Do we still need literature in our time?

1

I want to be a writer. I've always wanted to be a writer. I forgot exactly when and why this distant dream began. All I know is that it was a long time ago, maybe after I had a basic sense of self, it was deeply ingrained in my heart and can no longer go away. I found writing as naturally as birds find the sky, plants find sunshine, and fish find clear springs. For me, writing is as indispensable as breathing. I don't know what else I can do besides writing. I can say without exaggeration that writing is the light of my life. If I don't write, my life will wither and wither in vanishing and nothingness, and I won't be able to live. However, with the pursuit that I never gave up, I found that the road to becoming a writer was more difficult than I had ever imagined.

on the one hand, it is my reason. I do not want to write and will not write best-selling articles that cater to readers' tastes, which is contrary to my writing philosophy. I may never be and never want to be a writer like Simon.

Milan Kundera once said that the reason for the existence of really good novels is to illuminate the "lifeworld" forever and protect us from falling into "the oblivion of existence".

this is the novel I want to write. I always think that the living situation of human beings is a dilemma to some extent. It is like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill in vain and watching it fall to the bottom of the valley. So in my opinion, the meaning of writing may not be to change such a dilemma but to accompany each other through words in the process. Tell about the suffering, loss, and joy that we were born with so that we can know more about the secret of life and have more strength to face it. As in a long winter night, I trembled and lit a pile of fireflies with words to make a glass of spirits, we hugged each other, we were drunk and sober, we talked about our hearts unreservedly, we shared the darkness, and we looked forward to the light.

on the other hand, because of the general environment, it seems that literature is no longer needed in our time. In an article written by Yan Lianke today, he wrote: "I don't know the reality of China, whether we still need what we call literature, and I don't know how much significance there is in literary creation in reality." Existence, meaninglessness, the failure of publication, and the disconsolation of writing, coupled with the huge market and the manipulation of the media and the restrictions of warrants and rules, constitute the great humility of a writer's writing in reality. However, because he is humble, he still has to write; because he is humble, he has to write; because he is humble, he can only write. "

Yes, humble, it is true that for a writer who wants to write literature, it is always accompanied by humility.

this era needs palace fighting drama, Reality Show and chicken soup, but it seems that it does not need literature. I doubt what it means to this era and you if a writer finishes a long book all the year-round. People live busy lives, catch up with each other, race against the clock, busy survival, busy fighting, how many people can stop to read a novel with hundreds of thousands of words and gain some strength that cannot be obtained from any art form. Even if I don't want to, I have to admit that most people have time to watch a variety show, listen to a song, read a poem and watch a movie, but they don't want to spend time reading a novel.

but even in the face of these difficulties that can not be ignored, I have never given up writing. Although I wrote a long book of 120000 words three years ago and applied to several publishing houses, all of them were rejected, and later I had to write at the bottom of the box, but I was still writing it. I don't want to make writing so bitter and tragic. Every time someone asks me what I'm doing and what I want to do. I always understate that I am writing a novel, and for me, even though I feel the struggle of being a lonely writer and the indescribable ecstasy of certain moments, I still feel that what I am doing is normal.

2

I started writing another long book two years ago, and I quit my job a while ago and put all my eggs in one basket, and now I've finished it. Cast Douban reading and publishing house, there is no news, I wait nervously. In the past few days, I have experienced intense hesitation and worry. I can't sleep at night. I feel that my future is uncertain, and worry seems to overwhelm my courage. I'm worried that this novel is as hopeless as the last one, so how can I get on with my life? Is it possible to find a job you don't like to earn money first to support yourself, and then to doubt yourself? I know that writing is a process of continuous progress and accumulation, and I do not expect this novel to become a hit, but I urgently look forward to empathy, even if very little, being precious to me. Because I have walked alone on this road for too long, although I am sure that I can only take this road, some uncontrollable moments, I can not avoid self-doubt.

so it is a great encouragement to know that even one or two of you like my work.

now I want to show you this novel. Before we talk about this novel, let me ask you a question:

have you ever had the experience of dreaming late at night? when you wake up from a deep and dense dream, you feel that you don't belong to the world. You belong to the dream that was shattered by reality. But you don't know how to return, you have to shift your consciousness and continue the interrupted life in front of you. But in a moment of confusion and emptiness in your mind, you have a wonderful idea that even you are amazed: your waking up is not the end of an end dream, but into another dream that is equally out of your control. If so, how do you distinguish between real and unreal life? How do you prove that you are not a phantom? How do you prove that life is not a dream?

when I had such an epiphany, I began to write this novel. If I don't write, I will probably become a spirit in a few years. The sick.

one has been written for two years, a long and difficult two years. The process involves both pain and ecstasy. At first, I wrote on and off. I used the only time I had left after work to go home and listen to psychedelic rock writing. Then I felt that there was not enough time and the life of working and writing novels was too divided, so I simply quit my job and wrote at home all day. Every time I write, I can't stop smoking. When I was writing, I smoked an average of 15 cigarettes a day, but now I haven't smoked 1000 cigarettes.

