Did Ding Ling look through the love letters the girls wrote him every day when he got home?
If he saw hers, would he like her? Would he write back to her?
Many young girls spent some time in nervous anticipation and hope.
Although they were disappointed when they ultimately received no reply, they were not too disappointed. After all, too many people had written love letters to Ding Ling. It was normal for him not to reply. If he did, they would be flattered beyond belief and feel as if they were dreaming!
That was right.
Ding Ling now possessed this kind of charm.
Especially since he had published five novels in succession in just two and a half months.
This had triggered a school-wide craze for chasing celebrities.
The number of people asking Ding Ling for his autograph was countless.
People often took advantage of the ten-minute break between classes, ran to Class 2, Grade 3, handed their novels to Ding Ling, and asked him to sign them.
After Ding Ling signed the first person's book,
this spectacle never stopped.
Yuan Hua had become numb to it. Jealous and envious, he drooled with longing:
"When will I ever be this glorious?"
Writing novels made too much money.
Ding Ling had earned several million in just over two months.
Several million! How many houses and cars could that buy?
Yuan Hua's eyes turned red with envy.
He felt that his literary talent was pretty good, so he secretly wrote the opening of a novel and submitted it to Sprout.
It was his first attempt, and he received no reply.
Yuan Hua found it unbelievable. He decided that the editor at Sprout was an idiot with no eye for talent.
His talent was clearly no worse than Ding Ling's. How