Wang Jian looked at the materials and frowned as he asked, "What if no publishers are interested?"
The old man was cleaning up the table and replied, "Then you'd have to self-publish, but I doubt you could afford that."
Wang Jian touched his pocket and wisely did not ask how much self-publishing would cost.
He just held his manuscript, glanced once more at the documents on the table, and slowly nodded.
It was now or never.
If he failed, it would mean that online novels were not suited for the United States.
The novels in his mind would just remain for his personal amusement.
Thus, he noted down the submission addresses and methods of several major publishing houses.
He planned to photocopy the story synopsis and the first few tens of thousands of words of the novel he had printed out today and try each one tomorrow.
Meanwhile, the old man had cleaned up an unoccupied room to serve as Wang Jian's bedroom for the night.
Thus, Wang Jian spent the quietest night since he had arrived.
There were no sounds of gunshots or shouting, and no smell of leaves or alcohol.
All these made him feel exceptionally comfortable.
When he woke up the next morning, Wang Jian felt the fatigue from busying with the manuscript for the past few days had swept away.
After eating a sandwich and a glass of milk prepared by the old man, he packed his manuscript and the prepared story synopsis in a bag and bade the old man goodbye.
Then, Wang Jian went to the post office, bought a stack of envelopes, and a whole sheet of stamps.
Fortunately, Wang Jian lived in New York, where most of the publishing houses had branch offices that could receive manuscripts for review.
Otherwise, just the postage would have cost him dearly.
Next, Wang Jian went to a photocopying shop and, after some haggling, made eight copies of what he had printed.
He put the copies into envelopes, affixed the stamps, and meticulously wrote down the addresses.
With that, he stuffed everything into a mailbox.
Done, now to wait for responses.
Wang Jian thought, hoping for a good result; otherwise, he really might have to join El and use the money earned from hustling to pay his rent and survive the days requiring community service.
With hope, he returned to his apartment in the Bronx.
However, as soon as he opened the door, he saw two black men sitting on the sofa, looking expectantly towards the door.
As soon as they saw Wang Jian enter, they jumped up.
"Hey, bro, did you finish that story?" one of the black men asked.
"Yeah, yeah, bring it out once it's done; we're waiting to read it," said the other man, eagerly.
Wang Jian was initially startled, but once he calmed down, he realized these were the first people who had read his manuscript.
"Uh, no, I didn't continue writing," Wang Jian thought of the old man's advice to keep the manuscript private until it was published.
So, he lied.
"Ah, why didn't you write more? The protagonist was just being looked down upon by some second-rate mages, but he's already a third-rated mage," one black fellow lamented. "It was getting so exciting, and then just cut off. What's up with that?"
"Really, it had me so distracted yesterday that I even lost focus while with a chick, just thinking about what comes next," said the other.
Both turned their eager eyes to Wang Jian, "Quick, write more!"
Feeling overwhelmed by their intense gaze, Wang Jian quickly grabbed a copy of "Aquaman" from the table and handed it over.
"Read this for now; it's interesting too."
The two men flipped through the comic dismissively and threw it back on the table.
"What is this, it's no good. We might as well go to a party; heard there's some quality stuff there."
The two men exchanged glances, stood up resentfully, and addressed Wang Jian, "Stop wandering about and focus on writing at home."
Then, shaking their heads and sighing, they left the apartment to go to a party.
Watching their retreating figures, Wang Jian couldn't help feeling a sense of déjà vu.
Shaking his head, he stopped dwelling on it and quickly went to his room to grab his documents, preparing to collect food stamps.
Now, without a steady income and having spent money on submissions, it was best to save as much as possible.
After receiving the current month's food stamps at the distribution place, Wang Jian bought a lot of groceries.
He carried the food back to his apartment, constantly reminding himself not to spend any more, as he really couldn't afford the rent anymore.
Then, Wang Jian began the process of waiting, job searching, not finding anything, and doing community service.
Again job searching, not finding anything, and doing more community service.
Three days later.
Wang Jian watched the departing mailman, his eyes vacant, muttering to himself, "Still nothing..."
Over these three days, his mood shifted from hopeful to self-consoling.
Even now, Wang Jian felt that news of rejection would be better than no news at all.
Meanwhile, in Manhattan at Random House, a young editor named Tom, holding Wang Jian's submission, eagerly approached Old Jack's office.
"Chief editor, this manuscript is very interesting," he handed over the manuscript and continued, "Although the writing is immature and the story absurd, it has potential."
"If handled well, this could be a bestseller."
"May I go and talk to the author?" he asked, full of hope.
A serious-looking middle-aged white man took the manuscript, motioned for the excited young man to sit down, and began to read.
Ten minutes later, he threw the manuscript across the table and declared, "Rejected!"
Furious, he continued, "This counts as a book? Magic and such nonsense, and eating corn makes one powerful?"
"Do people nowadays have no literary taste at all? Does anyone think this level of writing belongs in literature? Literature is noble, full of depth. What is this?"
"But..." Tom was about to say something more, but, seeing Old Jack's stern look, he swallowed his words.
"Yes, I'll return the manuscript now."
With that, he shook his head and left the chief editor's office.
Old Jack watched the young man's retreating figure and remarked, "Young people still lack experience. They need more tempering."
Similar incidents were happening in other renowned publishing houses in New York.
The only difference being whether or not there was a Tom-like young editor to enthusiastically recommend the manuscript.
Meanwhile, after five days of agonizing waiting, Wang Jian finally received the first response from a publisher.
Suppressing his excitement, he took the response back to his bedroom.
After taking a deep breath, he slowly opened the envelope.
The letter read: We regret to inform you that your manuscript does not meet our publishing standards. Please revise and resubmit. Thank you for your trust.
Signed, Harper Publishers.
Wang Jian stared at the letter, his eyes vacant, his heart a mixture of emotions.