I'm not a literary giant

Chapter 3 Others Are Hell

Wang Zixu's desk is facing the door. He chose this location specifically so that when someone visits, he can hide the novel document he is writing and open a web page to pretend to read the news.

He doesn't have much work to do. When there are calls, he answers the phone. When there are no calls, he writes novels. There is nothing else to do.

No one in the company knew he was writing a novel. He had read a sentence from somewhere a long time ago: Don't tell others your ideals, don't give them the opportunity to laugh at you.

To them, hard work itself is a ridiculous thing, especially when there is no reward. If he is caught writing a novel, they will definitely ask where he has published it. Wang Zixu has never published it anywhere, so he is embarrassed. So he always pretends to browse the web. This is different from other colleagues, who always pretend to work. So in the annual assessment, his performance score is always just passing.

In addition, this reserve also has other hidden costs, such as he hasn't eaten out for many years.

The entertainment of middle-aged people is eating and drinking. In the midst of drinking and arguing, his colleagues always get a sense of accomplishment, which he does not quite understand. At first, when others invited him, he always refused for various reasons, and later, others stopped inviting him.

Over the years, some people have miraculously solved the staffing problem, and some have contracted fast food chains, which is not unrelated to the conversations at the wine table. He knows that many opportunities have been missed due to these rejections.

But he doesn't care, he has 50 chances to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Sometimes, he felt like a knife. Asking him to join in the mundane conversations of life was like putting a knife on tofu. When the blade of the knife passed through the tofu, the tofu didn't even have time to groan.

When he was writing, his colleagues often came to stroll over and walked around his office, holding up their belts, and loudly talked about stocks, pork, payday, and the woman who jumped off the top floor of the Food and Drug Administration the day before yesterday. These things were too close to be poetic, but not far enough to make people feel personal, which made him uncomfortable.

In addition to writing, he tried hard to think of ways to connect with others, just like running to a store 1 km away for an unimportant commodity. What was suspicious was that his colleagues always knew about such things. He suspected that they were some kind of news media staff, responsible for spreading these anecdotes to the end of society, frequently and efficiently.

In fact, he understood that he only needed to put forward his own opinions at the right time, try to make them simple and clear, and stick to the surface. He could also add some modal particles, ask questions, ask rhetorical questions, and follow their topic. Daily communication was not that difficult.

But he always says some summary words, which makes the topic come to an abrupt end. No one can continue to talk about what he says. If anyone does, it is probably because they don’t understand. But he just can’t help saying these words, because he has thought of them. Thinking of them but deliberately not saying them makes him sick.

He felt like a knife, he didn't need any cook or butcher, he could cut the tofu just by relying on his own weight, and his interpersonal relationships were also cut in this way. In fact, he could be gentler and not show his sharpness, but then he wouldn't be a knife.

He thought, The purpose of a knife is to cut, no matter what it is cutting.

My wife's hand was cut by a kitchen knife.

After hanging up the phone, Wang Zixu threw away his cigarette butt and rushed home. When he got home, his wife had already bandaged her hand and set the table for him to eat. He started to cry after only a few bites.

"I was not feeling well today, so I did not go to the store to help out. I wanted to take a break, so I did not go anywhere all day. I just cleaned the house. The more I cleaned, the more I did. Last month, I bought you a grapefruit and told you to put it on the table, but you really just left it on the table. It rotted, and you never put it away. If I did not do it, would that grapefruit stay there forever?

"I'm so tired. I work two jobs every day and have to do housework. I cut my finger and I'm the only one at home. I can't count on anyone, and you can't count on me for anything else. I really don't want to live this kind of life anymore... If I hadn't married you, would I not have lived this kind of life?"

He didn't know how to comfort his wife, she just kept crying. All the warm words had been said in the first three years of their marriage.

There was no need to defend himself. What his wife said was true, but it was only the truth from her perspective. From his perspective, things might not be so. But every time he thought of a reason to refute her, she could always think of three. He could never win the argument with her.

He really wanted her to put herself in other people's shoes, but every time he tried, he only provoked more complaints from her. Finally, he understood a truth: if a woman knew how to put herself in other people's shoes, she would no longer be a woman.

When he was in college, he was the captain of the school debate team. He once thought that the source of persuasiveness was eloquence, but later he thought it was thought. Thoughts helped him to be successful in debates, but later he found that they were all wrong. Now, he realizes that thoughts and spirits have limits, which are much lower than the limits of matter. Where thoughts can reach, matter has already planted its flag and occupied the land, just like the eternal motto - matter determines consciousness.

So, he transferred 500 yuan to his wife.

His wife was sitting on the sofa with her back to him. She took out her cell phone, looked at it, wiped her tears, and after a while, turned around with tears in her eyes and asked, "Why are you transferring money to me?"
Wang Zixu said, this is my royalties. I submitted my manuscript today and it was transferred to me.

"What kind of royalties?"

"It's about the royalties for the novel I mentioned last time. The magazine called me today and transferred the money to me very promptly."

The wife sniffed loudly, then asked, "Only 500 in total?"

"Just 500. After all, I'm not famous."

"500 is not a small amount, I mean not a small amount," the wife said, "It's enough for half a month's food expenses. How can I get so much money just for writing one article? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

He said, you got angry as soon as you came back, and I didn't even have a chance to say anything.

His wife grabbed his hand and said, "I'm sorry. I won't say anything more. Getting paid for your writing is a great thing. I should congratulate you on taking one step closer to your dream."

"Thank you."

He felt that the polite words were not like those of a married couple.

The wife wiped away her tears and said, "You've been so busy talking that the food has gotten cold. Let me go heat it up for you. By the way, what magazine did you publish in?"

"It's just a small magazine. You wouldn't understand even if I told you," he said.

"Even if I don't know, I'll know once you tell me."

The wife carried the dishes into the kitchen. Although she said this, she did not ask what the magazine was.

They disagree on everything, and every time they disagree, they compromise with each other, compromise to a level that both sides can accept, and the matter will pass. This is the secret of their marriage to this day. This time she also habitually compromised.

But he was grateful for her compromise. If she continued to ask, he would be unable to resist because the magazine did not exist. If he told her which magazine it was, and opened it, he would find that his novel was not there, and his lie would be exposed.

This royalty was born out of fiction. Fiction is the art of fiction. As a Nobel Prize-seeker, Wang Zixu is best at fiction.

If given the chance, Wang Zixu would tell his wife: Never believe what a novelist says.

Although he is not yet considered a novelist.

(End of this chapter)