People tend to notice familiar things. Since meeting her in person, whenever Zhou Zhi came across Fang Jiang's name online, she would instinctively pay more attention. If a video compilation appeared on her homepage, she would click to watch. To her surprise, she realized that Fang Jiang frequently showed up on her Weibo feed.

"Fang Jiang's New Year Work Attendance: Never Late, Never Early, Covering Her Mouth with a Smile and in Great Spirits." At 10 a.m. on a workday, a reporter stationed outside Fang Jiang Studio captured Fang Jiang stepping out of her car with a long-range lens. She carried a Cambridge satchel, dressed like a polished office professional. After a few steps, as if struck by a thought, she suddenly covered her mouth and chuckled softly—a stark contrast to the expressionless commuters rushing to clock in. When someone recognized her, she waved cheerfully before quickly entering the office area.

A superstar is still a superstar—even such trivial news could be published and shared hundreds of times.

"Ranking the Goddesses of the Sapphic Circle: Cheng Hanzhi at Second Place, Fang Jiang at Eleventh."

(Sapphic Circle typically refers to a community or group that celebrates and supports women who love women, particularly in a romantic or se.xual context.)

Goddess? More like a goddess with issues. I wonder if that goddess... with issues knows that 600 Wanping South Road is the Shanghai Mental Health Center—a perfect place for her.

After scrolling through several pieces of news about Fang Jiang, each photo showed her in a sharp, professional style, embodying a youthful yet mature vibe. In truth, Fang Jiang's aura was perfectly suited for urban workplace dramas, yet most of her TV series were period fantasy pieces featuring pseudo-empowered female leads.

This wasn't hard to understand. In recent years, funding had poured into period dramas—one hit would spawn countless imitations. They appealed to a broad audience, required lower technical standards, and with the "fantasy" label, even historical accuracy became unnecessary. Workplace dramas, on the other hand, demanded both life experience and professional knowledge from screenwriters, making it difficult to stand out. Moreover, actors often got typecast—if you excelled at playing a virtuous empress like Empress Zhangsun, you'd be offered similar roles repeatedly. For producers, it was a safe bet—at least they couldn't go wrong.

In this regard, TV dramas and writing were strikingly similar. Years ago, stories about female consorts disguised as men had been wildly popular, prompting everyone to write their own versions. Some readers complained, begging for more different themes. Of course, it was possible, but the story for other genres never looked as appealing. Safe topics with built-in popularity naturally attracted crowds chasing profits—just like the current flood of entertainment industry stories. It wasn't that no one protested the omnipresence of Best Actress tropes, yet the entertainment circle remained hot. Simply tagging a story with "Best Actress" and "entertainment industry" could instantly boost its collection by a hundred.

Opening her own website column to check the favorites and comments, Zhou Zhi sighed and closed it immediately. As a perennial niche writer, everything she wrote turned cold. Whether it was the entertainment industry or other trendy topics, her works remained unpopular—much like the consort stories of the past.

Seeing the novel inevitably reminded her of that tempting offer that no longer existed. Zhou Zhi clutched her chest. Resisting such temptation required a level of foolishness comparable to burning cash on the spot—though the latter was illegal. But in essence, they were the same: a self-sabotaging aversion to money.

Frustrated, she refreshed Weibo and encountered another video of Fang Jiang.

In a brief post-brand-event interview, a female reporter from the Longevity Thousand Searches Website asked Fang Jiang, "You've been smiling a lot lately—any happy news?"

Fang Jiang blinked innocently. "I smile every day."

The video cut to a series of comparison photos, clearly showing that while Fang Jiang always smiled, her recent grins were exceptionally radiant.

The female reporter came prepared, deliberately showing Fang Jiang a video: a moment from an event a few days ago where she stood to the side and suddenly burst into laughter for no reason. It was filmed by a fan attending the event and uploaded online.

