My era, 1979!

Chapter 1: I wrote "The Barn" in 1979

At 9:30 p.m., the old central air conditioning in the office was humming.

Xu Chengjun stared at the computer screen.

The author's assistant just created a new chapter.

The ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts, and there were red marks on the web of my left hand from the cigarette butts.

Back in the day, when I was staying up all night writing speeches in the district government office, I relied on this cigarette to stay awake.

"Damn it, it's still Calvin."

He rubbed his throbbing temples; a compilation of the Government Work Report, which he hadn't finished reading, was still piled on his desk.

Thirty-five years old, a top student in the combined bachelor's and master's program of Chinese Language and Literature at Jinan University.

He worked as a civil servant in a provincial department in Southwest China for eight years, rising from a fourth-level official to a first-level official.

To outsiders, he appears stable and respectable, but only he knows that the spark of literary talent within him is being extinguished by official documents.

I've been writing on Qidian (a Chinese online literature platform) in my spare time for five years, using the pen name "Chu Feng".

On the bookshelf lay three unsigned serious literary manuscripts and two historical novels that barely met attendance requirements.

Readers often say his writing is "too formal" and "like reading a report."

The editor also advised him: "Brother Xu, put aside your pride, online novels need to focus on the exciting parts."

It's not that he doesn't understand.

Having spent seven years immersed in the Chinese Literature Department and eight years struggling with official documents, I still harbor a deep-seated belief in the importance of literature as a vehicle for conveying moral principles.

I dare not fabricate history when writing about it, and I am afraid of touching taboos when writing about reality.

As a result, he ended up in a limbo, neither good enough for high-level positions nor low-level ones, becoming the most awkward "institutional writer" on the platform.

Do you really have to write online novels? Have you even written traditional literature?

It was written, and it was a "small" achievement.

But what can you do when he loves reading online novels!

"Try one last time."

Xu Chengjun opened a new document and typed the book title, "My Era 1979!"

This time, he decided to compromise, combining his policy sensitivity accumulated during his civil service career, his textual control skills from his Chinese language major, and the appeal of online novels.

Write about a knowledgeable and policy-savvy time traveler who uses words to break through the impasse in 1979.

He revised the opening seven times, and just as he had laid the groundwork for the background of the "household contract responsibility system," a clap of thunder suddenly rolled past the window.

The torrential rain pounded against the glass windows, the computer screen flickered violently, and the text in the document began to distort.

He reached out to press the power button, and the moment his fingertips touched the metal chassis, a violent electric current surged through his entire body.

My last thought was of the document's auto-save prompt.

"Your document 'My Era 1979!' has been saved."
-
"Cheng Jun! Cheng Jun, wake up!"

Rough hands slapped against my face, carrying the pungent smell of wheat straw and mud.

Xu Chengjun struggled to open his eyes, but did not see the familiar white walls and filing cabinets.

Above us was a thatched roof that let in some starlight.

A few withered yellow thatch blades swayed gently in the wind.

His throat was so dry it felt like he'd swallowed sandpaper, and he struggled to sit up.

I could vaguely see a shadow in front of me.

"Pour me a glass of water... cough cough."

His bones looked like they had been disassembled and reassembled, and there were several fine scratches on his arms.

"Here, here!"

A clear female voice rang out, and a large, rough porcelain bowl was brought to her lips.

The cold water, with its metallic taste, slid down his throat, sending a shiver down his spine and clearing his vision somewhat.

Before me was a girl's face, tanned dark by the sun, with two thick, long braids, and the cuffs of her faded floral shirt were frayed.

Behind the girl, a faded slogan reading "Learn from Dazhai in Agriculture" was pasted on the adobe wall.

Half a sack of sweet potatoes was piled up in the corner, and dried chili peppers and corncobs hung from the roof beam.

This isn't his office!

"Brother Chengjun, you're finally awake!"

The girl's eyes were red, and her braided pigtails swayed gently as she spoke.

“Yesterday, while weeding in the wheat field, the sky suddenly became stuffy. When you straightened up, you swayed and fell headfirst. We were terrified!”

"The production team's barefoot doctor came to see you and said that you had been working hard from dawn till dusk to earn work points, which had weakened your body. The sudden heat in the weather made it impossible for you to hold on. He told you that you must rest for three days and not to push yourself any further."

Fainted in the wheat field?
Production team?
Barefoot doctor?

Countless unfamiliar fragments of memory flooded his mind, colliding violently with his thirty-five-year life trajectory.

Xu Chengjun, a sent-down youth who went to the countryside in 1977, had parents who were teachers at a middle school in the county town.

As for himself, Xu Chengjun, who was admitted to Jinan University in 2008, joined the civil service in 2015, and is still struggling with the transformation of online literature in 2024.

The memories of the two "Xu Chengjun" tore at each other in my mind, finally settling on a clear year.

"What time is it now?"

He asked in a hoarse voice, his voice trembling without him even realizing it.

"Brother Chengjun, are you delirious? The wheat harvest is in just half a month!"

"The barn has been emptied long ago; we're just waiting for the new wheat to be harvested, dried thoroughly, and then stored."

barn?

