“You really are Fusheng? The author of Cowherd, Fusheng?”
“Cross my heart!”
While Chen Fusheng was on the train leaving Jiangcheng with his family and getting recognized by two female readers, what he didn’t know was that his novel had successfully helped the first issue of Fragrant Grass break through in the Hubei book market.
The first print run of fifty thousand copies had already sold out. As word of mouth spread, orders from bookstores were pouring in.
Orders from out of province were coming in too.
Judging by the current trend, the magazine’s rename to Fragrant Grass had delivered a spectacular opening act. It was predictable that first-issue sales would be impressive.
But there was a problem: the magazine hadn’t anticipated such strong demand and hadn’t prepared enough inventory. This could mean that supply wouldn’t keep up with bookstore orders in the coming weeks.
Of course, this was a happy problem. Any magazine in the country would welcome it.
Then again, even the best wine needs a good tavern sign.
So why had this issue of Fragrant Grass, freshly renamed and headlined by a debut author’s work, achieved such stellar results in just a few days?
Three reasons.
First, the magazine’s promotion was on point.
For example, many Hubei print media outlets had run coverage over the past couple of days.
Also, the magazine had enlisted many famous figures to help advertise. Yao Xuegen, author of Li Zicheng; Xu Chi, author of Goldbach’s Conjecture; the celebrated poet Zeng Zhuo; and Liu Fudao, who had just joined the Writers’ Association last year, among other well-known Hubei writers and poets, had all stepped up to rally for Fragrant Grass and Cowherd.
The second key reason could be summed up in one phrase: to forge iron, you need a strong hammer.
In truth, this issue of Fragrant Grass was not only strong because of Chen Fusheng’s Cowherd. The other selected works were all gems as well.
And that led to the third reason: readers spreading the word.
It was the combination of these three factors that produced the stellar sales of Fragrant Grass‘s first issue in Hubei.
As for whether Fragrant Grass would continue to sell well outside the province, and whether Chen Fusheng’s novel Cowherd would make him famous nationwide, that was hard to say. There were too many factors at play. Good quality alone didn’t guarantee a bestseller. One had to let the bullets fly a little longer.
Han Sanping was from Sichuan, born in 1953 in Wangcang County to a cadre family.
At just twenty-seven, he was already the assistant director and director of the art center at Sichuan’s Emei Film Studio.
As a young cadre at the studio, Han Sanping had just been sent to Beijing for three months of advanced training.
Those three months gave Han Sanping a firsthand sense of the nation’s determination to reform.
Though the blade of reform hadn’t yet fallen on the film studios, and in fact state support for film had been steadily increasing over the past couple of years, Han Sanping was not optimistic about the future of film studios.
Because he knew full well that film studios, like other declining industries, were riddled with problems and would inevitably face reform sooner or later.
Han Sanping supported reform. But he was also keenly aware that a studio had over a thousand employees, involving countless families. Pull one thread and the whole thing moves. Any real reform would face enormous obstacles.
“Sigh, I’m just a lowly director of the art center, barely a middle-management cadre at the studio. If reform comes, it won’t be my turn. Why worry so much?”
Historically, Han Sanping was a rather aggressive reformer. After returning from advanced training at the Beijing Film Academy in 1984, at a time when nearly every film studio in the country was tightening its belts, he had the ability to secure investments for Emei Film Studio’s directors and even earned the studio an average of four million yuan a year.
Within a few years, he was promoted to deputy studio director at the deputy division level. In 1994, he moved further up and was transferred to Beijing to take over the once top-ranked Beijing Film Studio.
After the millennium, the film studio model was rendered obsolete by the times. But Han Sanping wasn’t rendered obsolete. He reinvented himself and became the head of what would later be China Film Group.
Of course, you do the job that matches the seat you’re in.
Right now, Han Sanping’s authority was limited. He didn’t have those grand ambitions yet.
At most, he found the current problems with film studios distasteful and knew the nation’s reform gaze would inevitably fall on their industry.
Nothing more.
“Passengers, we are approaching Jiangcheng Station. Those disembarking at Jiangcheng Station, please prepare to exit.”
His thoughts interrupted by the carriage broadcast, Han Sanping wasn’t getting off at Jiangcheng. But he was curious about this historic city, the birthplace of the 1911 Wuchang Uprising, steeped in legend and cultural heritage.
If he weren’t rushing back to a pile of work, he would have loved to get off and explore.
Not long after the announcement ended, the train came to a complete stop.
The middle-aged passenger who had been sitting across from Han Sanping got off at this stop, but a female passenger quickly boarded and took his place.
Han Sanping noticed she was holding a magazine. His eyesight was sharp, and in a single glance he caught the two large characters printed on the cover: Fragrant Grass.
It was a magazine he’d never heard of. But the tedium of train travel piqued his curiosity about this thing called Fragrant Grass.
Han Sanping was good at socializing, and people in this era, without phones to distract them, were generally warm and open. So he quickly learned from the woman who’d boarded at Jiangcheng Station that Fragrant Grass was what River City Literature and Arts used to be called.
“I know River City Literature and Arts. It’s one of your Hubei magazines, fairly well known nationally. I didn’t expect them to suddenly change names. But Fragrant Grass sounds nice too. Seems like they’re not satisfied with just developing within the province and want to push out nationally.”
“You have sharp insight, comrade. You can see right away that the rename from River City Literature and Arts to Fragrant Grass is for a national push.”
“Now that it’s renamed, does this issue have any good works?” Han Sanping asked curiously.
“You really know your stuff. This issue’s quality far surpasses previous ones. Especially the lead novel Cowherd. It’s incredibly vivid and moving.” The woman had clearly read the issue and was happy to share. She saw the curiosity in Han Sanping’s eyes and offered the magazine, “Would you like to take a look, comrade?”
“Thank you!”
Han Sanping didn’t bother with false modesty. He took the magazine with a word of thanks.
She wasn’t wrong. This magazine really was the former River City Literature and Arts. There was a note on the cover.
Before long, Han Sanping turned to this issue’s lead novel, Cowherd, anticipation building.
Because Cowherd was Chen Fusheng’s adaptation from a film, it inevitably retained some cinematic traces.
Ordinary readers couldn’t detect this. Even if they noticed certain plot transitions that felt filmic, they wouldn’t think twice about it.
But to a professional director, those cinematic traces were easy to pick up on. They might not arrive at the truth, but they would instinctively feel that this novel was perfect for a film adaptation.
Right now, as Han Sanping read Cowherd, he was having exactly that feeling.
And since he was too young and inexperienced, he assumed he was the only one who felt this resonance.
So after finishing the novel, his eyes gleamed. He felt like he’d found treasure.
What a magnificent story. The best part is, reading the novel felt exactly like watching a film. And I happen to be planning to apply to direct a movie when I get back. Maybe this is fate!
