English writing is like a lonely journey. It’s like I have endured several-year journey across stormy oceans and endless deserts. Certainly I have some fun out of it, to lay down the burden of my thoughts, to make a few friends, to win after a painful struggle with words and to make progress. It’s just, there is still a long way to go before I reach the oasis (in fact, I’m not even sure what the oasis is).

The relationship between my determination to go and the temptation to give up is like a see-saw. First one has the power then the other. Each time I have an urge to write something, especially if I am inspired, if I feel I’ve made some progress, then my determination goes stronger and it’s on top.

Then the time goes by and I can feel it shifting. The doubts start to take hold: what’s the point of all these efforts? The satisfaction—I get satisfied easily—well, the satisfaction fade.

I start to feel frustrated. I start to force myself to write, but at the same time I’m angry that I have to force myself to do it, so sometimes I stop trying. However, I don’t feel happy about giving up, it feels like a betrayal, a sort of violation of the promise I’ve made. So I come back and continue.