Only Here, to Borrow Some Inspiration, the Relativity of Literature

My Writing Style is Similar to Haruki Murakami’s

Rong-Je Hsu


As I’d started my lectures, the students always asked me where I got my inspirations from?

And, I’d liked to ask you that, where, does your inspiration come from? And, are good inspirations, guarantees, for good novels? Can you give me some examples from your earlier works? I believed, that the earlier the work, the lacking of techniques in writing they’d all had, and back then, inspiration became, the most important thing.

On inspiration, I’d always recalled Marquez’s “I just want to borrow the phone”.

The female protagonist, Maria’s car broke down on her way home. She’d looked for a phone in distress, to tell her husband, and, she’d gotten on a torn up bus, with women of various ages, shapes, and sizes, the only common thing they all had was, that they were all, very, quieted, wrapped in blankets, and, all, asleep.

Maria had, ignored this, odd sight, she’d wanted to find a phone, and so, she alighted the bus, and, started on a weird journey.

In the end………Maria was, institutionalized forever until she died.

A very, shocking story, a wrong choice, and, it’d, ruined Maria’s life forever. The first time I’d read this novel, I’d thought, if I were Maria, and this broken down bus appeared before me, I would’ve, reached, for the only driftwood around, meaning that…………I would also, certainly, end up, in a mental institution too.

And, writing a novel, we’re, on the same journeys, if we hurried ourselves to write a novel, I couldn’t even tell, if the enormous amounts of inspiration that I was having, would it, send me into the nut house, or the garden of Eden?

At the start of my writing, I was, more easily, inspired, by things that are, quite abnormal.

Take for instance, my first award-winning novel, “Why Doesn’t Anyone Believe Me”, once as I’d talked to a friend, don’t know what we were talking about, the person told me mysteriously, “As the dog went into the tunnels, it will, never come back again”, actually, this wasn’t that special, as I’d, already, heard it before, but what hearing it at that time meant different to me, back then, all that was on my mind was writing, and so, it’d, hit me hard, then, following, I’d, started this journey of writing from my mind.

My writing style is, more like Haruki Murakami’s.

Once, as the Japanese writers, Takashi Murakami and Haruki Murakami were having a conversation, they’d talked about how they wrote. Takashi said that his style of writing was more like painting, that he’d had a nearly completely picture in his mind, and, writing was, merely, slowly, painting that picture into complete. As for Haruki, he’d, belonged to the opposite end of the spectrum, he said he’d, written a first character, then, the second, then, used the first two characters, linked to a third.

For instance, the first word, “you”, second, “are”, third, “so”, fourth, “full”, fifth, “of”, sixth, “it”.

Yeah, I’m, calling someone a bad name, without calling him straight, of course, Murakami was, bullshitting, but, I’d, loved these, exaggerations that get passed around.

And, my writing style was, closer to Murakami’s, I’d written a first, then a second, paragraphs, then, used the first two paragraphs, to write a third.

For instance, after I’d written, “as the dog entered and passed through the tunnels, he could not return to before”, I’d made the dog go into a journey inward of sorts.

I’d often stated, egotistically, I don’t’ need inspiration, but thinking back, everything came back at me: I………lied!

For a very long time, after I woke in the morn, I’d, headed over to the 7-11 to flip through the newspapers, to sort through the headlines quickly, only knowing the headlines, and none of the details, is suited well, for someone who’d, drained out her brains.

Often, as I’d read some keywords, my mind would, concoct up a whole storyline, and yet, after I’d read the complete reports, I’d come to believe, that my stories were, way better, than what had been, reported or written down, and so, as I retell it to someone else, I’d, naturally, added, my own embellishments.

This had, troubled me so, a lot of the stories I thought I’d read up, I couldn’t find the sources of their origins anymore, because they…never…existed.

Like the incurable illnesses those protagonists of horror stories get.

Drifting too far already, now, back to what we were talking about, “Why Nobody Believes”.

My inspiration of this novel was from here say of how “after a god went into a tunnel, it won’t, ever get back again”, as I’d written this first paragraph, the second paragraph came out immediately right afterwards, “The dog was fine, so why would it, head into the tunnels?”, as this thought came up, my childhood memories, all flooded back to me again.

When I was a young child, we had a female dog, later, as she became in heat, she’d, attracted, a ton of males. Several days later, this young female puppy disappeared for good. My father told us, that the female puppy ran away with the males, and, we’d all, believed him.

Reason why we’d believed him wasn’t because we were naïve, nor because we were, too stupid, but because, we didn’t, love her anymore.

