My Diary of Restarting a Perfect Life

I always sit in front of my desk for a long time late at night. The warm light of the old desk lamp rubs the shadow on the wall, like a ball of ink that cannot be opened. When I was in middle school, I hid in the stairwell of the teaching building, listening to the laughter outside, clutching the crumpled test paper, and didn't even have the courage to look up. I feel like I'm just a monster hiding in the corner, even roaring for fear of disturbing others. Later, when I picked up the pen, I realized that writing is the only place where I dare to take off my armor. I don't have to meet those burning eyes, and I don't have to think over my words before speaking. I just need to knead the cowardice and unwillingness to show the pessimism deep in my heart into the flesh and blood of the fictional character. I believe words have a soul and they breathe. I filled in the unspoken cowardice and the pessimism that I dared not admit into my fictional characters. It hides my philosophical thoughts and heartbeat at that moment. When I first started writing a novel, I sat in front of a blank document for three hours and typed out only one line: "He stood in the rain, not knowing where to go" - that was actually me, standing at the intersection of life, not even having the courage to take a step. I deleted and wrote, wrote and deleted, and the draft paper piled up like a hill, and every piece of paper was printed with traces of my repeated corrections. I am always afraid that my writing is not good enough, that those clumsy sentences cannot support the emotions in my heart. Later I changed it again and again. And I also wrote five or six versions of the beginning of this book. Later, I finally wrote about the recovery of the heart of a young man with an adult soul. Words are a gentle shield and a heavy yoke. I once thought that writing down the pain would reopen the scars, but when I actually put pen to paper, those turbulent emotions settled into calm words. When I write about ordinary people struggling in life, about them breaking down in the middle of the night and wiping away their tears before dawn, I am actually writing about myself. I'm afraid that the protagonist will lose despite trying his best, just like I'm afraid that after working hard for a long time, I still get nothing; I'm afraid that the protagonist will really make a mistake, just like I'm afraid that after digging out my heart and soul, I will only be left with a mess. I'm afraid of building an island in words, and no one can understand the tide hidden in the words. So I always remind myself that there must be bones first and then flesh and blood - only by having real emotions in your heart can you find the most appropriate words. This pessimism follows me like a shadow, but in the words, it slowly turns into a touchable temperature I have always been in awe of words. It is not a fancy dress, not a decoration, it is a simple path leading to the truth. I am afraid that I will use comments to understand life and allusions to replace feelings. I always wonder, what is the meaning of words? Should I let the heartbeat in the distance become the echo in my chest, or let the moonlight of thousands of years pour in front of your and my windows at the same time? I think it allows us to complete private feasts of self-discovery and recognition in our own time and space, intoxicating, struggling, transforming, and never getting tired of it. Writing is ultimately the ritual that brings everything to peace. Those great joys and great sorrows will eventually settle into the words slowly spoken in the pen. I know that my writing is not good enough, and I know that no one is obligated to visit the island I have built with words, but I will continue to write. When it comes to writing novels, even if no one reads them, I will keep writing them. After all, this is the only place where I dare to face my own weakness, the moment when I drink with the deepest part of myself.

He's really a loser author, what can he write if he has no skills?