48 Hours a Day

Spring and autumn came and went, and in the blink of an eye, Zhang Heng had spent three full years in this manor, and a year earlier his writing skills had managed to rise to lv2, the same as a fantasy bestselling female author.

It had to be said that the environment of this manor was just too suitable for practicing writing, after all, the opportunity to live with the world's most outstanding authors could be said to be unique and unique.

Although these authors had more or less minor problems, such as Hemingway's addiction to alcohol, Mark Twain's poisonous tongue, and Fitzgerald's dizziness when he met women ...... but their talent was undeniable, and the main thing was that there was nothing else to do in this manor, they were also all happy to answer Zhang Heng's All kinds of doubts to help him read his new creation.

This afternoon, Hemingway was reading with one of Zhang Heng's newly written Chinese novels, and when he finished reading it, he put down his manuscript and frowned.

"How was it?" Zhang Heng asked.

"The technique is impeccable, and I have nothing more to teach you, but there's always something missing from this article I'm reading."

"Emotion." Fitzgerald, on the other hand, hit the nail on the head.

"Exactly." Hemingway lit a cigar, "While there are some genres that emphasize that the narrator should maintain an objective point of view, that doesn't mean their articles are devoid of emotion, it's just that they place those emotions on the various characters in the book, who are left to showcase the emotions of their creators."

Hemingway paused at this point, "Speaking of which, I've always been a little surprised, when I first met you I thought you were one of those happy-go-lucky people, but as I've been around longer I've noticed that you really never seem to be angry or particularly happy, have you always been like this, Spirit ...... Few fluctuations?"

"Not all the time, I still had normal feelings before, although they were a bit lighter than normal, but because of certain things, my feelings gradually disappeared, and it became what it is now." Zhang Heng Dao.

"No offense, but I'd pay to have what happened to you happen to me all over again if it were possible." Fitzgerald was melancholy.

Hemingway, however, was unconvinced, "You can't write truly strong words without experiencing these moments of vulnerability." Afterwards he looked at Zhang Heng, "You're in trouble, although you're only looking for quick pop, it's impossible to be emotionless in any kind of literature."

"It's not completely incomprehensible," interjected Marquez on the other side, "It's just the extent of popular readings if you fake some emotions to add to it. The boy has no emotions, but he can read a dozen novels about emotions and he'll be able to mirror them."

"Sorry, I may not have made it clear before, but my new book does seek to be fast-popular, but in addition to that, it's also important that I want readers to really believe in the story in the book." Zhang Hengdao.

"It's hard to convince people of a story without an adequate emotional foundation." Fitzgerald said, "After all, reading for pleasure is one thing, actually moving the reader is another, you yourself need to put your own emotions into it first to be able to resonate with your readers."

His words were echoed by several of the writers in the room.

But afterwards Hemingway patted Zhang Heng's shoulder, "You don't have to worry, after all, with so many of us here, how can we all work together to help you come up with a solution."

............

After returning from the author party over at Hemingway, Zhang Heng however did not go straight back to his room.

Instead, he turned around and went to the back kitchen, since the writing skill had been upgraded to lv2 Zhang Heng could clearly feel that it had become more and more difficult to improve further, otherwise the fantasy bestselling female author wouldn't have come in for so long and still failed to rise to lv3.

This is not only the skill of things, involving a writer's perception and refinement of their own life, as well as the treatment of the surrounding world, Zhang Heng is not lack of experience, or more accurately this manor is no one richer than his life experience, even if the legendary Hemingway, may not be able to compare to Zhang Heng a copy of the stimulation.

However, refining these experiences and incorporating them into one's own words was not something that could be done overnight, and a process of accumulation was needed.

Zhang Heng wasn't in a hurry, after all, counting his extra 24 hours, he had only been in this copy for less than a third of the time, but some of the things that he had temporarily put aside before his writing skills rose to lv2 could be continued.

For example, that mysterious room 515.

It was said that the most mysterious author in the entire manor lived there, no one had ever seen him come out of his room, and even the few windows of that set of rooms were usually covered by curtains.

For this reason, some people couldn't help but ridicule an old vampire who had lived there for hundreds of years, while the people of the reasoning club were convinced that the owner of the manor lived in that room.

And after living in the manor for two years, Zhang Heng was also more and more inclined to agree with them.

The reason was simple, because Zhang Heng had already eliminated all the other suspects, whether it was the residents or the service staff.

This is like you are doing a multiple-choice question, after all the wrong options are eliminated, the remaining one should be the correct answer no matter how bizarre it is.

However, before Zhang Heng several times to visit the door were rejected, strictly speaking after he knocked on the door to declare his name and history, there was no response at all, as if no one lived there at all.

So Zhang Heng decided to use something else this time, he walked into the back kitchen and told the head chef there, "I would like to order a dish."

"Of course, the manor will accommodate all the guests' requests." The head chef said respectfully.

"I would like to have dry stir-fried beef river, but the dry stir-fried beef river I want is quite special, I remember I once had a bowl of beef river at a stall when I was traveling in Guangdong, it was the best beef river I've ever had, I want to have the same taste as the one I had that day."

In the face of this request, which was obviously a difficult request, the chef remained polite, "Okay, can you tell me the name of that stall?"

"I can't, I've already forgotten."

Hearing this reply, the chef's face finally showed a difficult expression, but remained respectful, "Well, we can try to make it, but I'm afraid the attempts will be more frequent, and we need your immediate feedback."

"No problem." Zhang Heng said.

Two hours later, the entire kitchen was tossed into a sweat and gathered around Zhang Heng, watching nervously as he tasted an unknown number of bowls of Beef River.

I saw Zhang Heng pick up a river noodle with his chopsticks and put it in his mouth on a piece of beef, closed his eyes and chewed slowly, about ten seconds later, Zhang Heng put down his chopsticks and nodded, "It's this taste."

Suddenly, the entire kitchen erupted in cheers, as if the scientists in the research institute had just overcome a world problem.