I met was Chencun.

"We meet again." Chen Cun shook hands with him.

"Those two novels have received good feedback from netizens, did you know?"

Fang Yuan smiled and said, "I've heard about it."

Chen Cun was wearing a dark gray jacket, still maintaining his usual mild and indifferent demeanor.

His official title here is "Art Director of Banyan Tree," but in reality, he has been deeply involved in the website's editing and planning work in many aspects.

"Come here, you must have heard of this person." Chen Cun stepped aside, making room for someone next to him.

Fang Yuan saw Wang Shuo sitting on a sofa by the window, a cigarette between his fingers, talking to the person next to him.

He was wearing a black jacket with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His hair was shorter than it appeared on TV. He didn't look like the reckless type from the legends; instead, he had an unexpected quietness.

"Wang Shuo," Chen Cun casually introduced, "and this is Fang Yuan."

Wang Shuo turned his head, his gaze falling on him for less than two seconds, and then reached out to shake his hand.

"Fang Yuan?" Wang Shuo asked, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "The one from 'Twilight'?"

"right."

Wang Shuo nodded, gesturing for him to sit down.

Fang Yuan didn't stand on ceremony and sat down on the sofa.

"I've flipped through a few pages of that stuff," Wang Shuo flicked his cigarette ash.

"Good rhythm, great creativity."

However, I'm not too keen on your vampire romance plot. I'm more interested in the two films you wrote, "Be There or Be Square" and "Endless Love," which I've watched several times.

Fang Yuan was slightly taken aback.

"Be There or Be Square" was released last year, and "Endless Love" is currently in theaters, performing well at the box office and receiving positive reviews. While its box office performance is slightly lower than the previous film, the star power of Feng Xiaogang and Ge You ensures it's held up.

Fang Yuan didn't expect Wang Shuo to have seen it, let alone bring it up on his own initiative.

"Did you write those two scripts?" Wang Shuo's tone wasn't polite; it sounded more like he was confirming a fact.

"Yes," Fang Yuan said.

Wang Shuo took a drag of his cigarette, and the smoke billowed out from his nostrils, spreading between the two men.

Fang Yuan didn't respond. He knew about the relationship between Wang Shuo and Feng Xiaogang—back then, Wang Shuo was Feng Xiaogang's mentor.

Later, the two had some unpleasantness, but that kind of relationship is not something outsiders can easily judge.

"Have you ever lived in the United States?" Wang Shuo asked.

"I have a studio in Los Angeles," Fang Yuan said, "but I grew up in China, and going to the United States came later."

"No wonder." Wang Shuo stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Your feelings about America in that notebook—not the kind of things someone who's never been there makes up, but the kind of alienation that only someone who has actually lived there could write about."

Including those details in "Endless Love," like the scene where Fu Biao is making a phone call in the hotel lobby—you captured the awkwardness of an ordinary person in a high-class setting perfectly.

Fang Yuan said thank you.

"How old are you this year?" Wang Shuo suddenly asked.

"twenty."

Wang Shuo was silent for a few seconds, then picked up the glass on the coffee table and took a sip of water. When he put the glass down, the corner of his mouth twitched, it was unclear whether he wanted to laugh or was thinking about something else.

"I was serving in the army in Qingdao when I was twenty," he said.

"I wrote my first novel in the army, and I had no idea what literature was. I just thought writing was more interesting than training every day. You, on the other hand, are already very successful at the age of twenty."

Fang Yuan said, "On the one hand, I was lucky, and on the other hand, I received a lot of instruction from teachers at the Central Academy of Drama."

Wang Shuo looked at him, his gaze now carrying a hint of scrutiny.

"You're quite eloquent," Wang Shuo said.

Fang Yuan neither feigned modesty nor responded.

The two chatted for a few more minutes, and Wang Shuo asked him what he studied at the Central Academy of Drama. Fang Yuan replied that it was dramatic literature.

Wang Shuo said, "I know the Department of Dramatic Literature at the Central Academy of Drama; it has produced many good screenwriters. But your current path no longer requires that diploma, so why are you still wasting your time there?"

"Some things aren't about diplomas," Fang Yuan said.

"At school, I had access to some teachers whose lectures on drama theory helped me develop a sense of structure when writing genre films."

Furthermore, the Central Academy of Drama's library has some script materials that can't be found elsewhere. I've come across some original scripts of niche European films there, which influenced my writing style.

Wang Shuo nodded and didn't say anything more.