My Years as a Copyist in Taiwan

Editor Gao's brows furrowed deeper and deeper as he listened, until he was completely dumbfounded: "That's it? Zhao Wen, what... what does this have to do with selling books? Why would someone buy books just to submit a manuscript?"

In his twenty-year publishing career, selling books is just selling books. At most, he might print a poster or hold an author signing event. He had never heard of selling books by "collecting confessions".

Zhao Wen smiled and pointed to the words "confession" with his fingertip. "Readers are not buying a book, but an opportunity to express their youth, an opportunity to be seen by us, and even to be published in the newspaper."

He leaned forward, explaining the details clearly:

"In the past, students would pool their money to buy a book and take turns reading it. Now, if they want to submit a manuscript, they need to have their own proof of purchase—so they have to buy a copy themselves."

Would someone who just wanted to read a story be willing to spend 100 yuan if they thought their own feelings might be published in the newspaper and they might receive a handwritten reply from the author?

Not to mention those who have unrequited love or regrets; buying a book, writing a love letter, and sending it directly to the person they love is far more respectable than writing a love letter themselves. The book is the trigger; the confession is what they really want to buy.

It was as if a flash of light had ignited in Editor Gao's mind; the previously blocked ideas suddenly became clear.

Yup!

Auntie's books are meant to let readers see other people's love stories and shed tears for them.

But Zhao Wen's approach is to let the readers jump into the story themselves and become the protagonist.

Who hasn't had unspoken feelings of affection or regrets hidden for years? In the past, these things could only be kept to themselves, but now they have the opportunity to be seen by the whole island, and the writer might even respond personally—this temptation is simply irresistible to teenagers and young adults in their twenties!

"What about the bookstore?"

“Even simpler.” Zhao Wen raised an eyebrow. “Today, all the bookstores on the island received threats from Golden Crown. They will most likely move our books to the back first. But once the notice is published tomorrow, students will come in droves asking, ‘Do you have ‘You Are the Apple of My Eye’? If so many people ask a store, why would the owner not make money? He’d love to pile the books up at the door.”

"The rebates from Gold Crown are nothing compared to the sales volume of dozens or hundreds of books a day."

That last sentence completely woke the editor up.

He slammed his hand on the table, making the teacup jump, and all traces of anxiety vanished from his face: "How could I not have thought of that! I'll contact the newspaper right now! We'll have the advertisement printed tonight and it'll be in the paper first thing tomorrow morning!"

In 1981, before the internet and idol interaction, it was unthinkable for a writer to personally reply to readers.

Editor Gao immediately understood the destructive power of this tactic. He grabbed his briefcase and rushed out, forgetting even to take the cigarettes from the table: "I'll personally go to the newspaper office to oversee the layout! I'll get it done tonight, even if it means staying up all night! Zhao Wen, you wait, within three days, I'll have bookstores all over the island begging us to restock!"

The roar of the motorcycle engine quickly faded into the alleyway. Zhao Wen walked to the window, looked at the darkening sky outside, and let out a soft breath.

It's not that he deliberately wanted to use these outrageous tactics from later generations to bully his aunt; it's just that they did it first!

The next morning, as soon as the newspapers were placed on various telegraph kiosks and stalls at school gates, this "confession wave" swept through campuses all over the island.

The girls' school and the junior high school were the first to be in an uproar.

During recess at Tainan Girls' High School, the girls, who usually huddle together to chat about their aunts' latest dramas, have all switched to holding rolled-up copies of the United Daily News supplement. Their heads are crammed together, their fingertips pointing at the half-page "Unsent Confession" notice, chattering noisily like a brood of little yellow ducks.

"They can actually publish it in the newspaper! If Mr. Snail chooses my confession, I'll even receive a handwritten reply!"

"But we need the receipt... We only have one receipt for the book we bought together!"

"That's easy, I'll just buy another one! It's only a hundred dollars, much better than confessing and having the whole class know. Writing it in a letter means only Mr. Snail can read it, isn't that great?"

The girl next to me by the window was holding a pen. She had already written half a page on the draft paper, then crumpled it up and stuffed it into the drawer.

She'd liked a senior from the boys' school next door for half a year. She'd offered him soda twice but hadn't dared to say his name. Now, looking at the notice, her heart was pounding—she didn't need to say it to his face, she didn't need to be afraid of rejection. All she had to do was buy a book, write down her feelings, and send it out. Maybe he would see it, maybe she'd even get the author's blessing.

As soon as the bell rang, she clutched her coin purse and ran toward the bookstore at the school gate.

The boys' school may seem calm on the surface, but there are undercurrents of tension beneath.

In the back row of the Jianzhong classroom, a few boys scoffed, "Only girls do this kind of pretentious stuff," but then took advantage of the lunch break to hide on the rooftop, munching on popsicles and writing on the concrete floor.

"Hey, you really bought it? Didn't you say this book was only for little girls?"

"Stop talking nonsense! Can't I buy it for my sister?"

Despite his stubbornness, when mailing the letter, he deliberately chose the mailbox furthest from the school, afraid of being seen by his classmates.

The students in the junior high school are younger and bolder.

During the first break in the afternoon at Zhao Wenwen's junior high school, almost all the girls in the class gathered around her seat, their eyes sparkling.

"Steady, steady, steady! Is your brother really Mr. Snail?"

"I was lying..." Zhao Wenwen had proudly boasted more than once since Zhao Wen published his first short film that "Mr. Snail" was my brother!

However, now the little girl is so scared that she can only admit to being a liar—she is surrounded by her classmates and can't even squeeze out to go to the bathroom.

"I don't think you're a scammer, no doubt. If we're submitting our work, could you ask your brother to take a look?"

"Yes, yes! We've all bought books! Look, look!"

A stack of copies of "Those Years" lay rustling on the desk, some still covered, some with the names of boys they had crushes written on the title pages. These thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girls didn't yet understand what profound regret was; they only knew that writing down their little secrets and having their favorite authors see them was the greatest honor.

"My brother isn't Mr. Snail, but he said Mr. Snail reads every single letter! Write them well, and if they're sincere, you'll definitely be selected..."

As soon as the school bell rings, bookstores near schools all over the island are packed with students.

The book "Those Years," which the shopkeeper had shoved to the bottom of the shelf, was pulled out by hands, with arms outstretched to hand over money. The shopkeepers were stunned as they collected the money; the books that had been removed yesterday were sold out in half a day.

"Boss! Do you still have any 'You Are the Apple of My Eye'? I need the receipt!"

"I want two books!"

Mrs. Li, the shopkeeper outside Tainan No. 1 Senior High School, had sold out the hundred copies she'd just restocked that morning by 3 PM. She was calculating: 45 yuan profit per copy, and 120 copies sold in just half a day—equivalent to more than half a month's profit from selling Qiong Yao novels. She immediately grabbed the phone and called Jiu Ge:

"Editor Gao! Send me another three hundred copies! No, five hundred! They need to be delivered tonight! The students are having an event tomorrow, they'll definitely sell even faster!"