Chapter 805 – Wanzhou, Going Home (Part 3)
Zhang Ping sat next to Wei Ci and muttered, “I really can’t figure out why the Common People enjoy the stories you write so much.”
Mr. Yuanjing’s high-status disciple, and yet this guy chooses to write street tales.
Well, if he wants to write, he can write, but this fellow loves to keep people on the edge of their seats, only releasing little bits every day, making everyone itch with anticipation.
I almost want to lock Wei Ci in a small dark room, give him pen, ink, paper, and urge him to fill an entire table with bamboo slips every day.
No full table, no food!
“After all, these tales are meant for the Common People. If it’s too obscure, they won’t understand a word. It’s better to use plain language. If it’s too convoluted or sparse, the Common People won’t be interested in what they can’t understand. Since it’s for them, it naturally needs to cater to their habits. It should be appreciated by both the sophisticated and the common… As long as the Common People can comprehend and enjoy it, that’s a success.”
To outsiders, Wei Ci’s actions seemed frivolous.
In reality, novelists are one of the schools of thought, albeit looked down upon and scorned by many.
As the ancient texts say: “Novelists are of the lower class, emerging from the folk, capturing the mundane chatter and hearsay of the streets.”
In translation, this means novelists record the dialogues of the Common People and report to higher authorities, considered unrefined.
In Wei Ci’s past life, he held some biases against this, but the ruler vigorously promoted novelists and even supported a few notable ones.
This move drew criticism and attacks from the censors, but she didn’t care. Instead, she wrote a few books herself to slap the censors with facts.
Wei Ci carefully pondered, realizing her deep intentions.
Novelists are not necessarily unrefined.
The current atmosphere is quite liberal; doing certain things earlier can save some future hassle.
Thus, Wei Ci, under the pen name “Zai Chi Jiushi,” reluctantly wrote several short stories.
With plots aplenty and rich content, the storytelling was dramatic and unending—so much that readers wanted to throttle him for the cliffhangers.
Now was not like Jiang Zhao’s era, where talk stories were still scarce, lacking in both quantity and depth, leaving the Common People completely in the dark.
Weighing the content of the tales and the values within, Wei Ci worked hard.
His first piece was a tale of the uncanny, featuring a female ghost wronged in life, receiving divine mercy, returning to life for three days to seek vengeance—where the protagonist was female.
The second was a popular tale about a talented scholar and a capable beauty, where the scholar played a secondary role, and again, the protagonist was female.
The third was an inspirational war novel based on the former Lord Xu, mixed with the character of the leader, and guess what? The protagonist was still female!
Then, the Common People unanimously decided “Zai Chi Jiushi” must be a cute girl.
Wei Ci: “…”
What’s off about this?
In any case, with Wei Ci’s push, a semi-official profession emerged in Wanzhou—storytellers.
Why semi-official?
Because storytellers could only perform in taverns and tea houses in Wanzhou with the approval of the state, stamped with the government’s seal; otherwise, they had no right to tell stories there. Not only could they earn tips from the Common People, but they also received a fixed salary from the state.
As for those without stamps, they could still find a stand to make a living, but their content couldn’t touch Wei Ci’s novels. And anything that misled or amused the Common People in a negative way was strictly prohibited—getting caught meant fines!
Since Wei Ci wanted to “entertain and control public opinion,” he naturally needed to regulate this industry.
Initially, many storytellers were reluctant, but the novels anonymously authored by Wei Ci were incredibly popular among the Common People—not just the gentry loved them, but even the ladies knitting in their free time enjoyed them. Ordinary storytellers couldn’t touch these novels in Wanzhou.
For the sake of survival, storytellers took the legal route offered by the state.
Surprisingly, this policy was quite effective.
Not only were the storytellers provided with the latest and hottest tales, but they also received a steady salary.
No longer worried about not receiving tips someday, these storytellers could finally feed their families!
However, Wei Ci was only one person; writing novels was merely a hobby outside of work and couldn’t take up too much of his energy.
After contemplating, he sought out Cheng Cheng.
“Novelists?” Cheng Cheng frowned, “What do you want novelists for?”
Wei Ci was no slouch in literary talent, but Cheng Cheng really couldn’t fathom why he was stirring the pot on this.
With no other choice, Wei Ci explained his plans.
Since arriving in Wanzhou, Cheng Cheng had been busy messing around with movable type printing and woodblock printing, while also organizing a plethora of books that needed printing—his workload was immense. To put it bluntly, Cheng Cheng was essentially a middle-aged recluse, not laboring in the fields, completely ignorant of Wei Ci’s deeper intentions. Reluctantly, Wei Ci had to break down his plan, explaining it carefully, hoping for Cheng Cheng’s support.
As expected, Cheng Cheng initially refused, even becoming quite angry.
In Cheng Cheng’s view, writing and publishing was a serious matter, one meant for educating the masses and passing down through the ages—how could it be used for frivolity and entertainment?
And as for novelists, Cheng Cheng deemed it a lowly craft.
Instead of using the produced paper to document civilization, it was wasted on this, which infuriated Cheng Cheng to the point that he nearly exploded!
After a severe scolding, and once his anger subsided, Wei Ci painstakingly explained further, slowly softening Cheng Cheng’s stance.
“Is this really as important as you say?”
Cheng Cheng’s heart was slightly swayed.
Wei Ci sighed, “Mr. Cheng, do you think the Common People can grasp the teachings of Confucius and Mencius? Even if you had storytellers reading them day in and day out, the Common People wouldn’t understand. If they can’t understand, naturally, they won’t be interested. Only what genuinely relates to their reality will be accepted. In my view, promoting plainspoken novels to the Common People is not sacrilegious… I ask Mr. Cheng to consider it carefully…”
Cheng Cheng rationally leaned toward Wei Ci’s reasoning, but still felt a bit uneasy inside.
With no other choice, Wei Ci took Cheng Cheng to a tea house, where a storyteller was engrossing an audience, and the Common People listened with rapt attention.
Cheng Cheng watched silently for a long while.
Wei Ci said, “Mr. Cheng, you lecture on Confucius and Mencius, and almost no one knows, but if you asked the Common People about the content of the talk stories, even if they’d only heard it once, they could recite it chapter and verse. You may feel I’m being too unconventional, but I must say—Mr. Cheng, while you intend to pass down your collection of books and treasures of wisdom for future generations, if the Common People can’t comprehend, it will only benefit a select few and can’t be shared with all future generations. Novelists are indeed looked down upon, but times change. Why don’t you take a step back, observe for a while?”
Cheng Cheng felt a flash of inspiration in his mind, so quick he almost couldn’t hold onto it.
“Fine, fine, I’ll help you find a few.”
Cheng Cheng hurried to agree to Wei Ci.
Once everything was set in motion, time quietly slipped into early summer.
The state received news that their lord was already at the Wanzhou border and would return in half a month.
Accompanying this news were reports of a great victory at the Jiamen Pass and the capture of Fu Wang, which also reached Wei Ci’s ears.
“Fu Wang?”
Wei Ci paused mid-pen, ink splattering and creating a dark blot.
How could this be possible?