Fang Jiang put on an expression of sudden realization. "The day before the event, Xiao Yuan, my assistant, showed me a Weibo post. It was about a cat that suddenly went bald in the middle of its head. At first, the owner thought a bird had pecked it, but there were no birds around. Then they suspected a skin disease and rushed to the vet for a checkup. The vet found no skin issues, so what was the cause? Only the fur on that part of the head could be pulled out, while the rest was perfectly fine. The vet said it might be due to the cat's depression." As she spoke, she gestured toward her own forehead.

"Just because of a cat?" The reporter seemed skeptical. Could a Weibo post about a cat make her laugh like a fool the next day?

Fang Jiang couldn't help but chuckle, her bright eyes curving into crescents, radiating early spring warmth. "That morning, I ate a kiwifruit. Just for fun, I shaved a bald spot on top of it, just like the cat."

The barrage of comments flooded in:

—So adorable. —Adorable to death. —Jiang Jiang is too cute. —How can she be this cute? I'm about to faint.

Zhou Zhi sneered coldly. She, too, was about to faint—from anger. She wanted to furiously post eight hundred chat logs publicly to expose this liar who spun tales without batting an eye. She had once criticized Fang Jiang's lack of acting skills, but now she realized her mistake—the woman was a natural at lying, delivering her story with such conviction. So what if she was bald? How dare she mock her for being bald.

"You're the bald one, you're the bald one, you're the bald one!"

But Teacher Fang, who neither dieted nor stayed up late, had an enviable head of hair.

The reporter was clearly charmed by Fang Jiang, her tone becoming much lighter. "Jiang Jiang, do you like cats too? Do you have one?"

Fang Jiang: "Cats, dogs—anything furry, I love them. But I don't keep any. With small animals, once you decide to raise them, you treat them as part of the family. As you know, in our line of work, we're always on the move, unsettled. If I couldn't see or care for them regularly, I'd worry. But lately, I've been watching videos of other people's dogs—is it called Cloud Petting Dogs? That person battles with their dog three hundred times a day—it's especially cute. I want to pet it."

Another wave of comments followed: Let me be that dog, I want to be petted, followed by a string of "hahaha."

Zhou Zhi's first thought was of herself. She posted daily about Gang Kai's antics on her Moments, and she hadn't restricted Fang Jiang from viewing them. But a big star checking her Moments regularly? She couldn't believe it. Even if Fang Jiang was eccentric, she couldn't be that eccentric.

Celebrity interviews were mostly dull—questions provided in advance, answers prepared beforehand, devoid of any surprises. It was all for a living, a mutual exchange of pleasantries without much passion. Zhou Zhi never understood the point of asking the same questions repeatedly, only to get canned responses. There was no excitement, no authenticity—viewers had to read between the lines. Not being a fan, she found it boring and was about to close Weibo to get back to writing.

Then, the reporter asked: "Jiang Jiang, your fans are eager to see you on the big screen. I heard you're currently vying for a role in Kikujiro's new film?"

Fang Jiang visibly froze, pausing for three seconds. The reporter added, "There's news that Kikujiro is remaking Takeshi Kitano's Dolls."

Hearing about Takeshi Kitano and the dolls, Zhou Zhi also perked up, never expecting Fang Jiang to be interested in this film. However, in the movie "Dolls," there wasn't much room for female performances—which role could Fang Jiang possibly play? The lover who waits for the yakuza boss with a lunchbox day after day for decades? The disfigured star? Or the one who survives a sui.cide attempt only to become a fool, endlessly following her unfaithful fiancé?

Fang Jiang quickly snapped back to attention. Unlike others who might outright deny or claim uncertainty, she affirmed the female reporter's question. "If I were fortunate enough to participate in the remake of a film I love, it would be a truly happy thing. As soon as we heard about this, our studio contacted Director Kikujiro. To be honest, we haven't received a reply yet."

The reporter was clearly taken aback by her directness—this answer could easily be spun into a negative news story. She could already imagine the headlines: "Fang Jiang Desperately Seeks Overseas Opportunities, Brutally Rejected by Director" or "Failed to Curry Favor with Director, Where Does Fang Jiang Go from Here?"—eventually evolving into smear campaigns questioning her acting skills.

