Finally, here is a copy of the Fucking Book, Less Than Mystery.
It is almost as thick as the length of this lighter; total 6 parts, 484 pages, 129,237 words. It has taken three versions of the manuscripts. The very first one, which was finished within one week, was crap. The whole book took me about two years to complete – one year of writing, one year changing and editing. More precisely, if not counting the parts on suffering from writer’s block, traveling and worrying about other things, it would be half a year of writing and half a year of changing and editing. It is sometimes like a lighthouse sometimes a nightmare.
Why is it the Fucking Book? Because sometimes it weighs as heavy as my heart can carry sometimes as thin as the air that my lungs need to breath in and more importantly, because it holds my life between something and nothing.
To be honest, I thought I would celebrate it, but now it is more like a victory that brings no joy. Why? Because it is not the final victory. Just not yet.
It may not be great but absolutely unique. Initially, it is quite a fanciful illusion – with a structure like Pulp Fiction, a language like William Faulkner’s, a sort of anger like Henry Miller’s and a rightful dream for women’s liberation in China like Simone de Beauvoir’s in The Second Sex. What is it now? – My angers, my wonders, my observations and my beliefs wrapped in mysteries. In a word, it has my character.
The next book is In Between.
At the moment, there is the same question – “To be or not to be”.
I must write, or I die. If I write, I must survive too.