Who am I as a writer
When I was a child, I read periodicals more often than books. I was drawn to popular narrative magazines featuring folk tales, urban legends, and legendary stories, as well as children’s literary journals that published coming-of-age fiction and imaginative narratives. At university, I finally had the time to read more extensively. I began reading canonical writers, especially my favorite author, Albert Camus. I read nearly all of his novels and prose works. His calm, restrained philosophical thinking deeply influenced me — and I must also acknowledge the role of excellent Chinese translators in shaping that influence. I was equally struck by Milan Kundera, whose political reflections and intellectual complexity astonished me. And I was mesmerized by the lush, feverish, repetitive and metaphor-laden magical worlds created by Gabriel José García Márquez. During that period, I also encountered the “Lost Generation.” I was experiencing a sense of existential confusion about the meaning of life — perhaps a continuation of the existential crisis I absorbed from Camus, combined with a political disillusionment similar to what I felt when reading Kundera: the way grand collective narratives can turn against the vulnerable, and how people sometimes condemn the weak while believing they are upholding justice. I became fascinated by the Dionysian spirit — by writers marked by visible self- destructive tendencies, such as Jack Kerouac in On the Road, and even earlier, J. D. Salinger’s Nine Stories, with its post-war psychological trauma. These writers seemed to attempt to seek personal meaning through excess and self-consumption during relatively stable economic periods. Among writers from my own country, one of the most influential for me was Chai Jing, the investigative journalist who later left China due to the nature of her reporting. Her collection Seeing profoundly shaped me. Through a journalist’s discipline and clarity, she documented phenomena and the structural reasons behind what appeared as “crimes.” From her, I learned that content and observation matter more than rhetorical flourish. She possessed a rare investigative perspective and an independent conscience
How do the things I read affect my writing?
The influence of what I read operates on different levels. On the surface, I often find myself unconsciously echoing the narrative tone of authors I admire. Certain descriptive styles that resonated deeply with me tend to reappear in my own writing. More fundamentally, however, reading has changed my way of perceiving the world. It feels almost like an additional sensory layer — a heightened tactile awareness. Through understanding those authors’ insights and imagery, I began to notice similar traces in my own life. For example, in The Plague, Camus writes that “dusk poured into the cathedral like a rising tide.” While he may have been describing Oran in Algeria, that sentence fully materialized a feeling I had long experienced since childhood — the indescribable heaviness of evening. Reading gave language to something that had previously only existed as sensation. Similarly, in La Chute, Camus exposes how individuals position themselves on moral high ground in order to judge others. The question of who has the right to judge whom seems to tear away the veil of hypocrisy that people prefer not to confront. Such ideas shaped not only my worldview but also my internal mode of reflection. After reading extensively, writing began to feel natural — almost inevitable. My mode of expression feels like a convergence of the books I have absorbed.
What are you like as a writer?
As a writer, I tend toward a calm narrative tone. I describe surrounding environments more readily than direct physical sensations. When conveying thought or emotion, I rarely state feelings explicitly. Instead, I build atmosphere, arrange events progressively, and allow underlying logic or metaphor to guide the narrative until it arrives at its core point. I also believe that writing style is shaped by environment. Social structures and collective atmospheres often produce habitual modes of expression. Many limits in narration are not purely individual but cultural. In my writing, I often describe phenomena or realities rather than openly asserting judgment. Even when I write from a certain bias, I avoid overt conclusions. This restraint may echo Camus’ influence. It also resembles journalistic practice: presenting multiple sides of a situation without immediately condemning or moralizing. I tend to believe that most actions have underlying reasons and cannot be judged easily. Understanding the whole context matters more than delivering verdicts.
What is your history as a writer? What kind of writer will you be in the future?
My most frequent practice of writing began in middle school, through weekly diaries and exam compositions. In my educational environment, writing instruction emphasized illustrative examples, elegant phrasing, and interpretation of prompts rather than cultivating critical thinking. In university, after extensive reading and as I began traveling more, I started writing personal travel essays on my own platform. Travel expanded not only my geography but also my narrative sensibility. Now, after this course introduction, I find myself particularly interested in the essayistic style. It appears to allow more openness and individuality. It values the process of thought rather than rushing toward a definitive conclusion. It feels closer to creation than argument. In the future, I hope to become a writer who remains faithful to her inner voice — someone who shares reflections, viewpoints, and philosophical inquiries with honesty and clarity.