It happened on a clear afternoon in a **-style cafe by the Jiangnan River.

The name of this cafe is "Kokexili". The walls are inlaid with prayer wheels and several half-person-high Vajra Dharma images, which seem to save the Buddha Mother. A large gilded incense burner was burning on one side, and the hidden fragrance was slowly emitting. Whether it was visually or smelled, the hidden smell was very strong.

However, I don’t like it here particularly. Outside the window is the Canal Park on the banks of the Jiangnan River, you can see some Han-style wooden buildings. Looking at the Han Dynasty eaves outside the window in the **-style cafe makes me feel very uncomfortable. This may also be because I was photography in time and have an almost abnormal luxury for style coordination.

However, it is obvious that the host of this party does not mind this abruptness.

This is a seven-person party, with two old critics, one publisher, one female writer, me, and two journalists. They are all local celebrities. The meeting time was decided two months ago, mainly for a new book about the desert that the female writer was about to start creating. In this era, writing is no longer a private work. Often, when the writer starts writing, various planning and preheating has begun. Even when she went to Danbajilin for field trips two months ago, she was also hyped up as a piece of news at the time.

Our division of labor is also very clear. Needless to say, publishers, old critics are responsible for recommendations, reporters are responsible for media, and I am responsible for taking a set of photo photos for her as a gimmick for publicity. All of these must be coordinated with a marketing plan.

The party started at 9 a.m. and kept talking until the afternoon. I actually didn't know what we were talking about. Publishers, writers, journalists, photographers, all of them were unreliable people. As they were talking, they ran 1,200 miles away.

I actually didn't participate in much discussion. First, my work was simple, and those planning had little to do with me. I can only say I was obliged to listen here; second, for a long time, my attention was on that female writer because she was a little unusual.

"Lan Ting, a free writer." This is what she wrote on the business card she gave me.

Few writers would give themselves a business card, which made me smile. However, I am familiar with this name. In recent years, this name has always appeared in various newspapers and newspapers, as if it was written about those strange things. It was considered a rising star. I always thought that her name was related to Lantingxu, but it turned out to be two other words.

Lan Ting looks pretty, with long natural curly hair and boho clothes. When she looks at her, she has a rare ethereal beauty, not like the two old ghosts with disheveled faces on the edge. I know many writers, either ugly or disabled, but they are all men. It seems that female writers and writers are different from the two.

The reason why she attracted my attention was because she looked a little uncomfortable. We chatted very relaxedly and laughed from time to time, but she remained silent and rarely expressed her opinions. I found that her hands were constantly fiddling with her hair. This was definitely not caused by my handsomeness.

Those who study photography must master a considerable amount of psychology and must use language to control the model's emotions. According to my experience, these small movements are generally due to inner tension and anxiety.

But in this environment, what is she anxious about?

The first feeling is that he may have some ambiguous relationship with our publisher boss, so in this situation, he doesn’t know how to maintain his image and grasp the distance between him. However, when he thought about it, in what era, few women would get nervous about this kind of relationship, let alone that although a man marries a woman, he has not.

Is it for her book? But with her current popularity and this promotional strength, this book should be very successful, so there is no need to worry about it.

I couldn't help but feel a little curious. So I kept observing her, but she didn't show anything except these small movements.

Later, when I saw that I was tired, I thought that writers always had some problem-making quirks. Nabokov could only write on cards that were three inches wide and five inches long, and Pope could only write when he put a box of rotten apples next to him. The constitution did not say that female writers could not be nervous for no reason. This way, I felt relieved. Although her anxiety a little infected me (I am easily affected by others), I didn't keep caring about it.

We talked from morning to evening, and after dinner, we officially achieved several phased results. Because we were a relatively mature team, we talked more carefully and decided on the plan soon.
Chapter completed!