Back then, we’d gotten, really bored with having her, she’d disappeared, and, it’d made us, feel alleviated. And yet, we’d still had to, fake it, called that young female bad, how she could, desert her kind young owners. At this time, my half-drunk father told the truth to us. At first, the three of us, brother and sisters, believed every word he’d told, that we would, love that young female puppy, as if she were our own young, but in the end, it’d been my father, who’d, held his straight face, caring for the pup.

Later, the young female was in estrus, and, she’d, attracted the entire population of male strays, and my father could no longer take it anymore. He’d gone against our backs, and drove his pickup, and, took our young female puppy, and, drove to some unknown spot, then, acted like a kidnapper who’d not gotten the payments, and just, dumped her somewhere.

And yet, that young female, would find her way back to our home, after two, three days, of walking through the lands. Until my father’s heard, “After the tunnels, no dogs can find their ways back”, and, had driven her past the tunnels, and that time, she’d, never returned back to us again.

After I’d learned the truth, we’d all, fallen silent, because we didn’t know who to blame, and the young bitch wasn’t there, for us, to scapegoat.

Four years later, I’d started, writing, and the story of that young bitch made its way into my tales.

“Why nobody believed”, was the very first novel that I’d written which won an award, I’d cherished it especially, because that was, the starting point, of how I’d, started out writing, how I’d, deserted something I should’ve, loved.

Lastly, let’s, get back to “I’m only here, to borrow the phone”.

As I’d read this short story a second, a third time, I’d unknowingly, switched my perspectives, from the protagonist, Maria, to her husband.

Her husband was the only one who could, save Maria, but why did he not, help her?

The name of the husband was, Santano, the third man Maria had, ever had, once after they’d made crazy love, Maria disappeared suddenly. But, as Santano had, gone through the distances to finally track her down, the reason she gave for leaving him was merely, “there are long-term and short-term loves, and what we had was, short term.”

Such an awful answer, and, Santano admitted to defeat, and left her, but, after a year, Maria suddenly returned, in a bride’s gown.

Turns out, Maria was, dumped by her fourth man—at the Catholic church, at her wedding, with her soon-to-be-wedded husband, never shown up.

This time, Maria admitted to defeat, and came back to Santano. Santano asked her, “How long can you last with me this time?” Maria gave a very vague and very pretty answer, “However long love lasts, that, would be, our eternity”.

And, if we must find a source of Maria’s tragic end, I’d wanted to point toward her husband, at least, the driver, of, how the entire country had, worked, but, the end of the end, I can only say, that this, is a story that showed how personalities had, altered her destiny.

And now, that is, how I see inspiration, not as something that appears suddenly, the reason why we have it, is to recall those, long forgotten, memories—so I can, atone, for the sins only I know I’d, committed, inside my novels.

The young master of “Why Nobody Believed”, after learning the beginning, the middle, and the end, also passed into that same tunnel, and lost forever, and became, crazy, and can’t get home again, just like Maria, who never, found the telephone she’d needed to find.

Live Well, and, Experience the Good and the Evil to the Fullest Extents

Ming-Yu Ling


If inspirations truly existed, then, the beginning of every story would be, closest to the moment where, inspiration, first hit.

Those dreams we’d, revisited, the familiar scents or sounds, appearing, so, suddenly, the lights, captured, in the miniscule of seconds, everything writing, and, as I’d written for twelve hours straight, I’m still, battling my inspiration, and, normally, it’d not, ended well, and there were, only files, of incomplete, writings.




I don’t believe it to be problematic, if you’d, stolen, or, borrowed the inspirations, the point is after you’d, stolen or borrowed it, how does that magic bean grow to become that tall beanstalk, that took Jack to an alternative magical world.

As I’d reread “I Only Want to Borrow the Phone”, you’d stated how Maria had, made her husband distrust her love, and I’d wanted to talk about how as the bus entered into that mad space of the nut house, of the goings on in her mind. She’d lost the only value of existence of her self as a human being, no matter what she did or said, it wouldn’t be, correct now, in the caste system of the hospital, the paramedics and the managers are like those hooks with the thorns, lured out Maria’s original ego, or superego even. In this closed in space, she’d slowly, lost herself, and finally, turned into someone, that the world forgot.

I’m sure, that reason why Maria was in pain, must be because, she’s, too awake, as a madden world didn’t need order, or feelings anymore, and comparing to the other aspects of life, this seemed, a lot, easier.

The best thing about novels is, how it can, wrap up a tragedy, with the weird structures, like metaphors of life, and, the readers can, guess the parts that the writers hadn’t written down, that was, always, the gains I’d received, other from being inspired from reading the works of others.

Lastly, I want to talk about something that’s, unrelated to inspiration.

