Annie Red Flower

Author: Anni
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2001-09-01
Features: Preface
I often go to bookstores when I have free time. Occasionally, I hear someone mention my name in the bookstore, looking for my books. Standing right beside them. So close. I see their faces and expressions, smell their scent. The woman who writes books is right there. The distance between us is only 10 centimeters. She is a woman in old jeans, with slightly messy hair and no makeup. But she is unaware. This feeling fascinates me. I am in the shadows, while he is in the light. There is a potential confession between us. Later, I began writing a long in Shanghai. The theme I recalled was about a confession. It was as if traveling with companions on planes, trains, or ships, or staying in the same hotel room. Knowing the time is limited and that we might never see each other again after parting. Thus, there were conversations in the dark. Unmasking oneself, opening one's heart. Only then can the confession begin. I wrote for about 10 hours a day, sometimes 5 hours. From late at night until early morning. Then I would sit alone on the windowsill, smoking, watching the desolate deep blue sky. Some people say: The time of day is always limited, while the night is boundless and vast. My countless nights were spent writing in an empty room. I didn’t know what others were doing, but I believed there were always some people, awake like me, unable to sleep. I have always demanded of myself to be a compassionate narrator. I’ve met some people with hidden, wounded emotions. They live blindly, suffering the pain of having no way out. I believe there is always a powerful, real reason behind it. To search for the reason behind the pain. They are the core of the spirit. I will present them but not judge them. Any thing is perfect only when it is flawed. That is my aesthetic. For a long time, I immersed myself in the story I was writing. Although I was accustomed to writing concise and polished short and medium-length works, the structure of the novel made me doubt myself in repetition. But as more characters appeared and their interactions unfolded, I saw time—the time that disappeared and passed. It was like a vast river, calm yet rushing. We watched the other shore, waiting to cross. Then we saw the flowers blooming on the other side. That was a profound sense of emptiness, controlling my doubts about life. I believe any writer must retain a deep sense of emptiness within their soul to engage in this arduous work. Those who are loud and self-satisfied are not. They will be abandoned by their own purposes. After finishing writing, I took a journey of fate. At that time, many people criticized me in various settings and with various attitudes. Some newspapers and magazines published distorted photos taken by sneaky reporters. My life was troubled by other matters. On the top of a high mountain in a distant place, I gazed at the sky at 11 p.m. Shanghai must already be filled with stars, while here it was only a brilliant sunset. If we change our perspective, the scenery we see will be entirely different. In July, I decided to temporarily leave Shanghai and live in Beijing for a while. Working in film, publishing, and editing. The creation of the novel would have to wait for the right time to begin again. It requires new, continuous experiences. I respect my writing. Its consumption of time and energy. Its sacrifice. Ten years ago, I used to read a book I loved before going to sleep every night. It was a novel written by a female poet. It was sold at a discount in bookstores but accompanied me on all my wandering journeys. Ten years later, many people wrote to me via email, saying that reading my novel before sleep comforted them and helped them fall asleep. She has disappeared, and I continue. Anni July 2001, Shanghai