Writing novels to earn manuscript fees, he also bought a courtyard house for a woman.

“What?”
Hearing what Feng Jiayou said, Cheng Xuemin was so startled that he nearly jumped right then and there!
This courtyard house, nestled beneath the shadow of the imperial city, was actually bought with royalties by that old man Qian in the front yard, all from writing novels?
Could writing novels really be so lucrative in this era?
In that instant, Feng Jiayou’s casual words flung open a new door for Cheng Xuemin, opening his eyes to fresh possibilities of this time.
Originally, Cheng Xuemin had planned to bide his time in a rural village in northern Shaanxi for a few years, and once things were officially loosened up, he’d start speculating and dealing for profit, get rich before the rest, and then live free and easy while others toiled to catch up.
With his foreknowledge, he always thought that speculation and backdoor dealing was the fastest way to wealth in this era!
Never had he once considered the path of a cultured novelist.
But now, thanks to Feng Jiayou’s reminder, a torrent of ideas flashed through his mind.
“Swallowed Star,” “Shrouding the Heavens,” “Battle Through the Heavens,” “Global High Martial,” “Soul Land”…
Of course, none of these could be written now, nor would he dare. The era was not yet fully open; to write such things would be courting disaster or inviting an early grave—especially “Swallowed Star.” He’d have to wait, perhaps for a few years, until the martial arts novel craze took off, and then consider joining the trend.
For now, “scar literature” was the order of the day, wasn’t it?
Cheng Xuemin glanced at Feng Jiayou’s manuscript, the one that had been returned with an editor’s note criticizing it for scars—well, he had plenty of material in that vein!
“Herdsman,” “The Chronicle of Director Qiao’s Appointment,” “Wreaths at the Foot of the Mountain,” “Parental Love,” “Our Generation of Young People,” “To Live,” “Plot,” “Undercover,” “The Ordinary World,” “Xu Mao and His Daughters”…
These could all be adapted, or rather, respectfully borrowed. Just as Old Qian in the front yard had done, he could swap a manuscript for a large courtyard and give Feng Jiayou a home!
With a clear direction in mind, Cheng Xuemin’s heart burned with excitement. He wished he could start writing that very night, pick a classic to pay tribute to, and test the waters!
“Is it really that profitable? That five hundred you have in your bankbook—all earned from novel royalties?”
As the thought flashed through his mind, Cheng Xuemin lowered his voice and asked quietly.
That bankbook was Feng Jiayou’s private stash; her parents had no idea, nor would she ever dare let them know.
Just now, when she heard her mother return, she’d hurriedly stashed the cash and bankbook beneath her second sister-in-law’s pillow, feigning composure as she greeted her mother as if nothing untoward had happened.
“…More or less,” she replied, face flushing bright red, lacking all confidence.
How could she admit to Cheng Xuemin that she hadn’t made a cent from writing novels?
She’d never had a single piece published. Where would royalties come from?
She’d been working on her current manuscript for over three months, revising it again and again, and still, her mother’s magazine had just rejected it yet again. More revisions awaited!
If she hadn’t seen her classmates at school getting articles published, earning royalties—especially her roommate Huang Beijia, who for years had been getting pieces into local literary journals and hoarding away a tidy sum—Feng Jiayou would never have thought to try her hand at novel writing.
Besides, she was a Chinese major at Yan University; how could she hold her head high without a few published works to her name?
From the start, she’d planned to lure Cheng Xuemin, who wanted nothing more than to stay in northern Shaanxi and not even take the college entrance exam, to Beijing to live with her, so she could keep a close eye on him as he prepared for the next year’s entrance exams. For that, she needed enough money to be prepared for the worst—running away from home if necessary.
Thus, as soon as she enrolled at Yan University, she began her first novel. She was swept up in the literary fever that had gripped the nation since last August, when Lu Xinwu, a university student from Shanghai, published his “Scar” and caused a national sensation.
She’d never expected to fall so deep into it. Her manuscript had already been rejected by her mother’s magazine four times; with today’s, it was the fifth!
In hindsight, she regretted showing her work to her mother, who was chief editor at “October” magazine.
Once her mother had read it, she’d submitted it straight to “October”—and so began the endless cycle of rejection and revision, with not a hint of favoritism or nepotism!
Feng Jiayou even began to suspect that her mother had caught on to her plan to earn royalties and was deliberately being harsh so she wouldn’t succeed.
Was her manuscript really so poor?
If she’d known, she would never have let her mother see it—if she’d sent it elsewhere, perhaps it would have been published by now!
“Incredible! You’d better revise this piece thoroughly and get it published soon to earn those royalties!”
Cheng Xuemin truly admired her. She’d earned over five hundred yuan just by writing. If he’d known writing could be so profitable, he would’ve started as soon as he arrived in this world, instead of wasting half a year.
Still, it wasn’t too late. He would write, earn royalties, and buy a courtyard house. Go for it!
“I know, I know. I’m already revising, aren’t I? Has Mom finished washing your vegetables? Take out the roast duck in the house, and don’t let Liqin and Liwen sneak any more bites!”
Revise? She was already at her wits’ end!
Feng Jiayou was deeply irritated, but since she’d just boasted, she couldn’t back out now; she could only impatiently shoo Cheng Xuemin away so she could focus.
“Alright, you work hard. I’ll help Mom with the cooking!” Cheng Xuemin was full of admiration—after all, she’d already amassed over five hundred in her secret stash as a big-name author!
He needed to catch up, and fast. Once his novel was published, he’d toss his royalties in front of her and give her a huge surprise!
“Spend away! When you’ve squandered all that money, what are you going to eat then?”
Just as Cheng Xuemin and Feng Jiayou were whispering about getting out the roast duck from lunch, her mother’s voice rang out from inside the house, full of complaint, leaving the two of them utterly baffled. What had set her off now?
But when little Feng Liqin came sneaking out of her grandmother’s room and tiptoed toward her own, Feng Jiayou immediately realized—someone had tattled!
“Feng Liqin, get over here!” she called out sternly to her little niece.
“Auntie!” Liqin froze mid-sneak, turned with a forced smile, and called out.
“Come here. What are you hiding in your sleeve?”
Feng Jiayou’s sharp eyes spotted something concealed in her niece’s sleeve. Like a tigress, she darted forward, fished out the money, and demanded, “Feng Liqin, did you steal my money?!”
“I didn’t, I didn’t! I was just showing it to Grandma! New Uncle gave Auntie so much money, I wanted Grandma to see!”
Caught red-handed, the little girl blurted out in a panic.
“You showed Grandma?” Feng Jiayou’s face fell. Why was it so hard to hide even a little secret stash?
She’d just hidden it so well—how had this little imp found it?
“Grandma saw it!” the child nodded.
“What did Grandma say?”
“She told me to put it back and not tell anyone!”
The girl recounted every detail to Feng Jiayou.
“What else did you tell Grandma?” Feng Jiayou pressed.
“I told her the new uncle is so good to us—today he even treated us to roast duck! And I said tomorrow he’d take us to eat roast duck again!”
“Eat, eat, eat—that’s all you think about! And you even steal my money. No roast duck for you tomorrow!”
“Wah—”
Feng Jiayou’s scolding set her little niece off in wails, mostly mourning the loss of tomorrow’s roast duck.
…