[Gold Powder GL] True Elegance Comes with Knowledge - Chapter 8

Of course, Yan Hui could lend money to Leng Qingqiu. A few hundred yuan—no, even a few thousand—wouldn’t be an issue if she asked her eldest brother for help.

But she wouldn’t do that.

For one, what Qingqiu needed wasn’t just financial relief—it was independence and self-reliance. If Yan Hui simply replaced Jin Yanxi as the benefactor, what would truly change? She couldn’t become a perpetual lender, nor would Qingqiu accept such support, no matter how willing Yan Hui was.

Moreover, the money didn’t truly belong to her—it was her brother’s. His income wasn’t endless and had many purposes. She couldn’t simply divert it to support her friend’s needs.

So, in truth, it wasn’t just Qingqiu who had to earn money—Yan Hui needed to find a way, too.

Although Qingqiu hesitated at first, once she made up her mind, she acted quickly. Without wasting time, she picked up pen and paper, ready to draft a story. But despite being well-read and thoughtful, the moment she tried to write, her mind turned chaotic.

She stared at the blank page for a long time, unable to write a single word. Frustrated, she sighed and muttered, “This is too hard. Writing a novel isn’t the same as writing a poem. You can’t just conjure up inspiration instantly. I’ll need to work at it slowly.”

“I think writing a novel isn’t so different from writing a poem,” Yan Hui said, sitting beside her. “They both have a beginning, a middle, and an end. You write beautiful poems—there’s no reason you can’t write stories, too.”

In the original novel, after Prime Minister Jin’s death and the Jin family’s fall from grace, Yanxi and Qingqiu’s small household plunged into poverty. Even then, Qingqiu wrote poetry and published it in magazines, earning five yuan per poem. Though modest, it proved she had the talent to make a living from her writing. All she needed was a bit of guidance.

At that time, the novel was still a relatively new literary form in China. Qingqiu would need some direction to begin.

Yan Hui said, “A lot of authors start with autobiographical elements. After all, the events closest to us are the clearest, and they help channel real emotion. Since you’re new to writing fiction, why not take inspiration from real life?”

Qingqiu immediately thought of her experiences with Yanxi, but then shook her head quickly. “No. If I write about things that actually happened, people will recognize it. They’ll know it was written by me.”

Besides, the idea of dissecting her own emotions and laying them bare on paper—then having those words published—was too much for someone as reserved as Qingqiu. She couldn’t imagine her mother reading such personal revelations.

“It doesn’t have to be a direct retelling,” Yan Hui reassured her. “You just use reality as a base. Art comes from life, but it transcends life. You need to reshape the story, add your voice and your reflection. That’s what gives it meaning.”

“Art comes from life, but it transcends life?” Qingqiu echoed, deep in thought.

Yan Hui paused. She couldn’t recall exactly who had said it—or whether the quote even existed yet—but she smiled and said vaguely, “A foreign writer said that. I heard it somewhere, though I can’t remember where. Still, the idea is sound.”

Qingqiu nodded and silently reflected on the phrase.

Though Yan Hui’s words were fragmented and unsystematic, they sparked something in Qingqiu. Her natural writing talent took over, and the initial embarrassment slowly gave way to inspiration. She began to visualize the story more clearly.

At first, she planned a predictable plot: a naive female student deceived by a playboy. But that alone felt shallow. What she needed was to embed her own perspective—something that would provoke reflection in readers.

She’d read nearly every book in the house, accumulating a wide base of knowledge. All she had to do now was organize her thoughts and bring the pieces together.

Yan Hui saw her fall into a thoughtful silence and quietly slipped away, not wanting to disturb her.

Back in the house, Mrs. Leng and Han Ma had both noticed Qingqiu’s recent melancholy, though they didn’t know the cause. Seeing her finally engage with Yan Hui brought them some relief. When Yan Hui emerged, Mrs. Leng looked at her anxiously.

“She’s fine,” Yan Hui said gently.

Mrs. Leng recited a short Buddhist prayer, finally at ease. She had long suspected something had gone wrong between Qingqiu and Yanxi, but hadn’t dared bring it up. Now, seeing her daughter slowly open up to someone else, her heart felt lighter.

She had always liked Yanxi. But she knew her family’s situation was unstable. Opportunities like the Jin family didn’t come twice. Still, that same wealth and status made her hesitate—better to wait and see what the two young people decided.

Yet since Yan Hui entered their lives, Qingqiu’s interest in Yanxi had visibly cooled. Whether it would amount to anything, she didn’t know. But at least now, her daughter could return to a peaceful life.

Qingqiu reworked the story countless times before committing to a final draft. With Yan Hui’s input, many parts were revised. The final version was far from her original concept.

What began as a simple tale about a female student fooled by a playboy evolved into something far deeper: a story of a female student and a hunter.

In the opening, an innocent girl buys flowers on the street. A hunter, watching from afar, becomes intrigued. Step by step, he sets his trap and eventually captures her. Once the hunt is over, he moves on—this time, to the flower vendor who had sold the girl her bouquet.

Though the narrative shifted, it remained from the girl’s perspective. The first half felt like a typical romance between a rich man and a poor girl. Under the hunter’s guidance, the student is drawn into high society, showered with luxuries, and dazzled by status. She offers him her heart—only to see him, the very next day, on another woman’s arm.

As Yan Hui put it, the ending served as a cautionary tale, elevating the story’s impact.

When the manuscript was finished, Yan Hui accompanied Qingqiu to the editorial office. The short story, a few thousand words long, was accepted on the spot, with a generous payment for a newcomer—two yuan per thousand words.

Qingqiu was thrilled. Though the process had been challenging, she believed the next would come easier. If she could publish one story per week, maybe she really could earn enough to support herself.

But by the time they left the office, her excitement had faded.

Yes, she could support herself with this. But earning hundreds of yuan in a few weeks to buy Yanxi a bicycle before his birthday? That was nearly impossible through writing alone.

She sighed, anxiety creeping in again.

Yan Hui noticed her unease and waited until they were back at the Leng home to say anything. After greeting Mrs. Leng, she followed Qingqiu to her room.

“Worried about the money?” she asked with a smile.

“You know exactly what I’m worried about.” Qingqiu sighed. She had never been so troubled over money before. At seventeen, she was already burdened with such concerns.

Yan Hui reassured her, “It’s not that hard.”

“How?”

“Actually,” she said mysteriously, “the money is already in your house. You just haven’t noticed.”

Qingqiu’s expression darkened. “Many of our books have already been sold to raise money. The ones left are precious—we only kept what we couldn’t bear to lose.”

“We’re not selling them,” Yan Hui replied. “But what if we worked with a bookstore to proofread and republish them? That way, more people could read these valuable texts, and we could solve our financial problem too.”