Xu Chengjun followed the girl's gaze and glanced out the window. In the darkness, he could vaguely see a mud-brick granary standing not far away, its dark outline resembling an old ox lying on the ground.

1979 years!
Xu Chengjun felt as if his heart had been struck by a heavy hammer.

That year he repeatedly studied in the Government Work Report, that turning point he knew by heart in the History of Contemporary Chinese Literature, that era in which he had just written the opening chapter of My Era 1979!

He actually time-traveled?

Lying on the creaking wooden bed, it took Xu Chengjun two hours to sort out his chaotic thoughts.

The educated youth fainted on the ground, and his body was taken over by himself from forty-four years in the future.

The sound of the team leader's whistle came from outside the window, along with the laughter of the commune members and the sputtering of a tractor in the distance.

These vivid sounds told him more clearly than any historical record: this was not a dream.

He struggled to get out of bed, walked to the cracked earthen wall, and examined himself by the light filtering through the broken window.

The figure in the tin mirror was tall and thin, with a pale, dark tan face and a scholarly air about him, yet he looked more youthful than he remembered.

This is Xu Chengjun, a 20-year-old educated youth trapped in the Loess Plateau.

His soul contains the wisdom honed over seven years in the Chinese Department of Jinan University and the worldly experience gained from eight years as a civil servant.

"So you could say I have a built-in cheat code?" He gave a wry smile.

In my past life, when I wrote time-travel novels, I always complained that the protagonist's halo was too fake. I never thought that when it came to my own life, God would actually give me a "cheat code".

He has the memories of the next forty years.

He has seven years of experience in Chinese literature, which has honed his literary aesthetics and sensitivity to language.

He has a policy sensitivity that comes from his administrative experience.

In this era, there is a stage for "pink collar women" to stir up trouble!
His fingertips unconsciously tapped the earthen wall, and a clear pattern automatically surfaced in his mind.

In 1979, the submission email address for the magazine "Harvest" was located on Julu Road in Shanghai.

The Fourth National Congress of Literary and Art Workers will be held at the end of the year;

Lu Yao's "Life" will not be published for another three years.
These points of knowledge, once jotted down in my reading notes, are now as clear as if etched into my DNA.

He understands the rules of language in this era.

He knew that "scar literature" was sweeping the literary world, but he also understood which themes were minefields.

He was well aware that the spring breeze of ideological liberation had arrived, and he also knew how to find breakthroughs within the existing framework.

"perhaps."

Xu Chengjun's heart began to pound violently, and his palms became sweaty.

The suppressed desire for expression in official documents, the compromised literary obsessions in online novels, the story frameworks conceived in the dead of night.
Is it really possible to achieve this in this golden age, with this young body?

"Brother Chengjun, it's time for lunch!"

The sound of apricot blossoms drifted from outside the door, carrying a strong local accent.

Xu Chengjun pushed open the door. The May sun was a bit dazzling, and in front of him was an endless wheat field.

The wheat fields rippled in the wind.

In the distance, red flags bearing the slogan "Learn from Dazhai in Agriculture" are planted on the ridges of the fields.

Several commune members wearing straw hats were working, their shouts and the sound of hoes hitting the soil creating a simple and rustic symphony.

This is a rural area in Anhui in 1979.

The seeds of the household contract responsibility system have quietly sprouted in the soil.

New buds of literature are also tentatively growing in the winds of ideological liberation.

He stands deep within history, holding the sharpest weapon in his hand.

What's a good meal?

He took the rough porcelain bowl that Xinghua handed him; it contained sweet potatoes and pickled vegetables, and the steaming aroma made his stomach rumble.

"The sweet potatoes steamed at the educated youth settlement today, Brother Zhao Gang specially saved two big ones for you."

Xu Chengjun's fingers tightened suddenly as he gripped the sweet potato; the scalding heat instantly brought him to his senses.

This is not the online world where you can write whatever you want; your words must pierce through the fog, but you must not get burned.

He looked down at the sloshing porridge in the bowl, his young face reflected in the water, his eyes filled with determination.

The story framework in my mind suddenly became clear; it was no longer a collection of online novel tropes, but had flesh and blood and a soul.

Let's start with that dark, gloomy barn.

Write about the keychain hanging behind the warehouse door.

He wrote about the marks on the barn walls that had been plastered with mud and then peeled back, and how the wheat grains that had fallen to the ground sprouted in the wind.

Apricot blossoms.

Xu Chengjun raised his head, his eyes shining with an unprecedented light.

"Could you hand me a pen? I want to write something."

The wind rustles through the wheat fields, making a sound like the turning of pages in a book.

He recalled that yesterday, when he was helping the storekeeper dry the grain, the jujube wood scale he used to weigh the public grain always seemed to tip in the direction of "overstating the collective's share".

The weight swayed gently, as if weighing the weight of people's hearts.

Let's call it "The Granary".

Xu Chengjun took a bite of the sweet potato, and a sweet, warm sensation spread throughout his body.

He knew that his new life began with this bowl of sweet potato porridge.

And the stories of this era will flow anew from his pen.

(End of this chapter)