"Last month you told me it would be released at the beginning of this month, and at the beginning of this month you told me next month, and now you tell me it won't be until March?"
Han Xun's tone was a little worried, because his new book had been delayed for too long.
Zhang Xinxuan, the editor-in-chief of Huaxia Social Science Press on the other end of the phone, smiled and said, "You can't blame us for this. The fifth-grade vegetative state has been so popular recently, so of course we should avoid it if we can."
"What if someone publishes a new book every month? My book won't be distributed?"
"How is this possible? Teacher Han, are you kidding me?"
"Anything is possible."
"Then, how about releasing it at the end of this month? Anyway, the preliminary work is ready and it can be put on the shelves at any time."
Zhang Xin's words made Han Xun angry immediately, "What do you mean, you think I'm afraid?"
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant. Teacher Han, please don't get me wrong. In fact, it's good to post at the end of the month, and you can get a head start. I have a rough idea of the plan for next month from Guidu Literature. They will post at the beginning of the month.
"Flowers for Algernon" does not conflict with the category of your new book, and we still have at least one month of buffering period."
Han Xun pondered for a moment and said, "This is still a bit risky. After all, the heat of "Ten Little Indian Boys" has not passed. There will be another "Murder on the Orient Express" later, and my "Hidden Suspect" is sandwiched in the middle.
It’s not easy.”
Zhang Xin curled his lips on the other end of the phone and said he was not afraid? This is a coward, okay?
Originally, the publishing house intended to release the new book in the middle of this month, but Han Xun himself called and said that he wanted to change the time. In the end, after many changes, he could only push it to March.
This was Han Xun's intention, and now Han Xun himself came to question their publishing house. Zhang Xin even doubted whether Han Xun was schizophrenic.
Zhang Xin feels that Han Xun is indeed a little timid. There is really no need for this. Didn’t he just win the Chinese Detective Master Award for the best novel and steadily beat the fifth grade vegetable? If he doesn’t take the opportunity to make a profit at this time, then how long will it take?
?
"You think, if possible, we can publish the book at the end of the month."
Han Xun was silent for a long time and finally said, "Then give it a try."
Zhang Xin smiled and said, "Okay."
…
When Zhang Zhong received a call from Fang Xingkai, he was lying on the balcony with Pengpeng to bask in the sun.
The heavy snowfall of the past few days has stopped for a while. The sky has been exceptionally clean in recent days, and the sun's attendance has also improved a lot.
The large glass door blocked out the cold wind, leaving only the warm sunlight to filter in. Pengpeng was lying on the couch covered with quilts, her little face flushed from the sun.
When the phone rang, Zhang Zhong quickly got up and walked to his room. He was afraid of disturbing Peng Peng, who had just fallen asleep.
When he arrived in his room, he said, "Hey, Xingkai, what's the matter?"
"Teacher Zhang, this is a good thing. Do you know "Poetry"?"
Zhang Zhong found that Fang Xingkai always liked to ask him if he knew this or that, as if he didn't know anything.
"Well, what happened?"
"Shilin" wanted to reprint Mr. Zhang's article "Mountain People". They said they contacted you on Weibo, but you didn't reply, so they found our publishing house and asked us to convey it to you.
Their wishes." Fang Xingkai said.
"Okay, is it the official account they contacted me with?"
"Yes, I said I messaged you privately."
Zhang Dian nodded, "Then I'll talk to them directly on Weiyu."
"Okay, then I'll hang up first."
"Um."
After finishing the call with Fang Xingkai, Zhang Zhong opened WeChat and searched in the private message list.
As a "star" with more than 10 million fans, of course his private messages have exploded, with "99+" messages every day.
However, it is not difficult to find Shilin’s official account, you just need to filter it.
Soon, he saw the private message from Shilin's official account.
It’s still a private message from the day before yesterday.
"Hello, writer Mr. Zhang Qianli..."
The other party made it very clear that he was willing to reprint the poem "Mountain Folk" in the "Shilin" weekly for a price of 100 yuan per word.
The poem "Mountain Folk" includes more than 200 punctuation words. If one word is 100, the total price is more than 20,000.
Twenty thousand is not much, but "Shilin" only wants to reprint it, so this price is already very sincere.
To be able to give this price, I guess he is interested in the name of Fifth Grade Vegetative Person.
Zhang Zhong did not ask for the 20,000 yuan, but directly sent a private message to the other party in Weiyu, verbally authorizing them to reprint the poem "Mountain People" for free.
If you want 20,000 yuan, it involves manuscript fees, and both parties have to sign a contract, which is a bit troublesome. Zhang Zhong will not make a fortune with just 20,000 yuan.
Not only did he license "Mountain People" to "Shilin" for free, but he also sent a message stating that this poem can be used free of charge by everyone as long as it is within the scope of copyright law.
…
Wang Kewang stood respectfully beside the desk. He knew that when his grandfather was writing, he was most bothered by others interrupting him.
After about five minutes, Wang Meng stopped writing. He looked up at his grandson and said, "Aren't you busy these days? Last time I heard your father said that you have to work on New Year's Eve."
Wang Kewang smiled and said, "Because I have to work on New Year's Eve, I came back early to see you."
"What's so good about my old bones? If you don't come back on New Year's Eve, will Liao Er and his family come back to celebrate the New Year?" Wang Meng asked while washing his pen.
"Liao Er is back. He will probably be home tomorrow."
"That's good. I haven't met my great-great-grandson yet."
Wang Kewang rubbed his hands and said, "As a grandfather, I haven't even met him yet."
Wang Meng finished washing his pen, walked around from behind the desk to the front, pointed to the chair for Wang Kewang to sit down, "You have a grandson, you should be more cautious in your work. Your kid has been frizzy since he was a child, but
"The Forest of Poetry" was done pretty well, which is a bit of progress."
"That's what grandpa taught me." Wang Kewang smiled knowingly. He was already in his fifties and had reached the age where he knew his destiny, but he was still a child in his grandpa's eyes.
Probably in Wang Meng's eyes, fifty years old is only half of his life. After all, he himself is already over a hundred years old.
There are many people who can live to be a hundred years old, but it is rare to find someone like his grandfather Wang Meng who is still so healthy even after he is over one hundred years old.
His father is over seventy years old, but he sees that his health is getting worse day by day, with no serious illness but minor illnesses.
Wang Meng was originally a college student. When the war broke out, he dropped out of school and became a soldier. After the founding of the People's Republic of China, he took off his military uniform and picked up his pen again to become a scholar.
Over the years, he has written more than 100 novels and already has a body of work.
"I just wrote a piece of writing. You can take it to your father later."
Wang Kewang nodded, "Okay, I will send it to my dad in a moment. What did the old man write this time?"
"It's the modern poetry you recommended to me last time."