Like "First Close Encounters", if you ask me: What kind of novel is this 120,000-word novel? I'll think hard for a few seconds and answer you: I myself don't know why I wrote such a novel. I don't know what writing means to others, I just know, For me, it was a great desire to talk. For this desire, I would chase words in my head and sit in front of the computer, Talk to yourself. Where did this desire to write come from? I am very embarrassed to tell you again: I still don't know. As if I had a warm cup of Irish coffee on a weary rainy night, Just like I wrote it, the most primitive desire to write was only because I happened to see mistletoe when I was climbing a mountain with a group of college classmates last March.

That was the first time I saw, and also the first time I knew, what mistletoe is. It took me about four months to finish writing. At that time, I wrote programs during the day, and only started writing after ten o'clock in the evening. Often the content of the text that appeared tonight was not what was expected last night. Not to mention what variables will be added to tomorrow night's writing. I try to concentrate on writing as I don't have much time to write. I have my job, whether it is good or bad, great or ordinary, that is my job. I always feel that I have to do my job well before I can think about other things.

In the process of writing, I don't know why, I always look back to the past. The so-called "past" probably started on the second day of the Lunar New Year twelve years ago. At that time, I was hanging between the compartments of the southbound train on the Juguang from Taipei to Tainan. So the time background starts with the second day of the new year. I can no longer remember what I was thinking on that train when I was a sophomore at that time. I can't remember why I had to jump on the train on that kind of reunion day, like fleeing. I just remember, I thought a lot.

The only thing that is certain is that I must have never thought that the original encounter, will be the beginning. Growing up, it never occurred to me that I might be able to write in the future. And I have never been in the habit of writing. Because I always like to keep everything in my head without having to put it into words. If there is a time machine, people can go back in time, Then I would like to know, twelve years ago, I watched the electric poles flying past outside the car, What are you thinking? All I know is that sitting in front of the computer right now, I think about the second year of junior high school.

My Chinese teacher is a female teacher, surnamed Liu. "Students, this is a composition class, please start writing." After she finished speaking, she found a chair, sat down, and began to read a book. "Teacher, what is the topic of the composition?" After a few minutes of silence in the classroom, a classmate finally raised his hand to ask a question. "You write your own articles..." The teacher smiled, "Why do you ask me to set the topic?" "The teacher..." The classmate continued to ask, "What style should we use? Narrative? Argumentative? Lyric?"

Teacher Liu put down the book and stood up: "If the teacher lives in Taipei in the future, I will be very happy if you come to visit me in Taipei." The teacher smiled again: "You think, I still care if you come to Taipei by bus? By train? Or by plane?" "I just want to read what you write carefully, and I don't care what form you express." The teacher finally said this sentence. After more than ten years, I began to seriously write down what I wanted to write, and then I realized the meaning of the teacher's words. Teacher, thank you. If you finally ask me:

What kind of love are you describing? I'll take three steps back first (because I'm afraid you'll hit me), Then tell you: I don't know. It's like a tired person who got off work and was caught in the rain. When he opened the door, his beloved had just finished cooking a bowl of hot noodles, and then helped him wipe the raindrops off his forehead. I can describe that person, that rain, that bowl of noodles, and that handkerchief to wipe off the rain very carefully. But I just can't describe the taste of that bowl of noodles.