In a family of bibliophiles who have more than a thousand books, the first thing taken as

granted was to respect for literature. Growing up with this precious value, I gradually embarked

on my way to becoming a humble reading enthusiast. When I read different kinds of books, no

matter history, romance or comics, I regard them as fruits of wisdom. Reading has turned into

my best buddy and an indispensable part of my identity.

My Chinese teacher once said: “When you love reading and appreciate literature, producing

your own works is close at your hand.” I started to write my own literature after I learned the

relative writing skills in school. Even though they were just some diaries and short essays, I

relished the pleasant creating course. Since high school, my instructor recommended me to

compose short poems and prose and send them to literary journals for students. I sent my

pieces with enormous confidence because I consulted four literature teachers in my high school

to ensure the fancy word choice and precise grammar. I waited for the approval every day;

however, it had never come. I refused to trust my failure and continued to send my works. After

being repeatedly rejected for a year, disappointment, frustration and uncertainty swallowed me

up. Dragging heavy steps, I disheartenedly went to Mr. Yam, our principal, also a strict teacher

had taught Chinese poetry, with the last hint of hope and asked him for advice.

Holding a pen in his hand, Mr. Yam slowly swept over every word of my work. The sharp nib

flashed the unique cold and sharp light of metal, like a sword in the hand of a General, and not

let go of any noteworthy or suspicious place. And I was like a soldier under review, standing

straight at his desk without a word, waiting for his final verdict. As if after a century, he looked up

from my essay, staring at me through the cold glasses’ lenses, with a gaze of scrutiny.

“You do not have a writer’s spirit.”

“Why!” I looked at him incredibly.

“Yes. I have to admit you produced beautiful pieces because you obviously spent amount of

time on wording and grammar. Bust these decorations cover up your real sentiments deep

inside your heart. Never forget why you write and remain true to your original aspiration.”

Mr. Yam’s words woke me up and made me introspect myself: I love writing because I enjoy the

course of speaking up in my little world, however, what I write now pay more attention on

delicate rhetoric and perfect grammar, beautiful but fake. A good writer should not only

write by hand, but also by heart.

Since then, every word I write, whether it's prose, poetry or reporting, comes from my heart, not

just sticking to the surface decoration.