The new book continues to be difficult to produce, but I promised the editor that the book will be published this month. Although I am still confident that what I write will be welcomed by readers, I can't find the feeling I want, which finally makes me feel sad. restless.
There are two types of writing, one is written for public readers, and the other is, of course, written for oneself.
Needless to say what kind of writing the former is, it must be full of joy and interest. I just want to write words that bring happiness to readers, even if my mood is extremely bad at the time.
Even though my heart is full of wounds, the words I write are still blooming.
This is the self-cultivation of being a business writer.
Now I want to write some words for myself, without worrying about anything else, just to find the feeling of falling in love with words again, and at the same time to calm down the anxiety and uneasiness before opening a new book.
For this reason, I spent the whole night reading through the things I wrote ten years ago, almost all of which were written for myself. From the beginning, I felt embarrassed and my scalp went numb, and then I seemed to be immersed in an indescribable emotion. among.
Ten years ago, the word "sadness" was always indispensable in my writing. If I wanted to add an attributive to this word, it would definitely be "bright sadness", the kind of pretentiousness that overflows from the paper. , which is what made my scalp numb with embarrassment.
If these words were written by someone else, then I would definitely approve of his ability to pile up words on the surface and say that his writing skills are still good. Of course, I would laugh at this person crazily in my heart. If this person still writes online articles, then I will definitely Wait for him to hit his head and bleed.
To prove that I am not making random assertions, I am going to excerpt some nonsense modern poetry I wrote ten years ago, when my dream was really to be a poet and essayist.
"The Edge of Virtuality and Reality" - The blade of time is perfectly sharp/Separate my soul from my body/On the edge of virtuality and reality/I am reality/You are a dream/My body is as stiff as ice/Your soul is as tender as water / I always use cruelty to flog myself / Keep moving forward, down to earth / I won’t care about you, because of your immense pride / You follow me everywhere / I strand you in a polished mirror / It is the edge between virtuality and reality / You smiled and watched me walking in a hurry/I suddenly fantasized about the moment of reunion and fusion with you/reaching out my hand/finding you and I can meet again/but there was a gap in the middle/time grows old at the speed of light/the blade of time polished this mirror/I know You won’t leave/but it’s just a virtual image after all
Of course I felt embarrassed when I read this modern poem at first. Maybe it was because I wrote too many popular things. Then when I looked at the ungrounded poetry and prose, I felt that they were too pretentious and boring. Then from a business perspective, Criticize them as worthless.
Maybe in this era, only the poems and prose written by the great writers who have become famous will be bought by people. However, they may not buy them to read, but put them on the bookshelf purely as a decoration.
But as my scalp continued to feel numb, I realized that when someone has been embarrassed for a long time and got used to it, that kind of embarrassment is really sour and refreshing. It’s like reading a mindless and refreshing novel without the harsh pursuit of reasonableness and rationality. Logic, that kind of retarded feeling of satisfaction, allows people to catch up with the latest updates in one go.
I think I was too harsh on myself ten years ago. I felt as if I had trampled on his youth, which had so much inner drama that it would make my scalp numb ten years later.
His youth was really worthless, full of loneliness and sadness. Every word was the truest portrayal of his heart, but ten years later he would take it out and beat him severely.
He passed away unknowingly while growing up, as if virtuality and reality had merged into one.
No matter what truths we are familiar with, it can't relieve the sorrow caused by his death. No matter what philosophy, sincerity, tenacity, and tenderness, it can't relieve this sorrow.
The only thing I can do is to break away from this sadness and understand some philosophy from it. And any philosophy after understanding is so weak in the face of the unexpected sorrow that follows.
I listened to the sound of the waves and the wind in the dark night. At this time, I was so rational that I felt scared. In this deserted night, there would be no one to accompany me. After all, life is a game that has nothing to do with anyone. Practice alone.
The feeling of letting the words pour out from the pen did not make me happy at the moment, but only endless melancholy. Maybe at this moment, the dead him was briefly resurrected in my numb body, so I felt Let the rational me become a little emotional.
I don’t know if ten years from now, when I look at my current self and the words I have written, I will still feel numb. I only know that at this moment, I used this article to suppress all the influences that would affect me. The distracting thoughts of my new work calm the loss in my heart.
It turns out that the writer's soul is wrapped in eternal loneliness. Expecting someone to understand and tolerate is ultimately just a dream destined to be disillusioned. The only thing that can rely on and trust is words.
Before I open a new book, I need to spend five or six hours a day, just like today, to look for this feeling with great concentration. At this moment, I only belong to words.
Just like ten years ago.