Cang Yue On the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival in 2006, I ate pizza alone, sat back in front of the computer and prepared to continue working—shelved the open documents in progress, and prepared to make the last revision and polishing before publication. However, looking at it, he couldn't help but lose his mind. The moonlight is bright outside, but these words are like a laser disc, projecting yellowed photos in front of my eyes-in that Jingjing campus, when all peers are squandering their youth, eighteen When I was nine years old, I hid in the corner of the dormitory, listening to the laughter of my roommate, and silently wrote down these stories word by word in my notebook.

At that time, I had never become a "Cangyue" and never owned a computer. As an ordinary college student, I was always doing such futile things.Night after night, I plugged in the earphones, spread the paper on my knees, hid in the tent of the dormitory, and recorded those stories earnestly. However, after writing, the readers are only a few sisters in the dormitory, and they are shelved after being circulated for a round. When I was writing those stories, I never thought that one day they would be published and seen by so many people—nor did I think that eight years later, I would be on the road to writing. that far.

Who still remembers the longing in my eyes back then, and who knows that this road is so long. The manuscripts of these stories are still stored in tin boxes, and stored side by side with the Tingxuelou series of high school manuscripts. They are covered with dense small scripts, and the paper is brittle and thin - as if the years that are gone forever . I rarely flip them over.Today, I devote my energy to new creations, constructing the inner world story by story, busy and fulfilling. Many years later, on the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, I moved into a single apartment and sat alone in front of the computer, browsing the old manuscripts of my teenage years, and my heart was surging.After a long silence, I turned my head and looked at the night sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows - the bright and bright moon floated in the thin clouds, and the light was cold.The generations of life are endless, the bright moon is only similar every year...

For a while, the past that was sleeping deep in my memory was inevitably disturbed.The past swept through. In terms of completeness, it is my first work in the true sense-because most of the manuscripts of Tingxuelou in middle school were scattered, with varying lengths, whether it was "Sand Between Fingers" or "Sand Between Fingers", it was all incomplete until the university reopened. When entering into the computer, it was systematically sorted out to be complete. But it was completed in the summer vacation after the college entrance examination. That was the first time I had such ample time to write the first complete story.Looking back now, this story about persistence and giving up surpassed the state of mind and thoughts of my age group, and it was so precocious that I am surprised now——

It seems that the narrator behind the yellowed paper is another completely strange girl. One article was a turning point in my writing journey.During my sophomore year, Mr. Jin Yong came to our school to serve as the dean of the School of Humanities. To welcome him, the school organized a martial arts novel competition. Encouraged by my roommate, I took out the books written in three notebooks, feeling a little nervous It was successfully submitted to the committee - unexpectedly, entered the top three. After that time, the desire to confide in my heart was reawakened, and then, there was, there was, and there was more.

During the Mid-Autumn Festival in 2006, when I read this volume of old manuscripts, I felt conflicted and anxious. In terms of my vision and ability today, these old works nearly ten years ago naturally have many deficiencies, such as immature writing, jerky techniques, obvious traces of imitation... I have also tried to flatten all these and rewrite them.But in the end, after rewriting half of the article, I stopped writing and decided to give up. I decided to present these stories to everyone in their original form—not ashamed to let readers see the immaturity of the past, but also to retain the original clumsy and sincere appearance. :)

For people like me, there are many emotions that will never come back after they have passed, leaving only words, witnessing the traces of their existence-how can I smooth them out again? So, if you open this book and see a different Cangyue, please smile and forgive me. :) Here, I would like to thank my sister tadpole who was in the same dormitory as an undergraduate—whether she has the opportunity to read this book or not. Thanks to her many years ago, after reading the manuscript, she gave full praise and affirmation, and volunteered to spend a month typing it into the computer word by word—although the girl beat "Iron Face God" It has become a "superficial catcher", which caused me to be stunned for a while when I saw it, and I spit once.

These are my first batch of readers.I don't know where she is today, but has she ever been happily married and had children? Youth is like a train whizzing by, and we were all passengers, we met on a certain platform, and then we went to different places—like those unknown flowers in life, blooming quietly, and then scattered in the sky with the wind . Once in the sea, can you see the bright moon? 2006-10-6 in Hangzhou