1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

"pen name?"

Upon hearing this word, Michael's smile vanished instantly.

"No, we can discuss any other conditions. But a pen name is absolutely unacceptable."

He tossed the unlit cigar onto the table, firmly refusing Michel's request.

Michelle was taken aback; he hadn't expected Michael's reaction to be so intense.

"Why? I just wanted to..."

"I know you want to keep a low profile," Michael interrupted him, exuding an aura that left no room for argument.

"But what the London Express needs now is Michelle, not any other pseudonym."

"Readers recognize you, Michelle, the one who dared to write about the dark side of factories, the Michelle who understands them best."

"The Ministry of the Interior also 'recognizes' you."

"You are our most valuable asset right now, do you understand?"

Michael's words were like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing Michelle's desire to develop in a sly way.

Michael wasn't wrong. After "Sleepyhead" and the subsequent media storm, his name was now inextricably linked to the London Express.

Changing his pen name at this point would not only be a self-inflicted wound, but it would also create unnecessary speculation that he was afraid, or that there were problems within the newspaper.

This is something the London Express absolutely cannot accept.

This has nothing to do with personal relationships, it's all about political stances.

Dickens listened silently without interrupting.

Having experienced the harsh realities of life at a young age, he has a clear understanding of the current conflict between Michelle and Michael.

Michael was focused on business and expanding the newspaper's influence, while Michelle was considering her personal safety.

Neither of these two positions is right or wrong.

He could only remain silent for now, waiting for the two of them to discuss it themselves.

"That's too conspicuous, I'm worried..." Michelle understood Michael, but he was still uneasy.

"What are you worried about? Are you worried that the Ministry of the Interior will cause you trouble?" Michael chuckled.

"They'd love to worship you now, to prove their 'tolerance' and 'conscience'."

"As long as we avoid the minefield of the factory, you're safe."

"It's safe, at least in the short term."

He paused, softened his tone, and then began to coax and persuade.

"Michelle, I know what you're worried about."

"But think about it, fame isn't a bad thing."

"It is a protective umbrella."

"The more famous and influential you are, the more those who want to harm you should think twice about the consequences."

"Nobody cares if an unknown writer disappears. But if something happens to a rising literary star that all of London is chasing, that's big news."

These words made Michelle think deeply.

He had to admit that Michael always managed to hit him right where it hurt.

While his theory may contain some flawed logic, it is an undeniable fact in the current environment.

Seeing that Michelle's expression softened, Michael immediately resorted to the "more money" tactic.

He picked up the checkbook and waved it in front of Michelle.

"Twelve pounds per thousand words!"

Upon hearing the number, Michelle's eye twitched, and her already weak defenses crumbled instantly.

There's nothing I can do; it's not that I didn't play it safe and develop properly, it's that he gave me too much.

"And," Michael's voice was full of seduction.

"Think about it, your articles can influence more people and make those numb souls feel a jolt."

"Isn't this exactly what you wanted?"

Michelle sighed deeply. He felt like Faust, being manipulated by the devil Michael.

The other party always manages to offer him conditions that he can't refuse.

"Michael, you're a devil, you won again."

Michelle leaned back on the sofa in a relaxed, sprawling position.

"I'm fine with publishing under my real name, but I need to receive payment immediately."

It's best to secure the profits first.

"Of course, no problem!"

Michael readily handed him the check, his smile returning to its bright state.

"Now that we've settled on the pen name, what about the article? My newspaper is waiting for your next masterpiece. Once the hype dies down, it's impossible to rekindle it."

"What kind of work do we need this time?" Michelle asked.

"Hmm..." Michael pondered.

"Stylistically, we need to maintain the realism of 'Sleepyhead' and continue to resonate with readers, making them feel that we are still speaking out for them."

"But," he then changed the subject.

"The tone needs to be gentler. We can't be like in 'Sleepyhead,' where we point our fingers at the factory owners and curse them."

"The Ministry of the Interior's 'leniency' comes at a price; we can't keep jumping around in the same minefield."

"Ideally, it should be a deeper, more restrained form of criticism."

"As for the submission deadline, we must strike while the iron is hot. Ideally, we should be able to typeset it by tomorrow, no, tonight. At the latest, it should be published the day after tomorrow."

"Do you take me for a printing press?" Michelle was both amused and exasperated.

Upon hearing Michael's request, Dickens, who was watching from the sidelines, also frowned.

Michael's payment was certainly generous, but his demands were incredibly high. The author had to maintain a sharp edge while restraining their aggressive tendencies. They had to ensure the reader enjoyed the story without offending those in power.

At the same time, the manuscript must be completed within two days.

This is almost an impossible task.

However, Michelle had a confident expression on her face.

When he heard Michael's request, a perfectly fitting piece of work came to mind.

"Mourning," a representative work from the early period of Chekhov's writing career.

This story is gentle, yet filled with sorrow. Like a dull knife, it speaks of a belated awakening of humanity and irreparable regrets.

It almost perfectly matched Michael's requirements: critical, but not too sharp; insightful, but without directly touching on political minefields.

"I do have a story in my head, one I've been working on for a long time," Michelle said slowly.

"Oh?" Michael and Dickens both cast curious glances at each other.

"What kind of story?" Dickens couldn't help but ask.

As a writer, his curiosity about the story itself far outweighs his commercial considerations.

"A story about the poor, about a belated awakening, and about irreparable regrets..."

"A snowy night, a story of a rickshaw driver and a dead man..."

With just two simple sentences of introduction, the atmosphere in the living room changed.

Michael's slyness vanished, and Dickens relaxed his furrowed brow.

They are all experts, people with an extreme sensitivity to words, who keenly perceived the tragic power at the core of this story.

Next, Michelle briefly recounted this short story, which had been modified to have a British setting.

"What have I done with my whole life...?"

After Michelle finished speaking her last sentence, the living room fell into a deathly silence.

Michael stood motionless, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips.

Dickens's eyes were red.

Although it was just a simple storyline, they already felt that they were about to witness the birth of another masterpiece by Michel.

There are no villains in this story, yet it is more realistic and desperate than "Sleepyhead," and it also hides something more profound and subtle.

"Michelle..."

After a long while, Dickens finally found his voice.

"Have you been planning this story for a long time?"

"Yes. It's always been in my mind, but I just haven't found the right time to write it down."

Michelle nodded.

Hearing this answer, Dickens's resolve finally calmed down. If Michel had come up with this on the spot, his resolve would have truly shattered.

"Write it down! Now is the perfect time!" Michael was completely excited.

"It is profound enough and sad enough, but it is aimed at humanity, not a specific class."

No one can accuse us of incitement because of it! Those gentlemen might even shed a few crocodile tears while reading it, sigh with admiration, and then praise our newspaper for its depth!

"Michelle, when can you give me the manuscript? Can you do it tomorrow? I can't wait to get it." Michael looked impatient.

Michelle looked out the window; it was still early.

He smiled and stood up.

"No need to wait."

"Charles, may I borrow your study and some paper and pens?"

"I think I should be able to finish writing before dinner."

Prepare dinner now, I'll be right back.