The letters of the law His online writing means that police officer Li gets barely four hours' sleep a night, but it nets him three times his official salary
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Chinese websites that publish fiction enjoy far greater liberties. Of course, certain things can't be said, like direct criticism of the Communist Party or examples of central government corruption. Websites are still monitored by the Culture Ministry, the Public Security Bureau, the Internet police and company censorship committees. Nevertheless, the volume of words — Zongheng, for instance, has published 100,000 novels that are often triple the length of regular print books — makes it nearly impossible for censors to scrutinize everything in real time. Literary websites can also take advantage of the authorities' skewed perceptions. "I think the government still thinks that network literature is not as influential as paper publishing," says Zongheng's Zhang. "So there is more freedom given to us to publish what we want."
The Fiction Factory
It's a remarkable evolution for a literary form that grew out of bursts of creativity on online bulletin boards in the 1990s. Back then, people would post poems or short stories and pass them nationwide through online community forums that were set up by companies, universities and media groups. "When I first went online and saw all these little essays posted, I felt such a thrill," says Xu Lei, one of the most popular online novelists in China, who writes stories of swashbuckling tomb raiders under the pen name of Nanpai Sanshu. "I figured, Why can't I realize my dream too? Who can stop me?"
Even in a nation where fortunes are made at warp speed, Xu's trajectory is astounding. Back in 2007, he worked at a gambling-supplies company in eastern Zhejiang province when the global financial crisis hit. Demand for poker chips and roulette wheels plummeted. With time on his hands, the then 25-year-old began posting fanciful stories about tomb raiders, inspired by anecdotes from his antique-collecting family. Xu hoped a few friends might check them out. Instead, millions of fans materialized across China. Secrets of a Grave Robber now boasts eight volumes. Even before he finished his first online book, Xu was fielding calls from publishing houses. His first printed novel sold 600,000 copies in a month. Last year he was one of China's highest-grossing novelists, although he jokes: "I don't fly a private jet like Stephen King does."
Online fiction in China is now dictating the direction of print publishing. Many of the novels on best-seller lists were originally published online. Bookstores have sections dedicated to online novels, and e-publishing firms make a good portion of their profits from hard-copy titles. Often books are cleansed of sensitive material, but at other times outré topics make their way into print. Xu's tomb-raiding tales are none-too-subtle allegories of the destruction of the nation's cultural heritage as a result of communist political excesses. There's even a thriving subset of books about naughty officials and their naughtier mistresses. With state-owned publishers being exposed to market forces, even the most conservative firms are looking for their own Harry Potter or Sex and the City. Online novels that have proved themselves commercially and haven't tangled with the censors are ideal candidates.
While there's plenty of bodice-ripping and fantasy fluff floating about on the Web, serious literature also exists. After all, if Charles Dickens could produce Great Expectations through cliff-hanger journal serials in 19th century Britain, why should anyone be surprised that 2008 Man Asian Literary Prize nominee Hao Qun (who goes by the pen name Murong Xuecun) wrote Leave Me Alone: A Novel of Chengdu in online installments? Even the government has tacitly admitted the importance of online fiction. Last year, the state-run Chinese Writers' Association began including online novels in its annual awards — the first time it had done so.