As I’d part-timed through school, I’d worked a ton of entry level jobs. One year, I’d delivered the materials, managed the warehouses, as the quality control of an electronics factory, and, of those posts, I’d gotten to walk around, and there were, a couple of months I was, assigned to the production lines of the parts, and, I could, no longer walk around, and being set at working on the production lines, with the only movements, happening in my hands, that was, too hard.

Back then, I had, yet to, figure out, what writing was, all about, and how fictions are, made up stories out of, reality.

Or maybe, what saved me back then was, that ability to fictionalize things, how I’d, stubbornly, believed, that writing can, make me happy. And later on, as I had my writer’s cramps, I’d always, envisioned, that silvery white, mechanical arm.

If, we can, live this life, and truly, experience the good AND the evil here on this planet, that would be, the most amazing, kind of inspiration we can, ever get.

And so, the inspirations comes from, everyday things, the things you come across daily in your lives, can become a source of inspiration for you, to create something that’s, completely, different from the source of your inspirations, you just have to, open up your minds, and, let it take you wherever it is that it’s headed to…


If We’d Used Novels as Our Means of Communication, the Relativity of Literature

The two great minds are, colliding again, translated…

I’d Often Told My Students, No Matter How You May Look Stupid, There’s One Place in This World, that You are a Genius. Go Out, Seek that Place Out, to Find the Genius that Heaven Endowed You with. Go There, Because, You are, the KINGS & QUEENS of that Realm………

The Thought Processes that Revolved Around the Novels

Ming-Yu Ling:


All my friends who knew me well knew that I loved that thin volume by Haruki Murakami, “If We All Spoke in the Language of Whiskey”, that was a journey, of finding the origins of whiskeys. But, we’re not talking about alcohol today, nor traveling, besides, I’m not that “infatuated” with whiskeys yet.

The elegance of literature, how should I describe it, it’s, too, abstract, but, my idol, Murakami, was always able to, make those already complicated questions, into even MORE complicated, or more trying for me, to understand.

In one of his essay volumes, he’d stated, “The language we used, are still, language, we live in this world, guided by language. And, we can only, transcribe everything, into something that’s, awake to describe it, and only live, in the limitations of that. But, there are, exceptions too, in those, limited moments of, bliss, our language gets turned, into whiskeys. And we——— at least, I————still, dreamed to live those moments of being, surrounded by dreams.”

He’d turned whiskeys into a metaphor of language, it’s easily, understood by those in his same industry. Another skill that the professional novelists had, is to interpret everything using one’s own beliefs. Changing the world, to make it unbound, by language, a sort, of an universalism that belonged solely to the novels.

I’d still attempted, to transcribe the differences of language, to the spectrums of creativity, what if, we’d, turned the language we used, into novels?

Don’t know if Rong-Je share the same troubles, when things interesting happen around you, our cerebral cortex, upon receiving the information, automated itself, into thinking in terms of noveling, I’d loved thinking using this mode, this is, already, an incurable condition for me.

And, naturally I’d described the events, of retold of the conversations over again, to bring the characters in my stories to life, plus an unexpected, ending…………I’d gotten two sorts of responses, the writers are all, exaggerating, but that wasn’t what I just, said.

I’m not complaining how hard it was, getting along with those with an engineering degree, who were, guided by, solely logic, after all, they’d not minded, that I lived, in Martian time zones, you’re probably, luckier than I am, because your better half is also, a novelist too.

Sometimes, I’d, become more toned-up, to not use the overly dramatic language, to not go overboard. I’d told other people more than once, if you lived with Rong-Je Hsu, you wouldn’t think, that I’m, exaggerating anymore. But, I’d never wanted to, change my life, that’s, filled up, with the ways of the novels, after all, if I’d done that, then, I wouldn’t, be me anymore.

And, how do we, use the simpler, more easily understood language, to get closer to the truth, and yet, with the powers, to, exceed what is, real, that is, the challenges of a novelist’s life, like those boundaries in the movie, “The Maze Runner”, with the uncertainties, no logic we can go by, and, even IF we kept, bumping into the walls, we’d needed to, use methods that our readers can understand, to guide ourselves, out of that, labyrinth.

The “limitations” of language, it’s boundaries, I’m still, attempting, to get across. As I’d used the images not related to life as metaphors, perhaps, other than those who’d read the book, but not seen the movies, or even, those readers who’d, never watched any movies, the languages used in the novels appeared to be, bourgeois.

