My Years as a Copyist in Taiwan

The first thing Yi'an does every day when she gets to work is to take a thick stack of letters from the postman, then carefully pick out the letter addressed to "Mr. Snail" and neatly fold it on her desk.

As Editor Gao read the increasing number of letters from readers, his smile never faded. He knew he had struck gold.

Although this "Mr. Snail" is not very famous yet, he dares to guarantee that within a year at most, he will become a rising star in the literary world.

In 1981, the literary scene in Taiwan was firmly controlled by veteran writers, making it difficult for newcomers to emerge.

But no one expected that a new author who signed his name as "Mr. Snail" would become a sensation from the streets to a group of highly educated people at National Taiwan University, National Chengchi University, and Fu Jen Catholic University with just four short stories, his reputation growing stronger with each new work.

Last month's publication, "She and Her Cat," didn't attract much attention at all.

The popularity of "Moon Shadow" was completely different after that—ordinary female workers and high school students were still immersed in a faint sense of sorrow and regret.

But the discerning students in the Chinese Literature Department immediately recognized the extraordinary nature of this short story. The narrative, weaving together reality and fiction, uses the misty river to illustrate the healing of pain, expressing sorrow without being tragic, and its style far surpasses the plethora of romance stories on the market.

A female student from the Chinese Literature Department at National Chengchi University closed the book and murmured with emotion: "After reading so many tearful and dramatic stories of love and hate, this kind of restrained regret is what truly touches the heart!"

Then "Farewell" was published, and its popularity skyrocketed, causing a stir in university literary circles.

If you weren't born in Taiwan in 1981, you simply wouldn't understand the suffocatingly depressing emotions in "Farewell".

(This paragraph is being revised continuously. To avoid affecting your reading experience, if you like this style, you can search for the short story to read, or skip these lines directly, it will still be just as smooth...)

The article was being discussed everywhere on campus, and Mr. Snail's name was firmly established in universities, greatly increasing his fame.

This resulted in the Jiuge Weekly, which published Mr. Snail's new work "Only You Can Hear It," selling out in just one morning!

"Only You Can Hear Me" is a classic, heartwarming short story. Ryoko, a withdrawn girl, can communicate with a boy she's never met through telepathy, offering each other comfort and gradually developing feelings for one another...

The readers accumulated from previous issues, and the college students who heard about it on campus, all completely empathized with the two lonely young men and women in the book. The tenderness and regret accurately touched the extremely fragile hearts of young people in Taiwan at this time.

"Have you noticed that Mr. Snail always mentions a place called Snail Lane in his writing? Does this place really exist on our island?" a high school student asked his classmate.

"I think so! Because this Snail Alley is where Mr. Snail lives, otherwise why would he be called Mr. Snail?"

After four weeks of serialization, the popularity continued to rise, and Zhao Wen felt relieved. It seemed that these works, which did not belong to this era, were not unpopular.

Now that we've had our appetizers, it's time for the real stuff.

Copying "You Are the Apple of My Eye" was actually quite difficult. Zhao Wen had to replace all the communication devices in the original book with public telephones and letters, and change the scenes involving online forums to offline gatherings. Even the joint entrance examination system had to be slightly adjusted.

Then, Zhao Wen developed a thick callus on his right middle finger.

"You Are the Apple of My Eye" (125,000 words), completed.

"Zhao Wenwen!"

The girl, who was gently poking the koi's head with her finger, was startled. She turned around and saw her brother standing up and doing stretching exercises.

"Brother, are you finished writing?"

"Okay, I'm done writing! Let's go for a walk." It's Sunday, and the midday sun is just right. In early October, the weather in Tainan isn't so hot anymore, so it's a good time to get some fresh air.

No sooner had he finished speaking than the sound of a motorcycle engine came from outside the door. Editor Gao had appeared; he had come to the address Zhao Wen had left for the recipient.

Editor Gao was carrying a bulging briefcase, saying it was full of letters from readers, addressed to him, Mr. Snail.

"Why did you come all the way here in person?" Zhao Wen took the bound letter. Zhao Wenwen rarely had guests, so he quickly poured some hot water and handed it to Editor Gao.

"If I hadn't come soon, Mr. Snail, were you going to hide the manuscript?" Editor Gao wiped his brow, and without any ceremony, walked straight into the room, his eyes immediately fixed on the thick stack of manuscript papers on the table: "Is this the novel?"

"I just finished writing it, the ink isn't even dry yet," Zhao Wen said with a smile.

Without saying a word, Editor Gao walked over and sat down where Zhao Wen was copying the book. He took out a cigarette and a lighter, lit one, and started reading.

After that one look, he never looked up again.

The room was quiet except for the rustling of the editor's pages. He read very quickly, yet very attentively, his fingers constantly turning the pages, leaving a pile of cigarette ash on his trousers.

He didn't drink a drop of the cold boiled water that Zhao Wenwen brought him.

Zhao Wen did not change the names of the characters in "Those Years". Qidian's blackboard is a piece of advice to all colleagues in the plagiarism track: you can make minor modifications to the scenes and details that do not conform to the characteristics of the era, but the names must not be changed!

The logic is simple: the names and characters of classic works are etched into the memories of the story. Preserving the original names means retaining the emotions inherent in the original work. If you change the names, the viewers watching on screen won't feel the impact of the protagonist possessing countless masterpieces—what's the point of playing the game then?

As the sun gradually slanted westward, the light inside the room grew dimmer.

Zhao Wen turned on the light, illuminating Editor Gao's focused profile. His brows furrowed and relaxed intermittently, and the corners of his mouth would occasionally lift unconsciously, revealing a very faint smile.

Neither Zhao Wen nor Zhao Wenwen disturbed him. The brother and sister sat on small stools by the door, watching the koi in the lotus tank blow bubbles, occasionally exchanging a few words of laughter.

It wasn't until it was completely dark, Zhao Wenwen had gone out and searched around and returned, and the streetlights in the alley were lit, that Editor Gao finally turned to the last page.

He closed the manuscript without saying a word, nor did he cry like last time.

He just sat there quietly, his eyes vacant, lost in thought.

Editor Gao sat there blankly for more than ten minutes.

Zhao Wen finally couldn't hold back any longer and said, with a wry smile, "Editor Gao, let's go get something to eat at the old man's place at the alley entrance."

Editor Gao then seemed to snap out of his daze, nodded, and stood up. His legs were numb from sitting for too long, and he staggered as he stood up, so Zhao Wen had to help him walk a short distance.

"Uncle, three oyster omelets, two plates of fried rice noodles, three bowls of hot soup, and two bottles of ice-cold beer," Zhao Wen called out familiarly.

Zhao Wen and Editor Gao clinked their bottles together, and the two of them blew into the bottle openings.

Zhao Wenwen buried her head in her food and ate voraciously, her cheeks puffed out like a hamster's, clearly she was starving.

Editor Gao picked up his chopsticks, but had no appetite. He ate a couple of bites of fried noodles, put down his chopsticks, and looked at Zhao Wen with a complicated expression.

"Zhao Wen," he paused, his voice a little hoarse, "this story cannot be serialized."

Zhao Wen was taken aback. He had originally thought that Jiu Ge would follow the usual practice of publishing long novels and split "Those Years" into ten installments to be serialized in the magazine.

"Why?" he asked.