Nobody knows what I am doing now. It seems like I am doing nothing except teaching innocent children as a part-time tutorial teacher, low paid, not reputable, like someone invisible on the street. I don’t really care how my ostensible life is seen, which like the only changing thing in my life is how many creepy parents I have dealt with and how slow the students I have encountered. My life is placid as an intact lake surface, no waves, no turbulence, no ripple. But whatever my life is, whoever the small potato I am, I love my life in zest.
I can’t prove myself I am capable to write, though my dear friends always praise me, and I don’t know the compliments, or even flattery, as I call it, is as true and sincere as our friendship is. But I do love them, at least for the fact that they hardly dare to hurt me. I know very little things, I am not as intelligent as my fellows, but what I am sure is I am not seeking anyone to concur with me, but on the other hand, shaping my own character, my speciality with my own hands and words. I have strong faith in my words, my sentences, even though I am not seen, not recognizable, no sheer on me, and it is just like what happened to Pollock’s young age, a little boy who fond of painting but poor in draftsmanship and even advised to go into tennis or football, and he thought, “although i feel i will make an artist of some kind i have never proven to myself nor anybody else that i have in me.”
Now, into the future, I am a writer-to-be, or even writer at this moment. Escaping the social network like Jonathan Franzen, living in my little ivory tower, I keep searching my own styles, my own ways of writing, broadening my horizon in literature, training my English. I once tried to find some professional supervision on writing, but it did fail, or maybe writing is the most solitary stuff that no one can teach or willing to share with you. So, then, I teach myself and I am sure I can succeed.