Chapter 18 Writing Crash (Postscript)

At ten o'clock in the morning in mid-August 2005, I finished the last page of the novel.When I put down my pen, I sat alone in front of the desk, suddenly irritable and at a loss, and the feeling of urgent need to talk and chat with people hit me like never before, just like the sudden addiction of a white powder smoker.At that time, my wife went back to her hometown in Henan, my son was studying in Shanghai, and it was class time, and some of my closest friends, for some reason, were always on the phone in the past, but on that day, at that moment, they were either turned off or absent. within the service area.I made several phone calls in a row, and finally threw the earphones on the table inexplicably, and sat down slumped. Two lines of tears poured down uncontrollably. This kind of helplessness of being strongly oppressed by loneliness and hopelessness is like being thrown into a deserted sea, an isolated island where no birds fly or grass move.

At that time, the cars downstairs were still passing by in reality, while the home with a few pieces of furniture appeared empty, like a deserted wilderness.I sat alone on the sofa in the living room, staring blankly at the white wall opposite, as if looking at the "fluttering group of snow-white filial piety cloth" and "full of snow-like alleys with white door couplets" in the novel "; It also seems that I am looking at the "uninhabited plain, the vast plain".The inner pain and despair of not being attached, I had it when I finished writing it at the end of 1997, and I also had it when I finished writing "Shou Huo" in April 2003.But those two times were not as strong and unbearable as the writing this time, which made it hard for me to say.

I know that this kind of intense pain and despair is not just a result of writing, but a breakdown of writing for a long time.It is a tribute to the completed death style.It is the 12-year accumulation and outbreak of suffering from the beginning of writing in 1994, to the writing of "Shou Huo" in 2002, and to the writing of "Shou Huo" in 2005.The daylight comes in through the window as usual, and the sound of dust flying in the mid-air of the living room is clearly visible, just like the whispers of countless undead in the novel.I just sat there dumbfounded, with tears flowing all over the place, my mind was blank, and there was a pile of disordered mess.I can't tell why I am suffering, who I am crying for, and why I feel the despair and helplessness I have never had before.Is it for my own life? Or is it for the world I live in? Or for Henan—my hometown, and even more provinces and regions that are plagued by disasters? I don’t know how many AIDS patients there are. Their lives? Maybe, for the end of my own writing that may come due to exhaustion after the completion of my writing? Just like this, I don’t know how many tears I sat there, and I don’t know when I won’t She cried again and became like a wooden man staying there without saying a word.All I know is that I didn’t eat at noon that day. At about one o’clock, I left home and walked along the sidewalk beside the light rail of Beijing Line 13 not far from my home to a deserted wilderness, and stayed alone again. Sitting blankly on the edge of a piece of woodland, it wasn't until after sunset that I returned home again that I felt the gradual recovery of reality consciousness and the necessity of mundane things necessary for life to support life.

Next, I ate a pack of instant noodles and fell on the bed without washing my face, brushing my teeth, or taking off my clothes.He actually slept until dawn the next day, like a traveler who has traveled a long distance and collapsed on the hotel bed at dusk.In the following three months, I made several revisions to the novel, and each revision was another appreciation of life and despair.Another hopeless feeling about writing.Now, at last, it can be handed over to the publisher, and I feel that what I handed over is not only a novel, but a volume of painful despair.What remains is the real life and the real world that I have to face.I don't know whether it is good or not, but I can say with a clear conscience that when I was writing this novel of more than 200,000 characters, what it consumed was not my physical strength, but my life; it was my life. limit.When I changed more than 200,000 words to less than 200,000 words, it expressed not only my love for life, but also my love and understanding of the clumsy art of novels.

Now, readers and experts are free to comment on it.I can spit on this book as much as I want, but I can already say to anyone frankly and calmly: "When I wrote "Shouhuo", I used my heart and my life to write. "You don't need to watch it, don't watch "Shouhuo", don't watch it, but when you watch it, I will be worthy of you.Worthy of every one of my readers.The only thing that bothers me is that, in this world of joy, when you read my novel, this one, I can't bring you these things, but only heart-piercing pain.Here, I would like to apologize to you.

My apologies to every reader who has caused you pain because of me. November 23, 2005 in Qinghe, Beijing