But, another way of interpreting the languages used in novels, is that it’d must, exceeds its, limitations, like how Murakami had gone to interview Jim in the distillery of Islay, and found the answers to the kegs that breathed that the kegs had, breathed in the sea breezes in the rain seasons, and in the dry seasons, “the whiskeys kept pushing from inside the kegs. And in this back and forth, it’d, made the whiskey brewed there, to have that special taste. And this special taste had, calmed the hearts of the drinkers.”

The novelist, Murakami only wanted to take this trip, and just gotten drunk on the single-malts, don’t know if at this time, he’d felt, that same earthquake as I am doing, and the origin of that earthquake was himself, who’d, set at his writing desk. And, the whiskey that Jim spoke of, was that precision of writing that novelists are seeking to write with. Alcohol is nonliving, but, from the lips of the brewers, it’d, gained a brand new life, can breathe, with the particles moving around, and about, soaked in the kegs, enduring through the long season of rain, fixing oneself up, waiting, for that dry season that will come soon.

The language of novels, is nothing, but the whiskeys in the kegs, going through the repeated impact against the kegs, to make that best smooth, taste, to try to, get closest, to the cores of the novel, to attempt to, go deeper, than the surfaces of the human skins, then, to pull out, that heart of darkness, that’s, covered up, hidden too deep.

Making things up is not the original intent of novelists, more importantly, to turn what’s unreal, into what’s real, to the point, that the words became, surreal to the readers, to make a bigger, better frame of things, to put that center inside the novels for the readers.

Most of the times, as I’d written to my wits ends, I’d gotten reminded of some people I’d known, some were, my best friends from my distant adolescent years, some were, those students who were once, strangers, but I’d, gotten to know, how did we, make the connections, and, break it again. I’d loved imagining, what had, happened, to them?

In my second year of middle school, I’d often gone to a classmate’s home, her family owned a small diner, her mother knew more or less, that I was, staying at another student’s home, and, she’d felt, empathy toward how I was, living under, someone else’s roofs.

And, I’d started, helping out at the shop that my classmate’s family owned, anything…the dishes, making the drinks, making the plates of shaved ice, anything, sometimes, when the customers came so fast, I’d become, like a busy little bee, buzzing around the shop, and aunty was always, grinning ear to ear. And, would from time to time, stuff my hands with the Chinese herbal remedies, said it was, good for us, and, had given me the apples and the pears, told me to come and get more after I’d, finished. I can’t tell you, how much, I’d, longed for this kind of gentleness and kindness, and I’d, forgotten about the hardships of living under someone else’s roofs, and forgot how my parents were, separated, and forgotten how I’d felt, like I was, a luggage that someone had, forgotten about.

Back then, I’d not realized, that my classmate didn’t like me very much. Every time I’d gone over to her home, she’d pretended like she didn’t have anything against me, still chatted, and, she’d, squeezed in to the kitchens, to tell me things. Until once, after the heights of the dining in time, she’d told me she was going upstairs to listen to some tapes, back then, we were into the Japanese singers, she’d collected many tapes, as well as, posters too. Later on, someone called her from downstairs, he’d gone downstairs, but, there was, a box of cassettes missing, I’d wanted to ask her about them, and, as I was, about to, turn downstairs, I’d heard her tell another classmate. “I really hate her, why does she come over every day, so shameful, she’d even, invited herself in for the meals too.”

I’d forgotten how I got out of her house, perhaps, I’d, found me an excuse, and excused myself, quickly, and I’d stopped, going to her house, and, made myself invisible in her presence also. From that day on, I’d started, slouching over and, as someone showed goodwill to me, I’d, started thinking that it was, fake. Why are you, faking your kindness, when you don’t like me one bit? We’d not spoken another word, until we’d, graduated.

Murakami once said, “If a story can’t make the readers into better people, then, there’s, no point, in writing that story.”

If the language of the novels are limited, then, I must, try my best, to describe the story, and this, is the only thing that novelists can, accomplish. That girl longed for the feelings of family, that was why, she’d, come closer to that place, but, she was, the one, hated by her classmate, for her mother’s diverting her attention away from her, and, she’d, lost the connection to her friend, whatever happened to them both?

If, our language is the novel, then, this supposition only, benefitted the minority of people, for me, in the trying moments in my own life, reading and writing daily, it’d, helped me find the meanings of my own existence, or maybe, letting the time pass through myself, becoming, a better person than I can, imagine.

And so, there’s, ALWAYS truth in the fictions, and, that is why, reading those fictitious tales, can hit that part in our hearts, make us connect, so well, with the characters, because, the characters are, alter egos of the writers themselves.

The Trial by Fire of the Stories

Rong-Je Hsu


I’d agreed to your saying of the novelists worked their whole lives to “try to get the language closest to reality, and, exceeds the reality”.

