He had to work hard too, and earn manuscript fees with his own writing.
Over at the Lin family's, Lin Wufeng had barely stepped through the door after work, his canvas tool bag still on his shoulder, when Song Ying eagerly came up to him.
When he heard that Zhou Cheng had submitted work to magazines himself and earned over eighty yuan in one go, Lin Wufeng was stunned.
"Song Ying, is that true? Could Teacher Zhuang have ghostwritten it?"
Lin Wufeng instinctively refused to believe it.
Most people heard the words "children's literature" and simply assumed it was children's stuff, something children wrote for themselves to read.
But Lin Wufeng, being half a "university student" himself and a man of broad experience, knew that while children's literature was indeed written for children, it certainly wasn't simply created by children themselves.
After all, many famous authors had written stories of this kind.
He found it hard to believe that a child who had only just turned ten could independently produce a work a magazine would accept.
"Of course Jingcheng wrote it himself! You didn't see Teacher Zhuang when he heard. He was dumbfounded, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes hard. You have no idea how funny he looked!"
Song Ying talked and laughed, and the conversation soon returned to Zhou Cheng, her voice brimming with undisguised envy.
"Do you think we should keep a closer eye on Zhuang Yanzhou's studies too? Make him work harder, so he can submit something in a couple of years, when he's Jingcheng's age. He wouldn't have to earn eighty yuan. Even eight would give me something to brag about for years."
Lin Wufeng hung his tool bag behind the door and sat down at the dinner table.
He sighed. "If what you