Project Crisis
The warmth of the first snow still lingers in my heart, but the pressures of the real world have arrived as expected, like an inescapable cold front.
On Monday morning, the atmosphere in the publishing house's conference room, where Lin Zhiyi worked, was as heavy as the leaden sky outside the window. Around the rectangular conference table sat the main members of the editorial department, along with the serious-looking editor-in-chief. The air was thick with the bitter smell of coffee and a silent tension.
Lin Zhiyi sat by the window, her manuscript proposal and some initial drafts of "Tracing the Vanishing Crafts," which she had poured months of effort into, spread out in front of her. Her hands unconsciously clenched under the table, her nails digging deep into her palms.
“Zhiyi,” the editor-in-chief pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his sharp gaze sweeping over everyone present before finally settling on her, “the results of last week’s evaluation meeting regarding your traditional craft project are in.
He paused, picked up a printed evaluation report, and said in a businesslike tone, devoid of any emotion: "The feedback from the marketing department is not optimistic. They believe that this type of subject matter has too narrow an audience and lacks commercial appeal. Concepts like 'craftsmanship' and 'cultural heritage' may have been popular a few years ago, but now the market prefers lighthearted, entertaining content that can quickly attract traffic."
Lin Zhiyi's heart sank little by little.
"Moreover," the editor continued, his tone growing increasingly somber, "the crafts involved in your book, such as ancient book restoration, antique clock restoration, and traditional plant dyeing... are all too niche. Promotion will be difficult, and the expected sales... are far from ideal. Considering the overall return on investment, the publishing house believes that this project... is too risky."
The last four words struck Lin Zhiyi's heart like a boulder.
“Editor-in-chief,” she took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady, “I admit these crafts are relatively niche, but the cultural value they carry and the aesthetic value of the techniques themselves are irreplaceable. We need some works to document these things that are about to disappear…”
“Recording takes time and resources, Zhiyi,” the editor interrupted her, his tone carrying an undeniable determination. “Publishing houses are not charities; we need to be responsible to the market and our shareholders. The initial opinion within the publishing house is… this project will be put on hold for now.”
**Temporarily shelved.**
In the unspoken understanding within the publishing industry, this is almost tantamount to a death sentence.
The meeting room was silent. Other colleagues either cast sympathetic glances or pretended to organize documents, no one uttering a sound. A huge sense of loss and frustration overwhelmed Lin Zhiyi like a tidal wave. For this project, she had visited so many experienced workers, consulted countless materials, and stayed up countless nights, meticulously crafting each word... Was all this effort going to be wasted because of a single sentence: "The market is not optimistic"?
“Of course,” the editor-in-chief said, perhaps noticing her pale face, his tone softening slightly. “If you can find substantial supporting materials in the short term that can convince the market and the company’s review committee, proving that this project has unique value and potential for explosive growth, perhaps… there is still a glimmer of hope.”
He closed the folder, ending the brief meeting: "Meeting adjourned. Zhiyi, think it over carefully."
Her colleagues left one by one, leaving Lin Zhiyi alone in the meeting room. She sat there blankly, staring at the gray sky outside the window. The romance and joy brought by the first snow had long been washed away by the cold reality. She felt like a small boat that had finally managed to raise its sails, only to be instantly swept into a huge whirlpool, unable to see any direction.
She took out her phone, her finger unconsciously swiping to Lu Shixu's name. A strong urge to confide welled up inside her; she wanted to hear his calm voice, to draw a little strength from his tranquil world, undisturbed by the outside world.
The call was connected quickly.
"Zhiyi?" His voice came through the receiver, with the familiar, reassuring ticking sound in the background.
"Chronicle..." Just uttering his name made Lin Zhiyi's nose sting with tears, her forced composure nearly crumbling. She struggled to suppress a sob and told him as concisely as possible that the project had been shelved, her voice filled with undisguised frustration and confusion, "...The editor-in-chief said we need more substantial supporting materials, but...time is so tight, where am I supposed to find them..."
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. She could imagine him frowning slightly, deep in thought.
Then he spoke, his voice still steady, yet carrying a strange, comforting power:
"Don't rush."
There will always be a way.
There were no empty words of comfort, no complaints about the marketing department's shortsightedness, just a simple "Don't worry" and a confident "There will always be a way."
These brief words, like a stone thrown into a turbulent lake of her heart, did not immediately calm the storm, but miraculously slowed her frantic heartbeat.
"Hmm..." she responded softly, feeling her cold fingertips regain a little warmth.
"Are you coming over for dinner tonight?" He changed the subject naturally, as if the heavy news from before was just a cloud about to drift away. "I tried making some soup."
"Okay." Lin Zhiyi agreed almost without hesitation. At this moment, that little shop filled with the sound of clocks and warm lights was the only place she wanted to go.
After hanging up the phone, Lin Zhiyi took a deep breath and picked up the project proposal that had been given a "suspended death sentence" again. Although the road ahead was still uncertain and fraught with difficulties, in a corner of her heart, a faint but persistent flame had quietly risen because of the phrase "there will always be a way."
She didn't know what the "solution" Lu Shixu was talking about was; perhaps he was just saying it casually.
But just knowing that he was there, and would say "don't worry" when she needed him, was enough to give her the courage to face the storm that was about to break.
She packed her things, stood up, and walked out of the empty conference room.
Outside the window, the cold wind still blew, but she straightened her back.
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