I don’t know how other people feel about novels. I only know that, in my heart, a hundred flowers bloom, welcoming more and more characters. Whether their stories are full of hardship or go smoothly, I firmly believe that they must exist in some corner of time and space. I’m a devoted believer in multiple timelines. Even when a plot has nothing to do with me, it still belongs to one of my other timelines. Whether they find happiness in the end, and what happens to me, doesn’t really matter. The world of paper characters can always be so romantic.
I can only smile and lock away the lives of all those who find happy endings.
I want to write a novel whose characters embody my ideal types, or perhaps are simply different facets of my own personality. They’re bold, bursting to come out, and each takes charge of me at a different time. It’s a romance, but not entirely about romance. Perhaps you could call it a half-baked philosophical book. I don’t have much imagination, but what I want to write doesn’t need much, either, because its ending is stark and unvarnished, the sort of reality we should have learned to accept long ago. Everything serves reality.
I still don’t understand what love is. I know I haven’t lost the ability to love someone. It’s probably just that I haven’t yet met anyone I truly like. Liking someone is definitely not just about their looks in the moment. The way it feels to be together matters far more. I sincerely hope no one will deliberately change themselves to suit me, giving me the illusion that we click. That fated kind of connection is all about letting things happen naturally and going with the flow.
I don’t know what kind of person I’ll fall for.
I’m clearly disappointed, yet somehow still a little hopeful.
