1979: The child's mother is a celestial being.

Chapter 3: Time to Earn Money for Baby Formula
"My wife only wrote one line in over an hour?"

After Liu Xiaoli and Chen Fusheng had breakfast and dinner at their parents' house, they returned home and said they wanted to write a letter to their parents and family in Harbin to share the good news. However, after sitting at their desk for an hour, they could only manage to write one line. Chen Fusheng couldn't bear to watch anymore.

He advised, "Why don't you stop writing, honey? Just call home tomorrow."

"No, long-distance calls are too expensive, and I don't know how to tell my parents I'm pregnant over the phone. They'll definitely cry, especially my mom. If she cries, I'll definitely cry too. So it's better to write a letter." Liu Xiaoli had already gone through a mental struggle before deciding to write the letter.

"In that case, why don't you write it tomorrow? Maybe you'll have some ideas by then," Chen Fusheng suggested in a different way.

Liu Xiaoli had the same idea, but after glancing at Chen Fusheng, she suddenly changed her mind.

"Brother Sheng, why don't you help me write it? You're a better writer."

"No, no, if you don't even know how to write it, I certainly won't know either." Chen Fusheng waved his hands repeatedly, resolutely refusing to take on this hot potato.

Seeing this, Liu Xiaoli didn't make things difficult for him. She pouted and said, "Alright, I'll think about it first and write it tomorrow."

After saying that, Liu Xiaoli went to the restroom and when she came back, she found Chen Fusheng sitting in her previous seat, his pen scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. Thinking he was helping her write a letter, she curiously leaned over and said:
"Didn't you say you couldn't write?"

"I'm not writing a letter."

"So what are you writing?"

"I'm creating something."

"Creative work? You've taken on translation work again?"

Liu Xiaoli knew that Chen Fusheng had taken on several freelance translation jobs before, earning a total of over a hundred yuan, so she assumed that he would do the same thing this time.

"This isn't translation, it's creative work. Do you even know what creative work is?"

Liu Xiaoli was too lazy to listen to his nonsense, so she picked up his notebook and started reading.

"Bullfighting?"

"This is... prose? No, your writing style sounds more like a novel?"

Liu Xiaoli looked at Chen Fusheng in shock: "You're writing a novel?"

"Yes, that's right." Chen Fusheng nodded.

"Why? I've never heard you mention it before. Why are you suddenly writing a novel today?" Liu Xiaoli asked her husband curiously.

"Now that I have a baby, I have to earn more money for baby formula," Chen Fusheng said.

However, in fact, he had long had the idea of ​​writing a novel.

I've just always lacked a bit of motivation.

I learned today that I'll be a dad in nine months, and I'm bursting with energy to run towards him, the kind of energy that I can't shake off.

He originally wanted to be a plagiarist.

But the novels he read were all things like "Battle Through the Heavens", "A Record of a Mortal's Journey to Immortality", "The Domineering CEO Falls in Love with Me", "Tomb of the Gods", "The School Beauty's Personal Bodyguard", "The Grave Robbers' Chronicles", and "Ghost Blows Out the Light", not to mention that the contents were too long for him to remember.

Even if they could be copied, he couldn't release them in this era.

Even works like "The Grave Robbers' Chronicles" and "Ghost Blows Out the Light"—if he actually sent them out, he might end up getting himself imprisoned.

So it's not that Chen Fusheng didn't want to be a plagiarist.

He simply couldn't do it!

Fortunately, he had watched countless films in his previous life.

Since I can't be a plagiarist, I'll be a copyist.

However, Chen Fusheng did not choose to directly copy the script.

Because he knows all too well that when you have no fame or background, you can guarantee that once a script is submitted, no one will say a word.

What if you think 1979 is different from later generations?
Haha, that would be too naive.

In those days, film production quotas were set by the state, with only a few dozen or a hundred films produced each year. These quotas were distributed to various film studios across the country, with some producing a dozen or so films and others just a few.

It's no exaggeration to say that they don't even have enough "pork" for themselves, so why should an outsider like you get a share?

But novels are different.

If you write a good novel, you won't have to worry about finding a magazine to publish it.

The key is that writers now have a very high status and are respected wherever they go.

Chen Fusheng didn't care about those empty titles; his main goal was to earn some money for baby formula for his unborn baby.

After all, with their combined monthly salary of no more than 60 yuan, they could barely make ends meet.

Yes, his salary wasn't high either, only about thirty yuan, because there was an intern ahead of him as a university teaching assistant.

If another person is added, they will become a little money-guzzler. We must either increase income or cut expenses, otherwise their quality of life will plummet.

The problem is, it's easy to go from frugality to extravagance, but difficult to go from extravagance to frugality!

Then there's Chen Fusheng's new novel, "Fighting Bull," which is adapted from the 09 film of the same name directed by Guan Hu and starring Huang Bo. It's said that the film referenced Zhao Dongling's novel "Eighth Route Army Bull," published in 02. But that's not important; what's important is that it hasn't been made yet.

