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When There Is Hope
Every time I write, like standing in front of a mirror, I see myself as it is; yet the image turns out to be so intricate that I can hardly help finding faults with it from place to place. That best describes the consequence of writing all alone, which, despite the few readers and few who almost guide me if only I favor, is nothing more than gazing at my works anxiously while pondering all the way through suspicion, as if problems are emerging anywhere. As a result, there were times when I would avoid my latest work, and regard it as the last trial; I was threatened that it could be the doomsday of my juvenile writing career. But every time when there is hope, and hope ignited by one more trial of persistence, I will manage to retrieve my pen. That is why my works are here and there good or bad, and so is it every now and then.
