A Home for All: Old Favorites, New Books, and Promising Debuts 安得广厦千万间，老书新书幼苗集结地

As a seasoned longtime bookworm, I know how difficult it is for new authors. While recommending some older books, I will also try to recommend novels by new authors to help promote them, whether they are contracted or not, in the process of signing or unable to sign. Some are stories of perseverance: people who cannot secure a contract for a long time yet continue pursuing their dream of writing. I admire them. New-book seedlings need care, and I am willing to test them for the sake of my fellow readers -_-||, while also giving those authors a chance. However, if a novel stops updating, goes unwritten for a long time, or ends chaotically, I will remove it from time to time. After all, the list has limited space. Roads diverge and lure travelers, yet the wild plum and official willow show the beauty of untamed scenery. I watch the mountains and waters enter my poetic gaze; before I notice, the years have frosted my brows. Please ask my father-in-law to open his heart; though I am no stone man, I have forgotten my homeland. For five years I have slept upon books amid the rivers and lakes, while dreams follow the southern clouds down into the old man's hall. I know that walking and sitting, I sing of white hair; south of the pond, I lean on my staff and bathe a pair of ducks. Would the widowed and orphaned still be left to wander? At the broken temple by the stone pond, their souls mourn in the cold. A tiny awl cannot mend the cracks of all things; what remains is scattered beneath the distant sky. How many times has the Good Harmony neighborhood changed hands? Across Liaodong, empty walls gaze at one another. Why should I resemble my uncle so closely? In truth, I resemble the ugly mother, frowning like Shi Qiang. As a child, I patted their heads and wished them literary success; now they have not entered the ranks of Cui and Cai. Once every three years I write a book and hope to see it redeemed; the county is full of kin, and sorrow is hard to bear. The tea roses by the roof must have crossed the wall, filling the windows with sunlight and the fragrance of books. Do you ever miss the nephew absent before your eyes? I too hang my mouth beside Oyster Mountain. Troubled, I turn my longing for home into a message beneath the earth, waiting a little while as brocade robes cover an ordinary disguise.