The film mainly tells the story of a farmer named Niu Er who, during the War of Resistance against Japan, struggles against Japanese soldiers, refugees, and bandits while guarding dairy cows left behind by the Communist Party. The story is both comical and thrilling.

Chen Fusheng's novels retain the main plot, but then he reworks some details and even adds some subplots.

At the same time, Liu Xiaoli glanced at the opening he had written—

The dilapidated temple's earthen walls, eroded by time, sifted through a few thin strands of fiber optic light, barely illuminating the dust floating in the corners.

Niu Er curled up on the haystack, his rough fingers repeatedly combing the thick coat of the Dutch cow beside him. His movements were slow, with an almost devout focus. The cow's back was broad and warm, its coat no longer as glossy as it once was, now mixed with gray and white, as if covered with a layer of dust that could not be washed away.

It made a low gurgling sound in its throat, its huge head resting obediently on Niu Er's legs, its warm breath spraying onto his ripped trouser leg.

Niu Er stared at a point in the void with his cloudy eyes. Ten years have passed, it has been ten years.

The feel of the hair under my fingers can always precisely evoke that day—the cloyingly sweet scent of osmanthus in the air was suddenly shattered by piercing cries and the explosive sound of gunshots.

"Run! Niu Er! Run—!"

……

Although the beginning was short, Liu Xiaoli grasped it at a glance.

then,

There's no after that.

"And what about the next one?" she asked.

"It hasn't been written yet."

"Then write it quickly."

Liu Xiaoli quickly returned the notebook to Chen Fusheng and stood beside him, intending to read one word at a time as he wrote it.

Chen Fusheng didn't pick up his pen. Instead, he turned to his wife and said, "Wife, I feel pressured with you standing next to me. Why don't you go and rest first, and I'll show it to you before you go to bed, or you can look at it tomorrow."

“When you were translating the manuscript before, I was standing next to you and you didn’t say you felt pressured.”

“It’s different. Translation is translation, but this is creative work, which requires inspiration.”

Upon hearing this, Liu Xiaoli was somewhat reluctant, but she did not make a scene.

She turned around, walked to the sofa, and picked up the newspaper that Chen Fusheng had bought when he came back in the afternoon to read.

This is a copy of the People's Daily, which introduces the Fourth National Congress of Literary and Art Workers held in Beijing just now.

About ten minutes later, Liu Xiaoli put down her newspaper, glanced in Chen Fusheng's direction, and saw him writing furiously. Resisting her curiosity about "Cow," she didn't go over to disturb him, but went into the kitchen and came out with a plate of cut fruit a while later.

"Brother Sheng, have some fruit."

"Thank you!"

Seeing that Chen Fusheng only ate one piece before getting back into his writing, Liu Xiaoli went to the sofa and picked up a book to read.

But she put the book down after only two minutes because she couldn't concentrate on it.

Perhaps she was too bored, so she started whispering to the baby in her belly.

“Baby, look, your dad is so engrossed in writing his novel that he doesn’t even have time for us.”

At this moment, the stars were twinkling outside the window, the moon had quietly climbed above the branches, and the lights in the Linjiang residential area were almost gone.

Liu Xiaoli yawned, and seeing that her husband was still writing, she went over to greet him and then went into the bathroom.

……

"Fellow villager, don't be afraid. We are the people's army, and we won't take a single needle or thread from the masses. We're just registering and understanding the situation. What's the name of this cow? We'll keep a record."

The dilapidated temple was eerily quiet, with only the whistling of the wind blowing through the holes in the walls. The soldiers held their breath.

Suddenly, Niu Er's withered hand stopped. He slowly, extremely slowly, raised his head, his deep-set eyes and cloudy pupils staring intently at the cadre squatting in front of him.

His gaze seemed to pierce through ten years of harsh winds and deathly silence, carrying an almost frozen focus. His gaze passed over the cadres, projecting into the void, his lips moved extremely slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but was blocked by an invisible force.

The cadre remained squatting, waiting quietly.

The silence that lasted only a few seconds felt like an eternity.

Finally, Niu Er's hand, which had been stroking the cow, gently and with an indescribable affection, landed on the smooth, polished copper ring on the cow's ear, its edges rounded from being rubbed. The movement was as gentle as touching a fragile dream.

Then, he turned his head, his cloudy gaze falling back onto the cadre's face. His gaze was unfocused, yet it seemed to penetrate the person in front of him and see into a very, very far place.

A hoarse, light, yet exceptionally clear voice, like the soft thud of a withered leaf falling in late autumn, escaped from his chapped lips.

"Jiu'er"

……

"I actually finished writing 'Bullfighting' in one go!"

Chen Fusheng himself never expected that his first novel would be written so smoothly.

"Could I actually be the legendary 'holy body' from the novel?"

However, after the initial excitement subsides, all that remains is physical exhaustion.

Chen Fusheng glanced at his watch and noticed that the hour hand had turned to a little past five in the morning.

He was also shocked.

The desk faces the window.

When Chen Fusheng looked up, he found that the sky was already turning a pale white.

"So I really did stay up all night writing!"

(End of this chapter)