It’s that this same technique, is term by some as “exaggeration”, and “twisting the facts” by others.

At the very start, I’m a story teller who’s “seventy-percent truthful, thirty-percent fabricated”.

This nature of mine made it especially hard, as I was doing research in engineering, I’d researched on the “operations of the reservoirs”, when to keep the water, when to release it, there’s, set rational data to follow, there’s, NO room for romance or things that are, made up.

But, you can’t be someone you’re not, I’d still, told my share of stories working as an engineer.

On the surface, I’d gotten so exaggerated telling those tales, but deep down, I was, so scared, if I wasn’t careful, I’d caused everybody to not have enough water to drink, and, on the bigger scales, I’d, caused the reservoirs to overflow, and, everybody is, drowning.

And so, I’d, changed to working in theatre, to writing novels.

The same talents, in operating the reservoirs, it’d become, stumped, I’d felt, like I was, a loser every day; but, as I’d, used the same techniques in script writing, and writing, I’d felt in my element, and felt like a genius every day.

And so, I’d told my students, no matter what sort of a loser you are, there’s, that part of you that’s, genius, go seek it out, that realm where you ruled.

“Seventy-percent factual, thirty-percent fictional” this is all the talents that we’d needed, to tell a story, but, it’s not quite enough, to tell a good story.

Back then, as I’d, dipped my toes into script writing, the person who’d, influenced me the most was, Shinji Nojima, his most famous work, “101 Times Proposed”, “Under the Same Roofs”, and “High School Instructor”.

His stories are all out there, but they’re all, very high in popularity.

In “Love Knows No Tomorrow”, in order to help cure her younger sister’s blindness, the female protagonist married a rich man whom she doesn’t love. In her wedding gown, the female lead sat in the helicopter operated by the rich man she married, they were going to some private island for their honeymoon. At this time, the man the female protagonist loved showed, and he’d, stood on the ground, staring up at the female protagonist who’s, flown up in the air.

At this time, the story took the viewers into a memory, the blind younger sister once asked the female lead a question. If the world comes to an end, which animal will you take onto Noah’s Ark? (1) Sheep, (2) Horse, (3) Peacock, (4) Tiger.

Back then, the female lead looked at the blind eyes of her younger sister (it was during their childhood years, that the female lead, out of jealousy, had poked her younger sister’s eyes out, made her blind), she’d said sorrowfully, “if the world comes to an end, I’d, end with the world”. The older sister did not only not choose, and, she’d managed, to make a fifth option for herself.

Then, returning back to reality, the female lead turned her head toward her rich husband, then, gave her a sorrowful smile, then, pushed open the helicopter door, leapt downward, in the end, she’d become, a vegetable. She’d become, a self-fulfilling prophecy from the personality test: to get destroyed with the world.

There’s no one option, that was, more precise, than the one that the female protagonist had, created, for herself.

And, the playwright, Shinji Nojima had taught me, to adjust the makeup of my stories, “Fifty-percent truth, fifty percent fictional”.

Thirty-percent of the storytelling was my original talent, and, the fifty-percent added, was the strengthening of my storytelling.

What if my readers felt, that it’s, too overly exaggerated, that it didn’t, fit logic?

Then, let them all go! You need to select your own readers, the stronger the styles of the writers, the stronger this showed, like Haruki Murakami.

In my classifications, Murakami had, gone one step further, his stories were “forty-percent nonfictional, sixty-percent fictional”.

For instance:

Murakami mentioned how this was how he’d, begun his writing career:

The year he’d turned 29, on an afternoon in April, he’d gone to a baseball game, of which he was a fan of the team, Yukult. On the outfield bleachers, he’d drank the beers, and watched the games, at which time, his team hit the ball to second base. At that very moment, he’d gotten that strong feeling, “hey, maybe, I can write novels”.

And, who was it, that’s hit that baseball, got to second base? What inning was this? What batter was he? How did the Yukult team do that year? All of that, were seemingly, unrelated to how “Murakami began writing novels”, but, it’s, completely, related.

Back then, the man who’d hit the baseball and ran to second base was Dave Hilton, he was a player who’d just been traded to Japan to play. Without any fame, he’d gotten on base in that first hit, and he was, the very first batter.

That year, Team Yukult was there, to make the other teams shine, the owners didn’t have that much money, there were, NO star players on the team. But in the end, Team Yukult was the miracle, not only did they become the champions of the central leagues, they’d beaten the Pacific League’s champions.

If this s a movie, I’d, totally turn the second base hit into the start of the movie.

First inning, first batter, a foreigner who was, unknown to everybody, his second base hit, opened up that deepest, darkness, and took Team Yukult who’d not been expected to perform well at all, ALL the way to the championship games.

