Xiao Xia, my mother has been unable to write for many days. And what I wrote before was also after a short period of study, like a sandcastle by the sea, washed away, not worth mentioning, as if it had never existed and should not exist.

And for a longer period of time, my mother was reluctant to re-read what she had written. Every time I put pen to paper, I let my thoughts drift down, and I left it behind after writing, and I never paid attention to it again, and I was afraid to review my gossip, and I was afraid to see that I was clumsy everywhere, and I was ashamed.

When the emotions were up and down before, throughout the back and forth of an article, my mother hardly thought about it. The whole process is to brew emotions, get in a pose, barely need to open my eyes, squint slightly, and then in one fell swoop, the gushing of words has nothing to do with my wishes, everything is rolled on the paper by itself. It's like being drunk, I don't know the ins and outs, and I don't have to be responsible for the results, and the text should be vented by myself.

But emotions, ideas, are not inexhaustible. Not only that, the lack of language and rhetoric always reminds my mother that such a monotonous venting practice will only dry up my mother in barren words. When everything slowly returns to calm and is on track, even if the familiar tears of depression come every day, it will not lead to better sentences or material.

Relying on a sad experience to lyricize is something that can't even finish a book. Without learning, every word is just a repetition of ignorance.

Mom's ability and dedication are extremely shallow, but there is always a desire to write. To this day, my mother remembers the very strong understanding of what she felt about being a writer when she first started writing short stories.

At that time, the young mother thought that if a person only had to write down his thoughts, he could make a living by doing this. If there is such a choice, how can anyone be willing to do other work?

And now, my mother still understands her immature feelings at that time, and my mother still thinks that being a writer is a way of existence that is worth looking forward to and is very meaningful. But my mother also saw the supreme requirements of becoming a writer as the years passed, with learning, and with the accumulation of experience, which is not easy for ordinary people to reach.

There are many writers that my mother likes, such as Hemingway, who can abandon life and cannot achieve self-pursuit in his life, Kazuo Ishiguro, whose words are as hazy and mysterious as ink paintings, who is tragic and desolate in fate, who is more lonely and amorous than countless stories, Xiao Hong, who is tragic and sad, Duras, who is gorgeous and splendid, and who is independent of himself, and so on. Their words, their stories, their love and hate, their unruliness and fearlessness of the world, let my mother see that becoming a writer requires inner thoughts, and the thoughts in the pen are all deep and meticulous, novel and unique, and the unfolding pictures and expressions of the meaning are beyond the level that ordinary people can write. Beyond that, it's as if a god had written out the words in his heart and showed them to mortals.

To be a writer is to be a kind of person who sees everything from a particular God's point of view.

And as soon as my mother thought like this, she would immediately feel ashamed.

Even after my mother realized how difficult it was to become a writer, she still loved it from the bottom of her heart. It also reciprocated her mother's love in the most difficult moment for her mother, as if she was a protective god, maintaining and even sublimating the order of her mother's thinking.

Xiao Xia, to become a writer, or rather, with the superficiality of her mother, just to become a writer, you also need to have the ability to organize your thoughts, which is the beginning of the act of writing.

Doesn't sound like that hard, does it. But a person's thinking is often complicated and messy. In the most difficult period of my mother's time, in the time when I broke up with my father, my thoughts were unpredictable, and every fragment of thought was like a ghost floating in the air in my brain from the very beginning, like a ghost floating in the air, and it became a cement-like, real thing, they were heavily intertwined, so that my mother couldn't stop thinking, couldn't continue to think, and couldn't even raise her head. My mother began to write under the hammer of fate, combing through the hatred and sorrow that were entangled like hair, and combing them through words little by little. Going deep into the heavy and chaotic emotional whirlpool, patiently getting through the small tribulations, relying on writing. Writing in tears, writing in angina, is writing, so that mom does not go crazy.

But writing about self-redemption doesn't mean that you can use the book of redemption to sell it. The pages of sad and indignant words have no literary value in my mother's eyes. Like the peeled skin of a mother, they are part of the miracle of life, but at the same time they are waste, excrement, neither body nor mind, and the emotions are also glaring superficial.

Mom hopes that the words she traces will have a complete and logical map, and the development of the story and the spread of language will be interlocked, so that she will know where to go before she sets off. The lines in the middle, bright and darkly coupled, staggered, unexpected, dismantled and supported by each other, and the same end is the same. The plot and the people have smart details, the sensations that can be heard, the sounds that can be touched, and the use of words to break down all the barriers of awareness. The sincerity of the emotion, or bright, or ugly, is slightly foreshadowed, but it is clear and cannot be concealed. It's not just the silhouettes and corners, but also the deep meaning. The text of the story, in the end, is as vivid as being carved on a stone tablet, and it is deeply rooted in the hearts of the people.

That kind of story, that kind of text, that kind of argument, that kind of layout and outline, is my mother's dream.

But now, my mother's other book, because of the neglect of the design, the plot before and after has almost been forgotten, the chaotic plot and interspersed accidents, once made my mother smug, thinking it was quite new, now it seems, it's just nonsense, bullshit. If that book is still creative, then this one is just a mother who is constantly dissecting herself and exposing it to you. If you were around every day and heard these chatters, you must have been annoyed with your mother.

In the past few days, my mother has forced herself to read it several times, and as long as she starts to write, she will force herself to read it from the beginning, and she will never finish a new chapter without reading it. The purpose of this is a bit ridiculous, like the rule set for kindergarten children, that is, no matter what, the sentences must be smooth, there are no superfluous particles and interjections, and there will be no procrastination everywhere.

Xiaoxia, mom at your age, there are many channels to force us to keep a diary, so that mom and other children can insist on writing every day just like mom is now. But it just so happened that because of that compulsive feeling, my mother was always perfunctory and very rebellious.

But in fact, if writing can last a lifetime, it will help us every moment. It can give us both the company of talking and listening at the same time. Organize our thoughts and give us the sanity to return to in peace.

Xiao Xia, from today onwards, Mom wants to write something more seriously to you, so that you can feel that Mom is on the right track, and has deep love and affection for you.