An era in the city's literary life is coming to an end: the Shanghai Writers' Association, founded in 1949 to enable writers to concentrate on their writing by giving them salaries, is soon to end the practice.
Currently, the association has 10 full-time writers - who are paid 2,000 yuan (US$241) a month - and about 1,000 associate writers, who have other jobs and get no pay from the association.
Zhao Changtian, vice chairman of the Writers' Association, explained that the salaries will be replaced by a contract system, under which an author can bid for funds by proposing specific writing projects. This plan opens up literatary funding to a much greater number of writers.
This system is not new: it's been adopted in Guangzhou, Shenzhen and other southern cities in China, that have had contracted writers since 1994.
Wang Xiaoying, 55, is one of the association's full-time writers. She made her name in the 1980s with her book, "Introduction to the Art of Painting" which examines the lives of lawyers and painters.
"Writers don't have to work a nine-to-five routine," said Wang. "And my monthly salary makes it possible for me not to worry too much about money."
In return for that salary, she does, of course, have to produce material.
"If a writer doesn't produce enough material, they'll be delisted." she said. But since writers are only audited every four years, Wang said she feels little pressure. She writes because she wants to - not because she has to.
As a novelist working mostly on full-length novels, Wang's daily life is governed by whether she's working on a novel or is between books.
When she's writing she works between eight or nine hours a day, and sometimes even longer.
During the intervals between novels, life is easier and time hangs heavily on her hands. "But those short periods are happy moments in my life. That is when I can enjoy a sense of achievements without thinking of motivating myself again," she said.
Wang also uses the breaks between novels as what she half-jokingly calls a "paying-off-debts" time, during which she writes articles for newspapers and magazines.
"But most of the time I read, research and interview for my next book," she said.
While Wang's books sell in respectable numbers, she doesn't see much chance of making a fortune out of them. That's not surprising given that novelists are poorly paid. For a novel of between 300,000 and 400,000 words, the publishing houses only pay 10,000 yuan - the same price as TV writers earn for a single soap-opera script.
The low esteem in which writers are sometimes held is shown by the nickname used sometimes to describe what they do. The Chinese name for "writer" is "zuojia," which means "productive in literatary works." But, she says, many people pronounce it using a different tone causing the shift in meaning to "sit-at-home."
Many of Wang's fellow writers have turned to writing screen scripts or biographies of celebrities.
"It's an easier way to make money," said Wang, citing a fellow writer who was able to devote her time to literature only after earning a big sum by writing TV plays and a biography of a famous volleyball player.
"Writing TV scripts is not for me, however," said Wang. "I enjoy my life the way it is, and prefer to write whatever interests me."
And what most interests Wang are women's life struggles. Yet, for a substantial portion of her career, she was unable to pursue that interest.
"Before China began opening reforms in the early 1980s, class struggle came before everything. And if a novel had no class confrontation, it would be impossible to get it published," said Wang.
She explains that her first novel, a love story, had to be re-written eight times before publication was allowed - and, when it was published in 1978, it had the mandatory class conflict plot bolted on to it.
Tired of serving such strident interests, Wang stopped writing altogether that year - and would not have begun again, she said, had she not come across a novella by one of the country's outstanding writers, Zhang Jie, titled, Love Must Not Be Forgotten.
Published in the early 1980s, and considered a milestone in Chinese literature of that period, Wang read the book in 1982.
Zhang's plot focused on a platonic and restricted love between a man and a woman.
"Literature was beginning to return to the way it should be," she said - a process in which it is still embarked.
Today's novelists, both writers said, have more freedom than playwrights or stage performers, who face more punitive censorship.
Wang's opinions are echoed by Zhao Changtian .
Writers nowadays tend to keep a relatively low profile in terms of politics, though all 10 permanent members of the association are either members of the nation's or city's People's Congress or People's Political Consultative Conference.
Zhao said that for today's writers it's no longer mandatory to "represent the people," though Wang said that's where her interest still lies. "I try to get myself involved with society," she said.
Besides opening up funding to a greater number, another reason behind the association's change is the desire to attract more writers. Today, not many new writers show much interest in joining the association's paid roster.
Known for his work Mr Shirt, Zhang Sheng, 32, a representative of the rising generation, and a lecturer at the city's Jiao Tong University, said, "You'll never catch me giving up my job to be a professional writer."
Zhao said being a paid writer brings too much pressure. "I write for myself and my friends," he said.
And even joining the association as an associated member is not as attractive as it once was.
"Although it's a good thing to have such an organization, I wouldn't want to be an associated member," said Anni Baobei in her 20s, whose books, among others Farewell to Hui'an are all bestsellers. "All that matters for a writer is writing a good book - not joining an association."
She takes a pragmatic attitude toward her work: "Though I write for myself I also write for the market. No one can afford to neglect the market, and you have to write for those who want to listen to you."
(www.eastday.com.cn 05/21/2001)