It was amazing that, Murakami had, selected this story, as the backdrop for his own fictional creations. When he’d felt most lost at people’s lives, this is the sort of stories we want to hear.

I’m sure, that Murakami knew well, but he couldn’t explain, because if he had, then, it would make the story lose that scent of magic, and there wouldn’t be, the Murakami-ness of the story anymore.

Would my above descriptions be, a bit, too narrowminded?

Fine, let’s tell it, in a more gentler way:

This wasn’t Murakami’s plan all along, it was his language, every word he’d written had, made his readers exclaimed, “it’s our god, Murakami”. Then, the readers rehashed the miraculous act of Murakami to someone else, because the readers wanted to see someone else’s jaw drop too.

And so, how to become, a good story teller is the center of this article, and, how to become a good story teller, truth, mixed in, with fiction, but the proportions of truths and fictions, is up for grabs, because everybody has a difference of interpretation, it’s all on the writers’ methods of conveying what they want to say to the readers.

Message in a Bottle, from Outerspace

Testing, to see, if the love she found in her man, is true, translated…

She’d stood, by my bed tonight, quietly stated, “I’m a message in a bottle”.

“What message?”

“I’m a message in a bottle, drifted from the civilizations in outerspace to Earth.”


like this???  Ohoto from online…

Rewind please. I’m an independent international reporter, my job is, getting the news, as it’d, happened in the present tense. And she, the woman I’d loved so deeply, for the past, twenty years.

“What’s that you say? I can’t understand it.”

She’d smiled like she always had, slowly stated, “You should know, that this earth we reside on right now, kept sending messages to outerspace, and, some of these messages included the human greetings, the sounds of nature, and even, the funny recordings of the presidents of the bigger nations in the U.N. too……………so, they’re, probably, wanting to, communicate with living beings outerspace.”

She said, “We’d, received all the messages. And you’d all, collected the electromagnetic waves, and analyzed our signals, to seek out possible living beings in outerspace, and all the moves you made, we’re, very much aware of, although, we’d felt, that your actions aren’t, useful or fruitful, but, we’d, commended you all, for trying as hard.”

“You, you are, from outerspace, an ALIEN!………and so?”

“So, I have to admit, our union, was for, a purpose.”


“My maker from outerspace, made me into a ‘message in a bottle’, sent me to outerspace You all thought: there are, many aliens living on earth already, nope, only me, I’m, the one, and only, there are, messages of civilization from outerspace inside of my body, but, since the beginning of man, I’d been set, adrift on the seas, no humans ever, discovered me, read me, how many centuries had it been, how old am I now? And, it’s, pointless, for you, to guess that, I’d looked the same in the past, and in the present, the one you’d, loved.”

“I…love…you”, I’d, stated, timidly.

“Since humans can’t find me, I’d, come and found you. I love you too, this, is the truth, but there’s, another more important reason—you are, an independent reporter of international news, needed to travel around the globe, to interview and to write out your reports, and you’d, needed to be doing it, LIVE!”

like this???  Photo from online…

“What does it have to do with doing it LIVE?”

“Just be patient and hear me out. Every time we were together, for short periods of time, I’d, saved some messages onto you, I’d not dared put too much on, fearing, that you couldn’t, handle it, little by little, do you know how many messages I’d, saved on you already? You can imagine me as, the digital binary codes that kept coming, the history of all civilizations in the universe, is all on me.”

“So, to be clear~~~there’s that digital letter from the universe inside of you then, and your body is, like the bottle (a vessel) then.”

I’d continued, “No wonder I’m growing more and more interested by the astronomy no matter where I go, when I’d gazed up at the stars, I’d, found the comfort I’d, longed for, no longer was I in fear, even if I was in the midst of a war with myself or with the outside world, I’d not, feared.”

“You said, that you can’t write the news unless you’re, right there in the actions. I’d arrived to the scenes through you, and, passed the codes in my body through you, to all corners of the world. You’d asked me, why don’t I, do it myself? It’s simple, because the messages needed to have the help from the compassions and the love to be able to get sent. I know, that being a reporter, you can’t just, go on your curiosity, you’d, loved your job so much, because of your compassion toward others, and how much you’d, cared for the world, isn’t it?”

“I’m not so sure.”

