Chapter 10: The First Day of Receiving the Manuscript Payment, Missing It

Chapter 10: The First Day of Receiving Manuscript Payment, Missing It

Hu Yunying frowned slightly at this remark—not because Li Jingkun shouldn’t ask, but because it was a bit premature; many other matters, such as the method of payment, had yet to be discussed. His urgency reminded her of another somewhat pragmatic young writer she had previously encountered.

“I'm in a bit of a cash crunch lately; otherwise, I wouldn’t even have money to go to the internet café to write. You don’t need to pay too much upfront, a few hundred for now would be fine—I’ve already sent you several tens of thousands of words; that should be worth a few hundred, right?”

Perhaps noticing her long silence, he sent another message, which made Hu Yunying chuckle. She quickly replied, “Your writing is worth far more than just a few hundred. Alright, when I’m back at work tomorrow, I’ll report your situation. We can’t let our writers lack even the basic conditions to write.”

They then discussed several payment methods—three or four in total—but the two main ones were payment by word count or by royalties. Naturally, Li Jingkun chose the royalty option.

Most authors receive royalties between 5% and 10%, with a few earning higher rates. But Li Jingkun was an unknown newcomer relying on the “Tender Sprout” platform for promotion, so his royalty rate was modest—Hu Yunying said it was 6%.

Li Jingkun felt this was somewhat low, but since nearly every newcomer started this way, he didn’t argue. However, he declined Hu Yunying’s invitation to participate in the next “New Thought Writing Contest.”

“My studies are heavy right now; I don’t have much time or energy to travel to Modu. It’s too far,” he said.

“Winning a prize in the New Thought Writing Contest would help promote your work, and it would also add points for your college entrance exam,” Hu Yunying explained.

“That’s okay. My grades are pretty good; I don’t need extra points,” Li Jingkun replied, leaving Hu Yunying stunned by his confidence.

That was quite a bold statement!

But it also caught her attention.

“Your grades are very good?”

“Not bad. I just got admitted to a provincial key high school this year. We recently finished our first monthly exam. I ranked tenth in my class and 113th in the entire grade.”

Hu Yunying was surprised. As someone in the cultural field, she didn’t consider 113th a poor rank at all. If it truly was a provincial key high school, ranking 113th would likely mean he could get into a top-tier university in the college entrance exam.

This was a very important piece of information!

It was a hook—they could promote his new book by branding him as a “top student.”

Moreover, recent years had seen the rise of the “Han Han phenomenon”—a talented writer with poor academic performance, raising questions about the education system. If now a highly talented young writer also happened to be a top student, it could counter some of those narratives and latch onto a trending figure.

“Can you tell me which high school you attend?” Hu Yunying asked.

Li Jingkun was silent for a while before replying, “I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t want to do that. Besides, I don’t want too many people to know about my writing for now. It’s just that I’m short on money lately, so I’m eager to publish the novel.”

Hu Yunying was speechless, both amazed by his cleverness and thinking: why are young people nowadays all so individualistic?

Han Han refused interviews, didn’t attend book signings, and rejected advertisements; Annie Beibei was practically unreachable. Could there be another one like this?

But she quickly thought: could such a strong-willed author be the next Han Han?

Ah, editors, after doing this long enough, inevitably develop the journalist’s habit of trying to hype their new books.

Since Han Han and Guo Jingming emerged, later authors, though talented, rarely become such phenomenons.

Li Jingkun would likely just remain a somewhat known young writer.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join the contest? It won’t take much time, and it could help your book sell better,” she urged.

“No, maintaining good grades isn’t easy, and I’m stretched too thin. Besides, with your platform promoting my work, I believe it will sell well. Don’t worry, it was Tender Sprout magazine that published my debut work, and I’ll always be an author coming out of Tender Sprout,” he replied.

Hu Yunying was once again at a loss; she suddenly felt that maybe these young authors shouldn’t be too clever.

...

Generally, if a contract isn’t signed or all manuscripts aren’t submitted, payment is rarely made in advance, though much depends on circumstances.

If the publisher insists on paying some fees upfront, the author has no choice but to accept.

A few days later, after sending another 20,000 words to Tender Sprout, Li Jingkun’s newly opened bank account received 3,000 yuan as payment.

They also informed him that the contract had been mailed to his home; after confirming its accuracy, he was to sign and return it. Once serialization began, another portion of the payment would be made.

Usually, after submission and within two months before publication, an advance royalty is paid, at least 50% of the total royalty.

Since serialization was still far off, and publication even further, the “big money” would take time.

At the moment, 3,000 yuan was neither too much nor too little. Considering that a cup of bubble tea cost only four yuan now, prices were much lower than they would be in more than a decade.

Thus, receiving 3,000 yuan finally eased Li Jingkun’s urgent financial needs.

The first thing he did was buy a guitar costing a few hundred yuan—not the best, but sufficient for now. The second was to treat his roommates and desk mate to a meal.

Buying a phone was postponed—not due to lack of money, but because he’d need to take it home and first explain the source of funds to his parents before purchasing such a “luxury” item.

He wanted to treat his roommates mainly because two of them had treated him twice already. Since most were better off financially and often shared snacks, he felt he needed to repay them gradually.

“What’s this? Got rich?” Song Hairong asked.

Although he didn’t know Li Jingkun’s family background, seeing how frugal he was, he guessed there wasn’t much money.

“Found some money, alright?” Li Jingkun replied.

“Nice! Why didn’t you invite us to find some together?” another roommate, Wang Honglang, joked.

There were eight people in the dorm. Naturally, some were closer than others; but after living together for so long, roommates were generally closer than most.

Lin Yunkai was Li Jingkun’s desk mate, didn’t live on campus, but usually ate lunch at school, so he was invited too.

They had eaten out before, but unless they agreed to splurge, they usually ate inexpensive meals costing only a few yuan.

This time, they went to a popular street stall near the school, where they had been twice before. The food was good, so they chose to gather there again.

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(End of chapter)