Chapter 1421: Stir-fried Beef Ho Fun
As spring turned to autumn, Zhang Heng had spent a full three years in the estate. A year earlier, his writing skill had successfully risen to Level 2, matching that of the Bestselling Fantasy Author.
It had to be said that the estate was an exceptionally suitable place to practice writing. After all, the opportunity to live alongside the finest authors in the world was truly one of a kind.
Though these writers all had their minor flaws—Hemingway drank like his life depended on it, Mark Twain had a venomous tongue, and Fitzgerald became hopelessly muddled whenever he saw a woman—their talent was beyond dispute. More importantly, there was little else to do in the estate, and they were all happy to answer Zhang Heng's questions and read his newly written work.
That afternoon, Hemingway was reading a novella Zhang Heng had just finished. When he was done, he set the manuscript down and frowned.
"How was it?" Zhang Heng asked.
"Technically, it's flawless. I've got nothing left to teach you, but I can't help feeling that this piece is missing something."
"Emotion," Fitzgerald said bluntly from beside him.
"That's right." Hemingway lit a cigar. "Some schools do stress that a narrator should maintain an objective perspective, but that doesn't mean their writing contains no emotion. They simply place those emotions in the various characters of the book and let them express the creator's feelings."
Hemingway paused. "Come to think of it, I've always found something strange. When I first met you, I thought you were the sort of person who kept his emotions hidden. But after spending more time with you, I realized you really never seem to get angry, or especially happy. Have you always been like this? Your emotions... rarely fluctuate?"