Chapter Fifteen: On Withdrawing from School

The matter of dropping out has attracted considerable media attention. Recently, aside from myself, another young writer, Han Han, has also left school. Many teachers and parents across various universities believe that such actions set a terrible example for the youth, so I have been widely criticized in the media and online. I can understand society’s concerns and criticism—people worry that students might follow suit and make the same choice.

Today, I would like to take this opportunity to address the issue directly. Dropping out was a personal decision, one I made only after obtaining my parents’ consent. At the time, they set a condition: if I wanted to leave school to publish novels, I could do so only if I could support myself through royalties; otherwise, I would have to obediently return to my studies. I agreed because my decision was not driven by aversion to learning or rebellion, but by careful deliberation.

The reason I bring this up today is to urge my readers never to imitate my actions. You can make money in any field, but not everyone succeeds, whether writing novels or working elsewhere. There are many young writers in the country, but how many can actually live off their royalties? I don’t say this to boast, but to make it clear that in any industry, only a minority achieve great success and wealth. People often only see those at the top, forgetting the countless failures beneath them.

For the vast majority, education is the simplest and most direct path, and the deeper you enter society, the more you’ll appreciate the value of academic credentials. A good degree represents countless opportunities—opportunities that those who drop out early and brave the world might only encounter after decades of struggle, if at all. For many, those chances will never come.

So, whatever road you choose—be it dropping out or pursuing writing—please think carefully before deciding: are you more likely to become the rare one-in-a-million at the pinnacle, or one of the 99.9999999% left behind?

When Gu Zhi finished speaking, he bowed gently to the audience. Now a public figure with a large following—most of them young people—his every word and deed is magnified by the media and internet. Ordinary actions might not cause much trouble, but with something as significant as dropping out, he had to be especially cautious.

In China, both the state and the people place great importance on education. Even though there are disparities in educational resources across regions, learning remains one of the main avenues for social mobility. This is especially true for children from impoverished families.

In his previous life, Han Shao had been widely criticized for failing all his classes and dropping out of high school, which caused a considerable stir. While his fans supported him as always, who could say how many students across the vast nation were influenced by his actions to make the same choice? In this life, not only Han Shao but also the even more famous Gu Zhi had withdrawn from school. Two successful high school dropouts in succession—it was no longer a simple one-plus-one effect, but a multiplying impact on society.

Gu Zhi didn’t want to mislead young people, nor did he wish to become a target for media or even national criticism in the future—there was no benefit in that for him. Traditional values and youth need not be in opposition. In this new life, Gu Zhi didn’t have to wait, as Han Shao did, until his fans grew up and became mainstream voices in society before regaining control of the narrative. Others may have taken the wrong path, but Gu Zhi would not repeat their mistakes or wade into troubled waters.

When he finished speaking, the venue fell silent. After a moment, someone began to clap, and then thunderous applause erupted, shaking the entire Beijing Film Academy. At the same time, several cameras were trained on Gu Zhi, shutters firing repeatedly, their flashes nearly blinding his “24K kryptonite” eyes.

These were the reporters who had come especially for the signing event. Gu Zhi had not granted interviews for a long time; now that there was an opportunity, the media would not let it slip away.

After answering ten questions, Gu Zhi responded to an additional one from a reporter from Guangming Daily, the event’s co-host and, in a sense, a member of his own circle—a courtesy he was willing to extend.

“Gu, everyone knows you write incredibly fast—two novels published in just two months. But it’s been quite a while now without a third book. Are you still preparing something new, or have you already started writing?” The long-haired female reporter seemed uncertain how to address him—“Teacher Gu” felt odd for a seventeen-year-old, and no one was in the habit of using that title yet. “Writer Gu” sounded too much like an old man, so she settled on “Student Gu”—friendly and fitting.

Gu Zhi didn’t mind the form of address. Smiling, he replied:

“These past few months I’ve been preparing my third novel, and it’s almost finished. I’ll let you in on a little secret—it’s a fresh, youthful story, different in style from the first two. I hope you’ll all like it. Thank you for your support.”

As he spoke, the reporters scribbled furiously below. It was big news—coming here had not been in vain. Every publisher in China was watching Gu Zhi. With so many fans and such sales, who wouldn’t be tempted? Though the rights to this lucrative “cake” still belonged to Guangming Daily’s publishing house, everyone hoped for a chance at his next book.

The fans present were even more ecstatic, calling out with anticipation for Gu Zhi’s next work. With the Q&A over, the book signing began.

Originally, the publisher expected to finish the signing by noon, but the turnout was overwhelming. By twelve o’clock, only half the fans had made it through. Gu Zhi’s hand was nearly cramped—now he finally understood why celebrity autographs are so sloppy. It was impossible to keep up with the flow, and seeing the mass of fans still waiting in line, his writing grew faster and ever more untidy.

Still, he didn’t finish in time. Just after noon, the publisher tried to stop the event, eager to take Gu Zhi to a prearranged luncheon. Shaking out his sore arm, Gu Zhi looked up at the group of fans still patiently waiting with books in hand.

He turned to the publisher’s manager and said only one thing:

“I’m not leaving until I’ve signed every book.”

So many had come all this way for the event—he could not, and would not, let them leave disappointed.