“In these twenty years, you’d become, a middle-aged man, you’d once smiled and told me how amazing it was, I could, keep looking young, I’m sure, that being a journalist like you, you would’ve, already, figured it out. And, as I’m telling you this tonight, you may believe it, or don’t, it’s the truth. As a ‘message in a bottle’, drifted to earth from outerspace, my mission is, expired now, the order I’d received was, to persuade you, to become, another ‘message in a bottle’, you now have, all the codes of the civilizations from outerspace, I just need to, kiss you, then, you’d, get activated. If you’d not accept, then, everything will become, digitized, and become, an oracle (to prevent your contact with another human being, and spilling out the secrets I’d, shared with you).”

“What I care about right now is…are you……leaving me?”

“Dearly, if your body becomes a message in a bottle, then, I’m, inside of you.”

“Can I still, work as a reporter?”

“You can still, work as an independent reporter for international news.”

“But, after hearing you out, I’d wanted to become, an ‘universal independent reporter’, I wanted to, interview the ‘higher being’ that’s, turned you, into a message in a bottle………”

“Ahhh, I’d, forgotten, about your occupational hazard!”

“I wanted to take you along, to love, to care about, this entire universe.”

“Uhhh, I’d been, joking with you tonight, there’s, NO truth in what I’d told you tonight.”

“You know what, reason why I’d become, an international independent news reporter, is because I’m in search of that ‘message in a bottle’ from outerspace all over the world.”

So, do you think this woman is playing with this man? I don’t think so, she’d, shared, that most intimate part of herself, to test if he’ll, still love her, and, he does, and, from her mini-“experiment”, she knew, she’d, found herself, a good man, who’d, cared about the rest of the outside world.


Aunty Who Loves to Paint

How this woman was, able to overcome the trials of her life by taking up a hobby, the features of a woman, translated…

As the children became independent, the aunty who’s already past fifty thought that she could, finally, graduate from her roles of a “good mother” and a “good wife”, but, my uncle fell ill suddenly, it’d, messed everything up. For the futures they’re to have after retirement, my aunt knew she couldn’t leave the workforce yet, but this didn’t stop her from mapping out her dreams.

She’d loved dancing and singing, and has a talent in art too. I’d seen her, so focused as she sketched things onto the papers, and her work consisted of classics and modern, she’d even had an exhibit with her friends who shared the same love for art. Seeing how my aunt stood in front of her canvas, in smiles, I’d felt, she looked, so radiant.

Is it because she’s not willing to lose the passions she has for her life? I’m truly in awe, of her energies, every time I’d visited or called her, I couldn’t help but ask her, when she will be showing her new work, or at least, to post them on FB so her friends and families can look at the works. And, perhaps the road to help my uncle recover is long, but I give my best wishes to my aunt, hoping, that as she gets older, her life will, be colorful as ever.

This is very important, as this article had shown, to have something you’re, really into doing, like for this woman, she has her art, and, if she didn’t have it, she will become resentful toward the things that’s happened in her life, and she’s going to have a very difficult time as she gets older, but gladly, she has a hobby, to keep her going.


Mosquito, a Poem

The poem on autumn, translated…

How Can the Words Manage to Carry

The Sudden Temperature Drop of Autumn?

The Papers Slowly Changed Colors

Just Like Those Standstill Yellowed Leaves

查看來源圖片like this???  Not my animation…

The Water Fowls Left that Final Reflection on the Lake This Year

The Rifles Sounded

We’re on the Race, on the Tracks of Time Now

Imagining How We Can Still, Test the Waters Before the Cold Fronts Get Here

Riding on the Moisture

So You Get to See the Light and Shadows

Made by the Sunset as Well as the Dawn on My Forehead

I Used My Trembling Hands

with the leaves fallen, into this red carpet…not my photo…

Wrote the Words on Your Skins

Hearing Carefully, and Walked Along

To See if I’d Lost the Tempos

Imagining the Differences of Time, It’s a Delusion

Words Became the Matchmakers of Time

We in the Crevasses


查看來源圖片looks beautiful, doesn’t it??? Not my picture…

the Sunlight & the Dusts

You’d Told Me

that After the Typhoon

The Drapes Wouldn’t Stop Rustling

查看來源圖片the seaonal changes, not my collage…

That You’d Often Felt that Itch Inside, Because of the Gossips in the Wind

You’d Not Known

that After the Seasons Changed

Those Words I’d Written Down on You in Secret

Already Turned

Into Mosquitoes

So, there’s that scent of how the seasons are changing, how everything is slowed down quite a bit, from the heats of the summer, slowly, entering into autumn, and soon, it will be, winter, where everything is frozen…


The Lake Inside

Reflections, translated…

Autumn is a colorful promise.  Walking in the Forest of Dean, alongside the large lake, the beauties of autumn emphasized even more by the lake.  The cold air was the prelude to winter, the wind started blowing, the leaves fall one by one off the trees, warning of how time is passing quick.  Winter, well on its way.

