Chapter 90: Taking Comedy to the Extreme

A flood of thoughts rushed through his mind, but Zhang Chu’s hand did not slow as he signed book after book, occasionally rising from his seat to pose for photos with his close friends. Though the crowd seemed to number only a little over two hundred, as more people queued up for signatures, the supply of prepared books unexpectedly began to run out. Zhou Wanying hurriedly arranged for more stock to be brought up from the warehouse.

It was nearly half past eleven before all the readers had finally received their signed copies, a turnout far beyond Zhang Chu’s expectations.

“We sold 715 books today, with only a handful left unsigned,” Zhou Wanying said with a smile.

Many who came weren’t necessarily fans—they were simply joining in the excitement. Since a writer was hosting a signing event, they bought a book and asked for a signature, whether for their own collection or to show off on social media. Tennis fans often seek autographs from players not because they idolize them, but for the thrill of possessing something unique—a status symbol. Some even require others to decipher the scribbled signatures they collect.

In any case, a book that sells is a good book. Zhang Chu had no concern for people’s motives in buying.

After the signing event ended, Zhang Bowen and Chu Lan, his parents, emerged from the waiting room, having waited to celebrate with their son.

“I filmed over twenty minutes just now. You’re a famous writer now!” Chu Lan said enthusiastically, beckoning Zhang Chu to look at her phone. She could hardly wait to share the video everywhere.

Zhang Chu acknowledged it with a smile. He’d already checked his WeChat moments—his mother had posted several videos and flooded everyone’s feeds with photos. No doubt, this barrage would see him muted or unfriended by quite a few people.

…

After a family lunch, Chu Lan went off to play mahjong with friends, while Zhang Bowen and Zhang Chu drove home. One went to read and check inventory, the other headed to his computer.

Zhang Chu turned on his bedroom’s Bluetooth speaker, letting the music of Coldplay fill the room—a band he favored, along with Imagine Dragons. With the music as backdrop, he began searching through his system.

What should he write for his next book?

With an ocean of books at his disposal, Zhang Chu knew he couldn’t simply plagiarize classics like “To Live” or “One Hundred Years of Solitude.” Such masterpieces were clearly not the work of someone his age, and even as a literary copycat, he couldn’t be too reckless; works beyond his capabilities would only arouse suspicion.

The words of a reader at the signing event still echoed in his ears; online, he was best known for his wit—comedy had become his signature. There were many humorous novels, but few that truly struck a chord. Zhang Chu sifted through the system, bypassing Chekhov, Twain, and O. Henry—their humor, from bygone eras, didn’t quite match the tastes of his compatriots. Some black humor required a specific cultural context; for instance, the rich British humor in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” wouldn’t find wide appeal locally.

With so many choices, Zhang Chu’s head spun as he lay in bed, eliminating options one by one.

At least, his path seemed clear for now: capitalize on his reputation as a jokester, maintain his popularity, and only then consider shifting genres.

“Which work should I choose?” he mused, stroking his chin. Many of the books in the system were unfamiliar to him. There was no rush to write, so he decided to take his time reading.

Reading thousands of books gives one divine inspiration, he thought. In retrospect, he hadn’t read nearly enough in his previous life.

Only after reading a book could he judge its content and suitability for his own writing. If he’d never read “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” he wouldn’t have known it wasn’t a book to copy lightly. What could be gleaned from just the title?

“If choosing a book is this difficult, writing one must be even harder,” he reflected. He used the system’s external assistance feature, listing book attributes and filtering by rating and region to find suitable works.

If a book caught his eye, he’d click to investigate. Suddenly, one title seized his attention!

“‘Journey to the West Diary’ by Jin Hezai?”

Zhang Chu’s sole impression of Jin Hezai was “The Legend of Wukong”—that iconic line about the sky never again covering his eyes was legendary and impassioned. Even after it was adapted into a film, Zhang Chu contributed to its box office.

“The Legend of Wukong” accompanied a generation through their youthful, rebellious years, but he’d never read “Journey to the West Diary”—a regret, he realized.

“Is there any connection between ‘Journey to the West Diary’ and ‘Sha Monk’s Diary’?”

He could vaguely recall the latter making him laugh until his face hurt—a work that took the well-known pilgrimage and infused it with witty banter, blending modern humor and black comedy, light-hearted and relatable.

At his age, “The Legend of Wukong” would be the ideal choice: youthful and spirited, perfect for inspiring a new generation of teenagers. Yet, at heart, he was a man in his thirties, long past the age for impassioned recklessness, craving instead to write something calm and light.

With curiosity, Zhang Chu immersed himself in the world of books, gradually losing track of time.

…

“How are you still sleeping at six o’clock? Wake up, it’s time for dinner!” Chu Lan had returned from mahjong at some point and now bellowed from the doorway.

Zhang Chu, who had only been feigning sleep, opened his eyes immediately. He’d been reading novels in the system, not actually resting.

“I was just resting my eyes. What’s for dinner?”

“Your grandmother brought a free-range chicken—I’ve made chicken stew with glass noodles. Once you leave home, you won’t find such delicious chicken soup again!” Chu Lan declared proudly. With September approaching, her son would soon depart, and she couldn’t help but feel a hint of delight.

Zhang Chu rubbed his temples; even reading in the system left his head aching. Yet the book was genuinely amusing—Jin Hezai’s use of first-person narrative transformed the characters and timeline of “Journey to the West,” recasting himself as the monk, and using witty language to turn the traditionally staid, sermonizing Tang Monk from TV dramas into a relentless jokester, constantly cracking jokes!

But what drew Zhang Chu most was not merely the humor—it was the insight into life embedded within the story, allowing readers to find meaning amidst their laughter.

“In that case, I’ll choose this book,” Zhang Chu resolved silently. Of course, he wouldn’t admit that choosing a diary-format novel made it easier for him to update online, essentially writing his own diary on the web, blending both forms together.