Newbie Punch | My Writing is a Scam

I have always thought of myself as an insensitive person, sluggish, even to the point of numbness.

It's a distressing thing, like a whole puzzle piece missing a piece, not the center piece, not the sharp corners, it's hidden in the harmony of the whole, pretending to be intact.

— so I often suspect that this is how the first lies in my life began.

Tears were an essential part of my daily life when I was a little kid. It's a physiological response controlled only by intuition, usually pouring out first before my brain can react. I sat on the floor, my eyes were clouds full of mist, and my skirt was an umbrella, catching the salty rainwater.

It's a cunning trick reserved for children, and I've often used it to avoid mistakes and express my demands. But there is always a voice deep in my heart that will reveal that I am not really guilty or wronged, but just want to use the sensitive exterior to cover up my inner indifference.

As I got older, I gradually lost the privileges of my childhood, and crying began to be seen as a sign of weakness. After the trick stopped working, I learned to write.

At first, it was as unconscious as crying. I stole some plots from the novels I had read, and then used the composition skills I learned from my Chinese teacher to imitate a few exercises. Using them, I got some compliments. But only I know in my heart that there is nothing of my own in those seemingly decent articles. It is a complete fake, neither from my life nor based on my fantasies. Like a careful tailor, I sew together other people's meticulous observations and beautiful insights, and put them on my body, just to cover up the emptiness inside myself.

Until the second year of junior high school, this lie suffered a small accident. It is also very common to say, it is nothing more than another study of mine that was selected as a model essay. In class, the young female teacher asked me to get up and share my writing experience. The air in the late spring afternoon was thick and hot, my thoughts boiled into a pot of mash, I stood up in a daze, and actually began to tell the truth. In those few short minutes, I talked about the techniques of the beginning and the end, the language, the materials used, and all the poor techniques I had learned. It wasn't until I sat down to myself, looked up dully, and saw the incredible expression of the female teacher, that I remembered that the theme of this composition class was "discovering the beauty of life".

Later, my technique became more and more proficient, from the initial unconsciousness to another level of unconsciousness. My heart is still a blank, cold snow field, but I no longer try to transplant other people's flowers and trees there, I begin to learn to accept my own dullness, hold up the snowflake, and shape it into different shapes.

Now I prefer to face my flaws. Writing is like glasses on the bridge of my nose, allowing me to see everything in front of me through external forces.

With all my curiosity, I replaced the five senses with the tip of a pen to perceive and explore the whole world.