In the blink of an eye, Zhang Heng had stayed in this manor for three years. As early as a year ago, his writing skill had successfully leveled up to Level 2, the same level as the fantasy best-selling female author.
One had to admit that the environment of this manor was perfect for practicing writing. After all, there was only one chance to live with the world's best authors.
Although these authors had some minor problems, such as Hemingway's alcoholism, Mark Twain's poisonous tongue, and Fitzgerald's tendency to get dizzy whenever he saw a woman, their talents were undeniable. Most importantly, there was nothing else to do in this manor. They were happy to answer Zhang Heng's questions and help him read his newly written articles.
That afternoon, Hemingway was reading a novel that Zhang Heng had just written. After reading it, he put down the manuscript in his hand and frowned.
"How is it?" Zhang Heng asked.
"The technique is impeccable, and I have nothing else to teach you. However, I feel like something is missing when I read this article."
"Emotions." Fitzgerald, who was on the side, hit the nail on the head.
"Yes." Hemingway lit a cigar. "Although there are some schools of thought that emphasize that the narrator should maintain an objective perspective, it doesn't mean that there are no emotions in their writing. It's just that they embed these emotions into the various characters in the book, allowing them to express the author's emotions."
Hemingway paused at this point. "Speaking of which, I've always been a little strange. When I first met you, I thought you were the kind of person who doesn't show your emotions. However, after getting along with you for a long time, I found that you never seem to be angry or particularly happy. Have you always been like this? Your spirit … rarely fluctuates?"
"Not always. I used to have normal emotions, although they were fainter than ordinary people. However, because of some things, my emotions gradually disappeared. That's how I am now," Zhang Heng said.
"I don't mean to offend you, but if it's possible, I'm willing to spend money to make what happened to you happen to me," Fitzgerald said gloomily.
Hemingway, however, disagreed. "If you don't experience these fragile moments, you can't write really strong words." After that, he looked at Zhang Heng again. "Your problem is troublesome. Although you only pursue fast popularity, no matter what kind of literary work you write, it's impossible to have no feelings."
"It's not completely impossible," Márquez chimed in from the other side. "It's just that, at the level of popular reading, a little fake emotion would suffice. Although this kid doesn't have any feelings, if you let him read a dozen novels that talk about feelings, he'll be able to imitate them. "
"I'm sorry. I didn't make it clear before. My new book is indeed trying to become popular as soon as possible, but there's something else that's very important. I want my readers to believe the story in the book."
"It's hard to believe a story without a strong emotional foundation." Fitzgerald said, "After all, it's one thing to read for fun, but it's another thing to really move the reader. You have to first put your own feelings into it, then it's possible for your reader to resonate with you."
His words received the approval of several writers present.
After that, Hemingway patted Zhang Heng on the shoulder. "You don't have to worry. After all, there are so many of us here. If we work together, we can come up with a solution."
…
After returning from Hemingway's author's party, Zhang Heng did not return to his room immediately.
Instead, he turned around and went to the kitchen. Ever since his writing skill was upgraded to Level 2, Zhang Heng could clearly feel that it was getting more and more difficult to level it up. Otherwise, the fantasy best-selling female author would not have been stuck at Level 3 for so long.
This was no longer just a matter of writing skills. It involved a writer's perception and refinement of their own life, as well as their view of the world around them. Zhang Heng had no lack of experience. To be more precise, no one in this manor had more life experience than him. Even Hemingway, who was a legend, might not be able to compare to the excitement of writing a copy of Zhang Heng.
However, refining and integrating these experiences into one's own words was not something that could be done overnight. It required a process of accumulation.
Zhang Heng wasn't in a hurry. After all, including the extra 24 hours, he had only spent less than a third of the time in this quest. Now that his writing skill had reached Lv.2, he could continue to work on some of the things that he had temporarily put aside.
For example, the mysterious room 515.
It was said that the most mysterious author in the entire manor lived in that room. No one had ever seen him leave his room, and even the windows of that room were tightly covered with curtains.
For this reason, some people could not help but tease that there was an old vampire who had lived for hundreds of years living in that room. The members of the Reasoning Society, on the other hand, firmly believed that the owner of the manor lived in that room.
After living in the manor for two years, Zhang Heng was more and more inclined to agree with their views.
The reason was simple. Zhang Heng had eliminated all other suspects, whether it was the residents or the service staff.
It was like doing a multiple-choice question. After eliminating all the wrong options, the remaining one, no matter how bizarre, should be the correct answer.
However, Zhang Heng had been rejected at the door several times before. Strictly speaking, after he knocked on the door and introduced himself, there was no response at all. It was as if no one lived there at all.
So this time, Zhang Heng decided to use a different method. He walked into the kitchen and said to the head chef, "I would like to order a dish."
"Of course, the manor will meet the requirements of all guests," the head chef said respectfully.
"I want to eat dry stir-fried beef river, but the dry stir-fried beef river I want is a little special. I remember when I was traveling in Guangdong, I had a bowl of beef river at a food stall. It was the best beef river I have ever eaten. I want to eat beef river that tastes like the one I had that day."
In the face of this obviously difficult request, the head chef still behaved politely, "Okay, can you tell me the name of the food stall?"
"No, I have forgotten about it."
Hearing this answer, the head chef finally showed a look of embarrassment on his face, but he still remained respectful. "Well, we can try to cook it, but I'm afraid we will have to try it a lot more times. And we need your feedback in time."
"No problem," Zhang Heng said.
Two hours later, everyone in the kitchen was drenched in sweat. They gathered around Zhang Heng, watching him nervously as he tasted his first bowl of Niuhe River.
Zhang Heng picked up a piece of rice noodle with his chopsticks, put it into his mouth, closed his eyes, and chewed slowly. After about ten seconds, Zhang Heng put down his chopsticks and nodded. "This is the taste."
Suddenly, the entire kitchen burst into cheers. It was as if the scientists in the research institute had just solved a world problem.
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