I never ever dreamed to be an author when I was a little child. However, when I started to comprehend the power of words and the pleasure of writing, I desperately hope I can be a good writer, changing many people’s life as those writers who have influenced me a lot.
There’s always be a distance between dream and reality. I definitely regard myself as a “good” writer (especially writing in Chinese, and i am so proud of my masterpieces.), and I deem that I really cut up for writing (I love to write persuasive essay). But I know that I am not and will not become a “great” writer. Meticulously scrutinize those great authors, you probably will find there’s something in common among them. There’s always an astute suffering or an unbearable tribulation against those writers, and they can do nothing but write, as a swath to record those indelible and seemingly ineffable things. That’s the essence of writing; effusively release the morbidity in one’s mind.
That’s why I think I cannot. I am not so sensitive and keen; not so acute and morbid to depict those embarrass or awkward experiences. I may scrupulously carping the syntax or grammatical errors in an essay, but I cannot really on the track of writing, since all those basic things can’t and should not hinder a professional writer…no, I mean a master or guru in writing circumscribed by those limitations.
At that point, stability is the foe of literature. Unless one has a really sensitive and sentimental mind, wars or decimations are the best stimulus to literature, and I am not going to corroborate that as it’s so easy to figure it out. Sometimes it’s quaint that we love to elevate the value of tragedy and consider it to be more likely to be in the list of canon. Maybe C’est la vie.