At this time, I’d, bumped into three swans, they swam leisurely along the perimeter of the river, orderly, gracefully, enjoying this autumn day.  In half a day, I saw them, circling around the lake repeatedly, very slow, and leisurely.  The swans relied on the sustenance of the lake, feeling safe and secure.

張玉芸photo from the papers…

I watched them, felt that sense of familiarity, like seeing a microcosm of people.  Everybody has that lake inside, that they’re, circling too.

So, this is quite philosophical, isn’t it?  How we’re all, circling around a lake inside of us, at various speeds, and, we are the only ones being aware of what surrounds this lake inside of us…


Getting Myself Through the Cramps of My Creativity

On working hard, to keep that inspiration coming to you, translated… I went to a lecture of the writer, Ke-Hsiang Liu a short while ago, he’d described the lows in his creativity nature as “As you’d lost your soul, there’s, nothing you can do”, it’d impacted me, YES!  It’s exactly like that, the emptiness, the helplessness, and draining of the energies.

My very first “creativity trial, was how I’d needed to, reply back to the complaints of the customers’ in the customer call center.  As the manager of the customer service center, faced with those angry customers, it was, naturally quite difficult, for me, to remain calm and reason with them, and so, in the shortest time, I’d called them back, and apologized, and as the customers’ feelings smoothed back down, then, I’d written them back, on how I believe the matters should be, handled.

See the source imageinspirations come when you’re alone…not my silhouette…

At first, I’d only did this as a part of my work responsibilities, that I’d needed to do it, then, I’d changed a thought, in this era where people are farther and farther away, and more detached than ever with one another, they’d still taken the time from their days, to tell you what you needed to improve, if that’s not having the heart, then, what would be?  And so, I’d treated every complaint as a sort of a kind reminder, and started writing my customers back with my heart, and slowly, the complaints were, reduced, and, the reputation of my company stayed good, and, what was out of my expectations was, writing the customers back became, what I drew from as I’d started writing.

After I retired, I’d gone back to school, and involved myself in a life writing course, and in the encouragement of the instructor, I’d, started writing.  Sometimes, the words would overflow out of me endlessly, I didn’t need any help, putting pen to paper; but most times, my thoughts drained dry, and, I’d watched that cursor on my computer, blinking on and off, and yet, still had difficulties, writing out three lines, and yet, as the deadline pressed on, I’d sighed about how my muse was so hard to control.

Once I’d gone to the lecture of the illustrated books, Cups Lin, she’d showed a photo of the American director, actor, Woody Allen, with a dog leash in his hand, full of facial expressions said, “I have ants as pets.”

Being influenced by Woody Allen, Cups Lin wrote a cute poem, “Rope”: “If I can have a Long Long Rope/Can I Walk the Moon?  If There’s a Really, Really Thick Rope/Can I Walk an Elephant?” as well as in “Secret Games”: “There’s a Floor Full of Sesame Underneath the Chairs, I’d Bent Over, Picked Them Up, the Sesames Started Moving Around.  Oh, They Were, Ants, Pretending to Be, Sesames………”, I’d finally understood, that creativity is nothing more than “changing a thought, and expressing that thought differently”, a game of imagination?

something like this, maybe???  Not my artwork…

As I’d become too anxious, having a hard time coming up with the words, the things I’d endured through my over fifty years of life flashed inside my mind, and at the same time, it’d, set up the multiple clues of writing I can take from; the findings on my trips, financial planning and me, the funny and stupid things I’d done as a child, all you need to know about customer service, the crazy volunteer, etc., etc., etc., almost all my stories had great beginnings, and yet, there’s not much I can go from then.  I’d understood, that writing is like sewing, but why did I always, come up, empty?

Nobody can compel you, unless it’s you.  Ke-Hsiang Liu said he’d taken the challenges of being on the board of trustees of the Central Agencies, that it was, “at the lowest of my writing career, I’d gone and do something I wouldn’t want to do the most”.  And naturally, that’s not what would happen to me; but the experiences of the writer, Dzi Fang started from “the smaller story writing, writing being a process of accumulations”, I can borrow from her.  I’d told myself, that I shouldn’t get discouraged at the low times of my own writing, so long as I continued reading and writing, I will eventually, have good materials to write about one day.

This, is on the ability to find inspiration in every day life, and it’s really hard, because, this, is all your days are made of, going to work in the morning, take your lunch breaks, return back to work, clocking out, and getting in that AWFUL afternoon rush to get back home again, but, there must be something worth noting in this grueling grind of the day to day, it’s just, whether or not, you’d taken that observant nature of yours and notice it or not!