In the 90s, you could acquire max-level skills every 14 days.

Chen Ping.

Zhang Yong wrote down the name.

Zhou Deqing continued, "Your manuscript is too instrumental and lacks literary merit. I discussed it with the editorial department, and we can allocate half a page, about the size of a palm, as a supplementary page in the magazine."

The size of a palm.

Zhang Yong silently translated it in his mind—it's that kind of "GG" position, tucked into the last few pages, sandwiched between the call for papers and reader letters.

It's so easy to just glance at it and flip past it; no one will notice.

"Zhang Yong? Are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

Zhang Yong's voice was very calm.

"Editor-in-Chief Zhou, I understand. Thank you for your hard work."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

Zhou Deqing clearly hadn't expected Zhang Yong to be so calm.

He had expected that after the rejection, he would have to explain and reassure Zhang Yong several times, and he was even prepared for Zhang Yong to argue his case.

There was nothing.

"You...aren't you angry?" Zhou Deqing couldn't help but ask.

"Don't be angry. I knew it."

"Zhang Yong, I... I'm at a loss too..."

"It's alright, Editor-in-Chief Zhou, you're busy. I'll send over another suitable manuscript next time."

"Okay...okay. Send us any new literary works you have anytime. Our doors are always open."

"Okay. Goodbye."

Zhang Yong put the receiver back.

Grandpa Chen leaned against the window, staring intently at Zhang Yong.

"What's wrong, Yongzi? Did your new manuscript not get approved?"

"Didn't pass."

"Huh?! What do we do then?!"

"It's alright."

Zhang Yong pushed open the wooden door of the guardhouse, put his hands in his pockets, and slowly walked towards the entrance of the residential area.

In August, the leaves of the locust trees along Jinsong Road were curled up by the sun.

An old man pushing a tricycle was roasting sweet potatoes in a stove at the corner. The charcoal in the stove was burning red-hot, and the skin of the sweet potatoes was charred yellow. The sweet aroma wafted over on the wind.

Zhang Yong took out two cents.

"Sir, two please."

The old man used tongs to grab two large ones, wrapped them in newspaper, and handed them over.

Zhang Yong held a hot roasted sweet potato, stood under the locust tree, tore off the charred skin, blew on it, and took a bite.

Sweet.

The panel was lit at the edge of the field of vision.

[Writing Lv.4: Progress 28%]

Zhang Yong chewed on a sweet potato, his mind racing with plans for the next step.

It was expected that "October" would not be published.

Given the established framework of serious literary journals, Zhou Deqing dared not use this manuscript.

Moreover... the Chen Ping he mentioned—a writer who returned from overseas—has already been chosen for the front page.

This shows that the October magazine is under a lot of pressure regarding its layout. The editorial department has little room for maneuver within the system, and many things are beyond their control, which he has no way to explain.

Then I won't hang myself on this tree.

Zhang Yong swallowed the last bite of sweet potato, wiped his hands, and turned to walk back.

He has to make two phone calls.

……

The first call was to Zhao Huaijin.

Zhao Huaijin already knew.

"Old Zhou came by, showed me the manuscript, and explained the situation."

Zhao Huaijin's voice carried a hint of indignation, "While it's true that 'October' is not suitable for articles on popular science and technology, it can't just randomly insert people into the articles."

"A true man should not yield to power! How can a good manuscript be squeezed out so easily!"

"Teacher Zhao, please don't blame Editor-in-Chief Zhou. I didn't really expect 'October' to publish it."

"...Then why did you throw it there?"

"Testing the waters."

Zhao Huaijin paused for a moment on the other end of the phone, then let out a short laugh.

"You kid... fine, I give up."

He cleared his throat and became more formal.

"Since you're prepared, I won't beat around the bush. I just contacted someone this afternoon—Old Tan, the editor-in-chief of the Workers' Life Weekly."

"Teacher Tan Xingguo?"

"Do you know him?"

"I don't know it. But I know the Workers' Life Weekly."

Zhang Yong certainly knew. This weekly magazine belonged to the Beijing Daily and was distributed to industrial and mining enterprises and grassroots workers nationwide, with a circulation much larger than that of the October magazine.

"October" costs 3.2 yuan a copy, and many people read it by borrowing it from their workplace magazines; they wouldn't buy it themselves.

The Workers' Life Weekly only cost four cents a copy, and everyone would grab a copy when passing by a newsstand.

1990 was a period when the cultural needs of the working class were at their peak, and the circulation rate of such publications in factories, mines, workshops, and workers' dormitories was alarmingly high.

Zhao Huaijin also offered his solution: now that Zhang Yong has signed an exclusive contract, he should no longer contribute articles to other publications.

But this time it was Lao Zhou who acted unfairly, so he didn't hold back. Now that Zhang Yong is practically his student, how could he let others take advantage of him?

The method was for Zhang Yong to publish articles under the pseudonym "a student of the Adult Education College of Beijing University," and have Zhao Huaijin and Fang Qiming jointly write recommendation letters attached to the beginning of the articles.

"I met Lao Tan in the 1980s when we attended a workers' literature seminar together, and we've kept in touch all these years. He's a very honest and straightforward person. Your manuscript is of excellent quality and meets the requirements of workers' literature."

"With the addition of my letter and Fang Qiming's letter, he will definitely take it seriously."

What pen name should I use?

"You decide."

Zhang Yong only needed a second to decide on the answer.

"Zhang Wengong".

Zhao Huaijin pondered these three words for a moment on the other end of the phone.

"Literature and art... literature as a vehicle for craftsmanship?"

"Um."

"A good name," Zhao Huaijin smiled. "It has more character than your real name."

Just as Zhang Yong was about to reply, a scramble came from the other end of the phone.

"Give it to me! Teacher Zhao, are you finished yet?!"

It is Fang Qiming.

Immediately afterwards, the receiver was snatched away.

"Zhang Yong!" Fang Qiming shouted, "Teacher Zhao told you, didn't he? What's this called? This is called encircling the cities from the countryside, understand?"

"Win over the working class first, then turn around and compete with the serious literary circle."

"That's how Chairman Mao fought! You should fight the same way."

Zhang Yong moved the receiver a little further away.

"Teacher Fang, please keep your voice down, it hurts my ears."

"I'm so excited! Do you know how many times I've read your manuscript! The second part, the section on identifying counterfeit engine oil, I showed it to Professor Liu, who works on lubrication materials in our department, and he said it was written more clearly than the textbook! The textbook, you know."

"I've already written the recommendation letter. I'll bring it to you after Teacher Zhao signs it."

"Hey! Teacher Zhao, don't interrupt! I haven't finished speaking yet."

"And one more thing—" Fang Qiming lowered his voice, "I also know Old Tan. I reviewed a technical article for their weekly magazine two years ago, and he owes me a favor. This time, with double insurance, it's a sure thing."

Zhang Yong hung up the phone and let out a soft breath.

Grandpa Chen poked his head out.

"Yongzi, is this a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Good thing."

"That's good! That's good! Don't feel pressured! If you can't write for a big magazine, there are still smaller magazines. There are many ways to achieve Rome."

"Uncle Chen."

"what?"

"The circulation of The Workers' Weekly is eight times that of The October."

"What?"

Grandpa Chen opened his mouth, but didn't understand.

"This time, let's use ants to kill an elephant."

……