I think writing must be an inward process undisturbed by the outside world. I must allow myself to calm down, allow myself to get lost in my heart, and find a way out by creating a combination of words and sentences.

 in Borges' short story Circular ruins, he tells the story of a man who does all his life to dream. He wants to dream a life completely and vividly in the dream and make the life come back from the dream. In the past two years, what I have done is similar. At first, I knew to write the life and dream of "floating Life like a Dream". I gave the story heart, bone, shape, structure, and then gave it love, youth, memory, the struggle between reality and fantasy, became its blood and its flesh, and then described every detail, making it countless hairs and unique appearance. Until I felt that the story was finally as complete and alive as life, I knew that my "baby" was going to be born.

but I think this child maybe a little "weird" because it is different from the bestsellers on the market today. It is not a funny travel book, not refreshing prose, not a moving collection of pure love essays. But a life that has gained a lot but also lost a lot, a fantasy, mysterious but also incomparably complex dream.

3

two years later, I finally finished writing, and this life (or dream) was finally created. But I didn't feel the ecstasy of picking up the pen at the beginning. Instead, I felt weak, the kind of heart was hollowed out, and the weakness after the best part. I wonder why?

maybe it's because writing is not like a live performance, when singers perform heartily on the stage, they can get shouts and applause from the stage, so they feel a little relieved at the curtain call. I spent two years hiding in the dark and gave birth to a "strange child." although I am satisfied with the fact that I finally gave birth to him, I don't know if this strange child is beautiful in your eyes. I don't know if you can accept him.

and next, I have one more important thing to do: promote and promote this novel. This is the last thing I can do. I am good at writing in the dark, good at drinking, good at making myself invisible to others in the crowd, good at listening to other people's stories, but least good at packaging and selling myself. This is a more difficult problem for me than finishing a novel.

all I can do to promote is to finish this article in good faith. As for packaging and sales promotion, I can only follow fate. I try to keep an objective view of the finished novel, some of which may be a little obscure, but on this subject, I know I have done my best. If writing a novel is likened to the process of exploring and digging into the heart, then the thinking on this subject that I can dig deep in my heart has been completely hollowed out, dripping to the extreme, and all my feelings and enthusiasm have been used up. These two years are unforgettable to me. I will always remember opening the window on a hot summer night and smelling the intoxicating smell of nocturnal incense in the night outside. The white cat at home lay beside me like a centenarian, sometimes staring at me and staring at the emptiness in front of me. I sat in the living room, typing in front of the computer. As far as I am concerned, this novel is indeed perfect, and the imperfections in it constitute its perfection to some extent.

Are you dizzy in searching for the sturdy, exquisite and size zero homecoming dresses now? We are your one stop shop for a perfect choice.

at first, I wrote this novel for myself, but in the process of writing, the "I" gradually disappeared. After writing it, I hope it can give everyone who reads it some strength, some resonance. Because I believe, because more or less, everyone in one or many stages of life, sometimes goes through great changes, sometimes every minute, sometimes just a moment in a long life, life is coming to an end, when looking back on life, there will be a sigh of "floating life like a dream". This exclamation is enough to make us re-examine our lives.

this novel is called "Hot Dream Life", with nearly 180000 words. Centering on the two major themes of "dream" and "life", through dream and memory, love and lust, youth and reality, this paper tells the most psychedelic stage in the life of a young woman in literature and art who indulges in fantasy, pursues fiercely, is driven by desire and is trapped by dreams. At her youngest age, she ushered in an epiphany that life was like a dream. She is lost in a life where there is no distinction between the virtual and the real. She not only competes with reality with her strength but also struggles with each other in the split parts of herself.

with this feeling, she overcame morality and experienced a taboo love of great joy, which rose briefly, but then led to a loss of wandering. She longed for the fantasy of staying passionate, enjoying life, and getting meaning and answers in a new city, but she was frustrated again and again and experienced a long fall. Until she met a man who gave her a secular life, until she felt tired and futile several times in her self-struggle, she finally landed on the earth. She finally accepted her fate frankly and without doubt, and accepted a life without distinction between the false and the real. And in which he gives up his fantasy, loses his youth, calms the beast in his heart, and voluntarily devotes himself to ordinary life to gain peace.

she finally realized that there is no difference between "life" and "dream" in essence, and the two have the same goal. She has tried very hard, whether in dreams or real life. She wants to use it. Hold on to something, something about the meaning of life that can fight the passing of time, trying to prove that you are not an illusion, nor are you living in an illusory dream. But in the end, she realized that such proof was meaningless. Life is not in vain but in the blink of an eye. All that is brought by time will also be taken away by time. The important thing is no longer to distinguish between the virtual and the real, not to find meaning and get the answer, but to invest in the present, into the short-lived present. No longer floating in the clouds, but close to the earth, content with life.

I hope it makes you feel like you had an indescribable but unforgettable dream. I hope you can get more from the novel.

as for the way out after this novel, to tell you the truth, I have no idea. I will serialize it on the official account first, and if any reader continues to read it, it will be serialized all the time. If not, I may go to death, continue to live, and then continue to write new stories. Don't worry about me, no matter how dangerous the road is, I will go on.

M á rquez, a writer I like very much, wrote in his biography: "every penny I earn is typed out with a typewriter, which is hard for others to imagine." After publishing four poorly paid books, I didn't look forward to the first few royalties that would enable me to make a living by selling articles until I was over forty. Before that, my life was full of traps, prevarication, and fantasies, and I tried my best to avoid countless temptations: it seemed that I could do anything, but I couldn't be a writer. "

Yes, M á rquez, who wrote the masterpiece "one hundred years of Solitude", has been wandering on the road of writing for so long, so my loss is perfectly normal.

maybe in this day and age, there is no need for literature. But I need it. I need it urgently. I also believe that there are still some people who, like me, have an irreplaceable love of literature.