Chapter 89 Suggestions
The letter unfolded, revealing wrinkles from a long journey and a hint of something indescribable. Sun Juan's handwriting seemed even more forceful than last time, revealing a strong excitement:
"Sister Qiuyue:
The letter and the magazine arrived. Oh my goodness! My hands are shaking as I hold that copy of New Wind. It's brand new and still smells of ink. You even signed it for me. 'Qingwu,' what a magnificent name!" Sun Juan's excitement nearly burst through the paper. "I've read 'Wutong Rain' three times in a row. Although some parts are convoluted and I can't quite grasp them, it's so realistic, like a movie playing right before my eyes. I don't know what the hell is in your head. How could you write something so good?"
After the joy, the letter turned grave: "I brought the magazine to the library. My old colleagues, who usually looked down on me, finally took me seriously this time. They passed it around and read it. Although many of them, like me, didn't quite understand the ins and outs of it, they knew it was written by a great writer I knew, and they were all amazed. Director Wang even called me over, patted the magazine, and said, 'Comrade Sun, you have some connections!'"
Then, Sun Juan's tone was stained with obvious melancholy and fatigue: "Qiuyue, you don't know, the work at the cultural center is very different from helping to take care of the children in our family compound. I'm always busy, either writing blackboard newspapers to promote family planning or organizing the old ladies on the street to rehearse the yangko dance.
The higher-ups come to inspect every few days, asking for reports and photos of activities... It's all trivial and exhausting. There are very few serious people in the library, so it's hard to find someone to discuss something with. She sighed deeply.
"A few days ago, I was cleaning up the pile of junk in the corner of the warehouse that hadn't been touched for decades. The dust was making me cough, and I found a lot of moldy old books, tattered notebooks, and old ballads written on yellow paper. The words were all blurred, and they looked like they were quite old items. They told some ancient legends and the grudges of the older generation. They were quite interesting, but unfortunately they were so tattered that I couldn't make any sense of them. It was a waste."
At the end of the letter, the handwriting became somewhat hesitant and uncertain, revealing a hint of embarrassment that was difficult to speak of: "...There is something else that is weighing on my heart that I want to tell you.
The director of the museum has assigned me the task of producing the county's Spring Festival cultural performance this year, specifically requesting a short script that reflects the county's 'new atmosphere and new look.' Time is very tight, and I have no idea what to do. I'm scratching my head, even dreaming about how to write it. I'm almost pulling my hair out."
The handwriting paused here for a moment before continuing cautiously, "...Qiuyue, you've seen so much in college, and you're so knowledgeable. If...if you could find some time, could you give me some pointers, even just a sentence or two? That would be a real relief. I'm really...I'm so embarrassed to ask..."
As she read Sun Juan's letter, Gu Qiuyue's surging emotions gradually subsided, and a complex feeling settled in her.
Sun Juan groped and struggled clumsily in a strange land. The thirst for knowledge and anxiety about her own powerlessness between the lines were like a mirror, reflecting herself who had also stumbled on the road of literature.
Looking at the book "New Wind" on the table, which symbolizes a certain success, Gu Qiuyue suddenly felt that beyond the halo of lead type, the real difficulties and dusty past scattered in the corners of life might be the places that are more vast and need to be illuminated by words.
She took a deep breath and decisively pushed aside her new manuscript paper, which was covered with scribblings and had no clue what to do. She spread out a new piece of letter paper, picked up her pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote back to Sun Juan:
"Sister Juan: Seeing the letter is like seeing the person."
"Don't panic about the script. No matter how things change, the core remains the 'people' and 'events'. Capture the real new trends around you—for example, those 'local experts' reported in the newspapers who increased per-acre yields through scientific breeding, the lively scene of a village where the whole family, young and old, crowded under the lights to watch a shadow play on the first night of electricity access, the first girl from a village admitted to a provincial university... With a little refinement, these real people and events will naturally create conflict. Avoid flowery language; use the plain language of everyday villagers to make it vivid and powerful..."
The tip of her pen scratched against the paper as she poured out her understanding of the script. Towards the end, she remembered the fleeting glimpse of "rags" in Sun Juan's letter, and her pen shifted, taking on a sense of inquiry:
"...Also, the old books and ballads you mentioned in your letter, which you found sorted out in the warehouse, are quite interesting. If you have some free time, could you please select one or two fragments of old stories that you find most interesting, or one or two relatively complete old ballads, copy them down, and send them to me? Perhaps even the dusty past can spark some new sparks. I look forward to your reply."
After sealing the letter to Sun Juan, Gu Qiuyue looked up. Outside the window, the campus was still shrouded in the deep night, cold and silent. On the table, the cover of "New Wind" magazine was glowing under the desk lamp. Next to it was Xie Shiyu's letter home in vigorous handwriting. Next to it was Sun Juan's wrinkled letter, with the roughness of life between the lines, as well as the suggestions he had just written about the script and the "old story".
Her eyes slowly swept across the small desk. Here, there was the glimmer of the first blossoming of dreams, the warmth of longing from thousands of miles away, and the rope with the smell of dust thrown from the depths of life.
The road of writing is never a smooth one paved with flowers. Ahead is the invisible pressure after becoming famous, the anxiety caused by the temporary exhaustion of inspiration, and the materials and responsibilities that come from the bottom of life, carrying warmth and difficulties.
The green wutong tree begins to sing, its sound clear and melodious.
However, if you want to grow luxuriant branches and leaves and eventually provide shade, you cannot just look up at the sunlight above, but you also need to dig your roots deep into the vast land beneath your feet, which is mixed with soil, dust and countless hidden stories.
She picked up the copy of "New Wind" and her fingertips once again passed over the word "Qingwu". This time, her eyes were less dreamy and more calm and rooted.
"Take root..." She chewed on these two words silently, picked up "New Wind" again, and ran her fingertips across the pen strokes of "Qingwu". This time, the handwriting seemed no longer just symbols printed on paper, but carried the power of absorbing downwards.
…
Thousands of miles away, Qinghe County Cultural Center.
Sun Juan was looking at the blank manuscript paper with a gloomy mood. Director Wang's words "Connections are okay" were like a tight hoop that made her head hurt. She scratched her hair in annoyance, feeling that the little ink she had was almost squeezed out.
"Xiao Sun! Registered letter from the provincial capital." The hoarse voice of Old Zhao in the message room sounded like a thunder.
Sun Juan's heart skipped a beat and almost jumped out. She took the thin letter and was instantly held breath by Gu Qiuyue's beautiful handwriting. Her fingers were shaking. She almost ran back to her small corner filled with miscellaneous items, turned her back to the door, and carefully tore open the seal.
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