spoiled brat

1.20
This book was left unused for almost half a year, a long period of time that could be described as being neglected.

A friend asked me why I didn't finish writing quickly and then start the next book. Opportunities don't come twice, and how could I do nothing when faced with a chance that might only come once? Even if I only write a thousand words a day, I should finish it first and then think about other things.

I know he's right, and I really want to get moving.

But it was as if I lost all my anchors in a moment, with nowhere to hold on and no source of emotion. For six whole months I stayed at home doing nothing but looking at the sky. The sky was so still that not a single bird flew by, and the sky was as blue as a secret.

Sometimes I'll look up at the sky and mutter to myself, saying I've seen through your tricks, you're manipulating my fate again, making me lucky but unable to write anything, just you wait, I'll keep going and counter your moves; other times I'll kneel in front of the French windows and kowtow, begging God to give me back my inspiration, or for a knife to appear out of nowhere and be held to my neck, to prove that I really can't write anything, not that I didn't try my best, so that I won't feel guilty or doubt myself.

I'm acting crazy, but the heavens aren't responding.

I can only think for myself. On one hand, I wonder if the pressure is too great that I can't write anything. On the other hand, I wonder if all my mental activities are just excuses, just me taking a break and being lazy.

I could only endure it; the bitterness I felt was indescribable to outsiders.

I pondered repeatedly what Zhaozhao should be like, how she should speak and act, how she should date, how she should take revenge, how she should navigate the twists and turns, what was wrong and what should be changed—I thought about a lot of things, but it was all useless, because I was still going in circles.

I became disheartened and procrastinated. I realized how little I could actually do; I wanted nothing more, and I didn't care about the future. I gave up on myself and wasted time, but when chatting with others, I still shamelessly claimed I was striving for excellence.

I was clearly like a dead pig that doesn't fear boiling water, yet I stubbornly insisted on going my own way.

Ironically, amidst this bluster, I genuinely felt a profound emptiness, a complete detachment from desires. In a fleeting moment, I suddenly understood how to write about Zhao Zhao—her inferiority complex and arrogance, her stubbornness and extremism, her ambition to climb the ladder and the bewilderment she felt upon reaching the summit; her clear-headedness amidst fame and fortune, her rallying cry among millions of suffering souls, her calm yet resolute expression as she faced the sun with a sword in hand; her desperate gamble, declaring to her followers: "If you consider this glory, then follow me to become rebels. Let our names be inscribed on a record of our crimes, for posterity to either despise or praise!"

There are many more details to explain in a few words, but in short, it all comes down to what Jiang Wen said: good works are not something you think up, but a gift from heaven.

Perhaps my frantic waiting over the past six months has been seen as a sign of God's sincerity, and He has finally shown mercy and spared me, allowing Zhao Zhao to return to my mind; or perhaps He never intended to make things difficult for me in the first place, but rather that I was too burdened by negativity and too hesitant, and that such an author could not write Zhao Zhao, so He kept me in place, not allowing me to move forward rashly, to think and think again.

I've rediscovered my passion. Works born from passion have soul. I'm back.

(End of this chapter)