Sensing the reporter's surprise, Fang Jiang smiled understandingly and said, "Actually, in this film, the actors are more like background elements. If you've seen it, you'd know the actors have very few lines. The scenery, music, and costumes are more captivating than the actors themselves. All of this serves the fate portrayed in the film—we are pawns of destiny, we are dolls."

She left it at that, not delving further into the topic, and instead proactively began discussing her recent plans to try new things.

In the QQ group, readers were clamoring for updates, tapping their bowls impatiently. Zhou Zhi quickly closed Weibo. Opening her document, Fang Jiang's voice echoed in her ears, her captivating gaze floated before her eyes, and the glint in them seized her focus, making it impossible to immerse herself in her own novel.

Beautiful faces are refreshing, she thought—she must have been reading too much news about Fang Jiang.

Unable to write, she could only check the comments. They were few and far between, with little of note. Zhou Zhi sighed, reality was teaching her a lesson.

If subscriptions are an author's sustenance, then comments are their adrenaline—inspiring them to endure loneliness day after day, to pour their heart and soul into crafting stirring words.

Readers often find authors fascinating—authors create worlds, inviting readers to journey alongside them. They seldom realize how solitary the creative process can be, especially for traditional authors who must finish an entire book before publishing and gaining a chance to interact. Now, with online serialization, opportunities for communication have multiplied and become more immediate, making authors eager for feedback.

How's the writing?

Do you like the characters?

Any guesses about what happens next?

Other thoughts?

Any moments of shared understanding?

Behind every new chapter lies a face longing to be seen: Look at me.

Comments signify being seen. If a reader's comment aligns with the author's original intent, it becomes the author's happiest moment.

She had been truly seen.

Yet sometimes, readers' insights could be so sharp they were both amusing and exasperating.

For instance, a recent comment under an old work:

Dongchi Luobo commented: I heard an author's first full-length novel often carries semi-autobiographical elements, so did you really consider stealing your brother's love interest? Did you actually have a crush on a teacher?

Luobo was a generous radish (Luobo), dropping three deep-sea bombs with a single strike.

Zhou Zhi replied: I wanted to like my teacher, but she never gave me the chance. I wanted to steal my brother's girlfriend, but he never gave me the chance either.

This was the honest truth. For some authors, you can indeed glimpse part of their true selves through their novels, like Gu Long and Yi Shu.

The person who asked the question wasn't satisfied with the answer, wrinkled her nose, and muttered: "How boring."

"If I'd known earlier, I wouldn't have sent her money. So boring, so boring."

If Zhou Zhi had known that the person behind this ID was Fang Jiang—the main subject of the news she'd been reading about for a while—she probably would have been shocked enough to drop her hat again.

The person actually operating the account was Fang Jiang's assistant, her reader: Song Yuan.

Song Yuan had a particular way of persuading Fang Jiang: "Teacher Fang, haven't you heard the saying? Just read the book, no need to know what the author is like. It's like eating eggs—you don't need to know what the chicken that laid them is like. If the egg tastes good, just eat the egg."

After laughing about it for several days in a row, Fang Jiang finally got over the egg jokes and stopped bursting into laughter. Suddenly inspired, she asked her assistant, "What do you think about adapting this novel into a play?"

Song Yuan slapped her thigh. "Great idea, Teacher Fang! I had the same thought earlier—the dialogue and everything is very suitable for a stage play. Wait, wait, wait—you said 'we'? Teacher Fang, are you planning to do it yourself? Oh no, oh no, Manager Meng will definitely ki.ll me. Stage plays are time-consuming, labor-intensive, and don't make money."

"Don't worry, ki.lling people is illegal. It won't take much time. Ask that bald woman if she can adapt the script. If she can't, I can find someone else to do it. Actually, never mind, I'll ask her myself."

---

Author's Note:
Female reporter: Jiang Jiang, who did you want to pet, the person or the dog?

Warning:
This novel will include plotlines about my novel being adapted into a TV drama, but please separate Shoutou and Zhou Zhi.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆Charvinovel ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