“Cultured people tend to scorn each other. People from the Writers’ Association insisted that Zhang Ye doesn’t know literature. And with Teacher Little Zhang’s personality, it would be a wonder if he could endure it. What sort of person is Teacher Little Zhang? He is a person who would even curse at his colleagues. He is a person who doesn’t give face to the station’s Leader. Watch and see. I believe that today will not end peacefully.”
In the radio station’s other channels, Zhang Ye was currently quite famous. Everyone knew him, so once the situation was understood, they had a feeling that a storm was about to brew.
…
In the middle of the back row of the auditorium.
Zhang Ye sat at his seat. To his left was Wang Xiaomei, and to his right was Wu Datao. He had bad relations with Wu Datao, so they naturally did not speak. Wang Xiaomei was well-known to be quiet, and seldom exchanged words with Zhang Ye; hence, Zhang Ye only looked down at his cellphone.
And of course, the cellphone’s reception wasn’t good.
It might have been due to the good sound isolation of the auditorium, which also blocked out the reception.
Zhang Ye only managed to go on the internet after trying a few times. The judging interface of the radio station’s Mid-Autumn Festival Poetry Meet indicated that it had already begun. There were quite a lot of listeners and people from all walks of life publishing their works. Some wrote ancient poems, while some wrote phrases. Some were modern poems, and some were original song lyrics that were relevant to the Mid-Autumn Festival. There was no prize for this meet, but there was glory to it. If you could gain any spot in the top three, it would cause your fame to rise sharply in the industry. Hence, there were many people who participated.
However, the content was nothing flattering.
“The moon, my moon, you are so beautiful…”
“Mid-Autumn Festival, families eat mooncakes. Finishing one, eating another one.”
Zhang Ye nearly cried tears seeing this. The voting process had already begun, but even the number one voted poem was average. The quality was not high.
Dong.
The doors to the auditorium closed.
The last signal bar on the cellphone disappeared. There was no way of going on the internet, so Zhang Ye kept his phone in his pocket. He was pondering how he could correct his reputation!
My poems aren’t good?
My poems have no literary value?
This was not denying Zhang Ye, but denying the famous masters of his world. Zhang Ye felt amused for them. This was only happening in this world. If it was switched to Zhang Ye’s world, would Meng Dongguo and company dare to question these poems? They would only be beaten to death if they did!