To George Orwell, a prophet, a hero, and a man with conscience
To start a sentence, a short paragraph, or a whole essay in so far as I suppose casts no less than a voyage on my way heading toward a new island, mystical and magically alluring. Prior to the days the simple word “write” came into my sight, I was feeling gratified and always found myself occupied with companions in a buoyant mood. For those school days, in which my childhood thrives in saecula saeculorum, we took pleasure in games, working out mathematics problems and not to mention doodling on chairs, snowy walls, and even girls' hemlines.
In my bones, I am so convinced that every word has its power which seems like a star, glittering somewhere but could light up the whole world someday when the dark falls. It never came to me until I was eight that it was some assignment called diary which used to be treated like a Chinese Frankenstein by adolescents that kindled my nerves to show myself up upon the paper by virtue of writing all that flowed out of the ceiling of my heart. To be honest as much as I can, keeping a diary was far from fandom especially for a kid in Grade One, who barely knew the conceptions of outlines, structures and for what main ideas could possibly stand. Back to the days in my primary school, as much as more time wasted in search of topics led to nothing but just a few of indifferent expressions. Seriously at this moment, I am not sure it will make too much sense to read my old-day writing notes. Is it excessively stern to lay those seemingly acceptable rules upon an ostensibly innocent lamb?
Hell no, for God sake. Now you tell me why there are always some kids who not only happened to be seated beside me, but somehow, were quite often rewarded with little red paper flowers because of their so-called “masterpieces.” Again, to be frank, I owe them heartfelt applause since my eyes turned green. As for those good writers, however, they may never get a chance to hear that noise ever again. Yet, can you blame me? Writing is such unexpectedly discouraging stuff. For each writer, whether you agree or not, is trying their best and racking their brains in order to complete an impossible mission that is to output a perfect piece of work without any regret. And I am sure you are on the same page, aren’t you?
It is an everlasting truth as well as fact that no one can be the one of a kind without any flaws. On the other hand, there’s always another hand. We will never be well aware of the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. With age comes maturity; no matter how I adapt savoir-faire to work my socks off, it turns out to be not that enough, after all, no such a difference to a soul at the very least. In my mind’s eye, it is writing that has driven me to make a song and dance. Also, this pure action makes me stronger as if I were a warrior in the midst of an epic battle. From that moment on, I have kept a diary for more than ten years. Every time when I sit at a desk, firing on all cylinders, a butterfly in my stomach would become alive and start to devour my ideas as if nothing can make it stop, follow my train of thought and bear witness to the creativeness of my letters. Now and then, I enjoy playing games with such a patronal fairy, acting like my internal muse, which brings about what it takes to be a so-called writer - the sense of uncertainty. There are so much more in accordance with the elements of style writing, such as imagination, observation, argumentation, etc., etc. Those things assist you in organizing your writing with grace. Nevertheless, I personally dislike them once and for all, and perhaps my hatred would never lead me to fineness. Still, who cares?
Genera vary among writers over generations, so do motives. If you came across a young adult in a sea of pedestrians and pose a question like this: why did you do this and why in this way? To your surprise or so, this small talk might get you nowhere but a brief answer with a casual tone “‘cause I like it.” Supercalifragilisticexpialidociously, you touched a label of my generation. Am I living in the age of rush? You tell me. Yes, I can put that I write since I like it. But you have my words that you will under no circumstances get that from me because I am a writer. And for a writer, unless the time collapse, he creates. Putting aside the necessity to make a living, there are three motives, which I believe at any rate for writing prose, underlying within the bounds of every writer. They are:
(i)Write to be. Recipes to cooks are what manuscripts to writers. There is a huge gap between feeling desire and acting on it. With doings come fame. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen, etc., etc. The significance of an exquisite production lies at a spot, a place beyond letters, where the experience from readers and writers meet with each other. Nothing can be put in parallel when your works get promoted for no reason but the only ring of truth that you had had built left behind. In short, earnest writers by and large shed light on charades and uncover shams loud and clear, free from sabotaging aesthetic pleasures.
