Another World**

Looking back at the words I wrote, I always feel like unfired pottery, full of roughness that can be polished. The most obvious thing is that the rhythm is improperly controlled. Sometimes it is eager to advance the plot, making the characters' dialogues rush as if rushing to the scene, ignoring the charm of the blank space; sometimes it is indulged in the description of the environment, letting the story go around in circles, forgetting that the reader is still waiting for a turn. The character creation is often thin, and the supporting characters often become tools to promote the plot, without their own breath and edges, like a background board on the stage without lines. The language is even more exposed. I obviously want to write delicately, but I often fall into the misunderstanding of piling up words. Those deliberately crafted sentences read like frosted glass, which is not transparent enough. What should be reflected more is the inertia of observation. We always rely on inherent impressions to describe the world. We forget to squat down and look at the fingers of the shoe repairman on the street corner, and listen to the smoke of bargaining in the vegetable market. These shortcomings are like thorns stuck on the manuscript paper, reminding myself: writing is never done behind closed doors, but with awe, grinding the days into ink, and writing it into the world one stroke at a time.