Chapter 242: This Is Just Who I Am
Chapter 242: This Is Just Who I Am
One week earlier, after the live segment of I'm a Writer - Feel Free to Criticize wrapped up, Feng Bu Jue sat in contestant Room 7, sipping canned coffee with a relaxed smile.
Unsurprisingly, he had been eliminated after writing not a single word during the final round. After chatting briefly with the other contestants, he returned to the lounge, content and ready to head home by subway as soon as the interview concluded…
Before long, Oscar knocked on the door of the lounge, accompanied by two cameramen, a lighting technician, and a sound engineer. Feng Bu Jue answered, letting them in as they began setting up equipment and adjusting artificial lights.
Oscar immediately shook Feng Bu Jue’s hand the moment he entered, like greeting a visiting dignitary. “You’ve worked hard, worked hard, worked hard…”
“Not at all, you’re the one who’s worked hard,” Feng Bu Jue replied with a grin. He paused, then asked, “Hey? Don’t you have seven interviews to do?”
“No, no—I’m only here for you,” Oscar said. “The director’s orders. I’m assigned to interview eliminated writers. The remaining six will be handled by editors or assistant directors.”
“Oh, right,” Feng Bu Jue nodded.
The lounge already had pre-marked fixed camera positions. Two folding chairs sat diagonally in the corner where the host and writer would sit, with floor markings indicating their exact placement. The crew worked efficiently, completing preparations in minutes.
Oscar sat opposite Feng Bu Jue, script in hand, facing away from the camera. “Shall we begin?”
“Sure,” Feng Bu Jue said. He was eager to leave, so the faster they finished, the better.
“How did you feel when you received the production team’s invitation? Nervous? Pressured?” Oscar asked, following his prepared questions.
“Nope.”
“Did you hesitate at all?” Oscar continued. “After all, you’re already an established writer. Did you feel odd about competing on this stage against other writers?”
“Compared to them, I’m just an unknown rookie. What’s there to hesitate about?”
“Haha…” Oscar chuckled. He picked up a portable media player, tapped a few buttons, and placed it in front of Feng Bu Jue. A clip from the earlier recording played. “Why did you choose this title for this episode?”
“Probably because I sensed what would happen later…” Feng Bu Jue replied.
Oscar fast-forwarded the footage. “Let’s look at this… Why did you write such a passage in the first round?”
“Why not?” Feng Bu Jue smiled. “Like you said earlier, the keywords war, hero, and character are hard to make surprising. So I wrote a character no one would expect.”
Oscar nodded, sliding the player’s progress bar. “When the vote results were announced that round, what place did you predict for yourself?”
“Last place,” Feng Bu Jue said. “Like I said, it was a bit over the top.”
Oscar continued, “In the second round, I noticed you didn’t write a single word.”
“Because the outline was already here,” Feng Bu Jue said, tapping his temple lightly.
“How long did you spend brainstorming that story?”
“Honestly? I started making it up the moment you asked me to reveal the answer,” Feng Bu Jue admitted.
“I figured as much,” Oscar laughed. “Haha… But even improvising, you came second. That shows your skill.”
“If I did it again, it wouldn’t work as well,” Feng Bu Jue said. “This time, the audience hadn’t seen my quirky approach before, so it left a strong impression and earned votes. If other contestants imitate it next time, they might end up in trouble.”
Oscar suddenly signaled the crew to pause. The cameramen stopped, and the sound engineer lowered his microphone. “A personal question… Director Fei spoke to you briefly after the second round. What did he say?”
Feng Bu Jue obviously wouldn’t mention “backroom manipulation.” He replied calmly, “Oh, that time? He thought my approach would definitely get me eliminated, so he discussed the resurrection round with me first. Then we chatted about Fight Club, Schubert, and syphilis.”
Oscar’s lips twitched. He signaled the crew to resume recording, then scrolled through the media player. “In the third round… did you really finish reading the entire book?”