(ii)Write to remember. The most celebrated heritage of our ancestors has enlightened our creational impulse. Then a milestone has been erected one after another as if we were staying in which our senses of taste, smell, sight, hearing and even touch arise. The tale of nostalgia rings the bell, resonated along with all your sensationally labyrinthine feelings. You are the master of the pieces that reflect your laughers, heartbreaks, flips, etc., etc. Rhetorically, if there were a set of time machine, would you like to take a ride toward the twinkling of an eye when you kept those words at the bottom of your heart?
(iii)Write to forget. Words are, indubitably, the most powerful drug used by mankind. Every single chapter ought to be a beginning under the sun. Each and every writer in the interim, more or less, has got to appear unsettled and spend their whole life in trying to escape from the cages out of designated generations. It is language that grants us crossing lines over case system and tenses. And then if the end meant to achieve closure, as a writer, your succeeding chapter remains on the road. In other words, once you start the journey, living while leaving, you have committed yourself to some annual ring which on the one hand, boosts your energy; yet, on the other hand, it licks you up down the drain.
People by no means will be gratified with dime novels, not even the hobos in mild annoyance. For a non-native speaker, writing in another language at ease never runs well. Dime novels cannot fill the bill for their readers who usually hold further expectation out there. Less expectation, without any exception, sounds good for a writer, which implies less pressure but more pleasure. However, writing in the second language cannot be taken as some pretext for your miscarriage in literature and vice versa. To begin with, when I wrote my very first novella, I bumped into a scenario, amusing but revealing. As I started to type, my grey cells turned on, only to find that I became a slave under the dominion by my own words. Out of blue, it struck me as everything being out of control. More surprisingly, those words would chase me, push me and bite me, which throw me into an adventurous rain forest. Beneath the cover of the palm leaves secretly hid a space waiting to be discovered. It is always about words, and it must be this way. With words come worlds. Believe it or not, I haven’t finished my debut novella yet, though I did self-published a book talking about communicative skills. All the time a feeling of déjà vu takes away from the charm of scenes so quickly that I have to keep woolgathering all the aftertastes over and over again in case it sneaks through my surveillance and drops an illusion as if nothing ever happens anywhere.
Sometimes, I was feeling way too lethargic, but there’s one thing that drives me crazy every time. When ideas, short of supervision, pop out of my mind, they shove me to picture stories or theories intentionally. But later, there’s no later. By and by, the more writing in my mind, the more desperate struggles I suffer. Inevitably and finally, every writer has got to find their cures for procrastination no matter how long their effects can endure. As for the side-effects, complete with dramas, if you hope so.
The relationships have been messed up among Chinese, English and me. I can never tell when and who is source or target language. During my writing, when the dictionary is on the left, the thesaurus is on the right. Bilingual writing experiences drop by drop gift me sort of unique rules of rhyming which are comparable to miscegenation, bizarre but irresistible. Here is a poem composed last week after I learned a new phrase saying a flash in the pan.
I wish I were a slice of light, Upon your lip,
Stamp my sojourn until late night.
Across your face spread a sign, Beneath your lie,
Left my steps over skyline.
When Luna in a dress of starry perfume, In saecula saeculorum,
Ignored the elephant in the room.
All that flushed the best-laid plan, No more than,
Dwelt within a flash in the pan.
Words, taken for granted, are weightless but powerful. For it is the condition of its destiny to hand on the torch, an essence of the humanity and civilization. At the end of detouring and exploring the truthfulness, writers make words intoxicating and mighty. It hurts to come up with some words as a matter of fact. To come all that way, with mind-blowing state, standing over the top of the inspiration, and then to set out from recollections was one great hardship not meant to be but instead wanted to be. I prefer it is a choice. It has got to be an incredible amount of hard work, effort, determination, and overcoming obstacles and fighting through failures and disappointments. In a moment of fate, or destiny, or pure happenstance, I choose to be a person who is happy and full of integrity, and I am willing to give it all and give up all through silver linings to be true to myself, to compose poetry, to jumpstart chapters anew and to gild wording once more. That is not all. It is your turn to go far, now or never.