Feng Bu Jue grinned proudly, “When you came in, I noticed you hid that envelope in your inner jacket pocket, right?” He pointed at Oscar’s suit. “Since you came prepared, why don’t you try it?”
Oscar chuckled awkwardly, pulling the envelope from his coat and flipping through the stapled A4 pages. He stopped at a random sheet and read aloud, “He said proudly, ‘My foolish servant, your father is…’”
Before Oscar finished the sentence, Feng Bu Jue continued, “Your father is a hunchback, your mother a prostitute, your sister mentally disabled, and you, fortunate enough to be born a noble—my servant. What more could you possibly desire?”
“Bu Jue, your memory is incredible!” Oscar exclaimed, flipping the pages in disbelief to confirm nothing was written on the back. “You’d ace Asia’s Got Talent with this.”
“Heh… Not interested,” Feng Bu Jue said, still critical of the novel. “The writing’s decent, but the plot’s clichéd and lacks highlights. A small section even copied Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, just changing the era and characters, swapping the bridge explosion for an assassination. While reading, I felt a strange familiarity. When I saw the line ‘No man is an island…’ I understood. The author hit a wall by Chapter 30, so he borrowed a plotline from another book. Later, he made up a dull story and couldn’t continue.”
Oscar was stunned. So he didn’t just read it—he read it carefully…
“Didn’t you at least want to write an ending? Even a random one would’ve earned votes,” Oscar asked.
“I strongly dislike tampering with others’ works, especially unfinished ones,” Feng Bu Jue replied. “This novel feels like someone else’s child. The parents abandoned it before it grew up, leaving it to fend for itself on the streets. Now you want me, an outsider, to pretend to be its parent and raise it? No way. If the parents didn’t value it, why should I bother? We’re clearly not the same kind of people.”
“I see,” Oscar said. “One last question—how do you feel about being eliminated? Any regrets? Do you regret not answering in the third round?”
Feng Bu Jue couldn’t admit he’d aimed for elimination. He scratched his head, opting for polite words. “I’m grateful to have participated. Thank you to the production team’s chief editors for inviting me—a small fish like me. As for regrets… I’m fine. No regrets. And as for regretting my choice? Once I’ve made a decision, I never look back.”
The interview lasted about fifteen minutes, covering many topics—his evaluations of other contestants’ moments, standardized Q&A, and more.
As the session neared its end, Oscar checked his script. He operated the media player. “Before the final question… I have a montage of Vcr clips from all the other writers when they first joined I’m a Writer. Please take a look.”
……
“What does it mean to be a… writer?”
“A writer?”
“To me…”
“A writer is…”
“Someone who builds dreams with words.”
“A class, a career.”
“A messenger of ideas.”
“My life.”
“Ordinary yet extraordinary…”
“Does it mean a one-way path? Haha… Cut that part.”
“They criticize others’ writing—can they do better themselves?”
“Because I love writing, I keep going.”
“We all started the same, chasing the same dream. But many took detours or gave up halfway. Those who keep going… we’ll reach the same destination eventually.”
“Always remind yourself: I’m a Writer. This isn’t a talent show—we’re here to show what writers should be, not let others dictate how we write.”
“If anyone could write, what need would there be for professional writers like us?”
……
“By tradition, every writer on our show must answer this,” Oscar said. He paused, turning serious. “Bu Jue, what does the word ‘writer’ mean to you?”
After watching the short montage, Feng Bu Jue suddenly realized this was a difficult question. “Let me think,” he said, his expression turning unusually solemn—something unseen during the entire competition.
A long silence passed before he finally spoke. “I’ve decided.”
The sound engineer raised the microphone. Oscar signaled the cameraman. “Close-up here.” He turned back to Feng Bu Jue. “Okay, please answer.”
Feng Bu Jue said, “To me, a writer is someone who can change the world with words.
As long as you believe in that, being true to yourself will turn dreams into reality.”
(End of Chapter)
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