Just Writing
6 min read
I'm writing a novel.
Although a book I published three years ago hasn't sold a single copy, I don't think it's a bad book, and some of my friends say they like it. While there's a slight dissatisfaction, that's exactly what I like, and there's nothing to say about it. What is there to say? I like my work to have some flaws; I think it's a quality a good work should have. I don't like a book that's too perfect (and practically impossible anyway). That book was a collection of poems.
I don't know where to begin. This morning before leaving the house, my wife was on the phone with her mother, who said she's been feeling a little melancholy lately, with autumn setting in. My wife hasn't been feeling well either, and as we walked down the street, she asked me what I thought. I knew what she meant—she wanted to know if I felt a similar way. I didn't know how to answer for a moment. I’ve actually been feeling a bit off these past couple of days; I mean, I'm not sure if it's related to the season.
My mood has a bit to do with a Dutch woman who’s been staying with us these past few days. She’s a tall and big Dutch woman (I don’t know if all Dutch people are tall and big), and she's very friendly with her smile and manner of speaking. I don’t mind any of that. What I don’t like is that she always makes a lot of noise when she’s at home, and she likes to occupy the kitchen for long periods of time. She loves to cook, especially pasta. Also, she always leaves a mess wherever she goes. I suppose I’m being a bit nitpicky here. I know this isn’t a big deal, and I certainly can’t hold her responsible for how I’m feeling because of it.
The weather is nice today, except for the strong wind. I know some people like the wind, but I don't; there's just too much (and too strong) wind in this city. My wife even considered moving home because of it; she thinks my constant low energy must have something to do with the wind here. She has a point—I do feel better when I stay home, but after going outside and getting blown around by the wind, I always get irritable, and my tone becomes impatient and loud. I took some pictures of the scenery and a few of my wife. The photos today have a unique color palette. There’s one where my wife is standing with her back against a low railing, and the still objects and scenery behind her look just like a scene from the Japanese countryside.
Our room window faces a field. This year’s seeds were sown long ago. This field was planted with wheat last year, and the year before that too (it hadn't been harvested yet when we moved here). I had assumed they’d be planting wheat again this year, but the daily changes in the field make me increasingly believe it's not wheat this year. I grew up in the countryside in China; just beyond our simple courtyard lay the fields, so I know what the daily changes should look like after wheat is sown, although this place is a world away from the village where I grew up, and the types of weeds in the field are somewhat different too. For example, in this very field when we first moved here, a very bright red flower, very much like a poppy, was in full bloom—something I'd never seen in the wheat fields of my childhood.
One day, my wife asked me, "If your work didn’t have a single reader, would you still be willing to keep writing?" Without much thought (or perhaps having thought about it countless times in my mind), I said, "Of course I would." I have many problems—both physical and mental (not that I have depression or any other mental health condition; I just often don't feel quite right), and I’ve never really succeeded at anything. Writing is almost the only thing that allows me to truly quiet down, feel joy, and have a sense of control. Writing requires almost no expense (which is crucial to me); all I need is a laptop—or even just a smartphone. Of course, it does require some time.
The elderly man who lives downstairs texted us saying he's been hearing a sound like something falling on the floor these past few days, and that we should be more considerate of our downstairs neighbor’s (his) feelings. This isn't the first time we've received messages from this elderly man downstairs (he's even called us rudely a few times). I understand his feelings—including those of his wife, who is frail and sickly and always stays in her room (we rarely see her)—but we've been careful enough, and we can’t possibly stop doing everything just because of his (or her) highly sensitive ears. Every time we receive his complaints, my wife and I carefully review our daily activities to see which ones might be causing loud noises. This time, our review concluded that nothing we've done recently could have disturbed them. The only possibility is that Dutch person, which is one reason I’ve been resentful toward her.
The morning sun was lovely; the weather has been quite nice lately. My wife remarked that the weather here seems to have improved—last year it wasn't this good; there weren’t as many sunny days, and she remembers it always raining. Indeed, since the start of summer this year—more than four months now—it hasn’t rained much, and the quality of the sunny days is better than last year’s. My wife doesn’t like rain; she’s been planning for us to move to a place with plenty of sunshine.
I just wrote a new poem: Crape Myrtle / The fruit on the hawthorn tree outside the kitchen window has ripened / A vibrant red. The leaves facing the sun / are also beginning to show beautiful colours, yellow or red. / I didn't know it was a hawthorn tree before / and I rarely associated the current season (autumn) with hawthorn trees. / When I think of autumn, the first thing that comes to mind is the crape myrtle / Crape myrtle is a flower that blooms in summer / (Wikipedia: Crape myrtle is native to China, has a long flowering season / sometimes blooming from May through September or even October.) / Yet every time I think of it, it always feels like autumn / It seems that only autumn comes to my mind / And / this isn’t just a figment of my imagination or a flaw in my memory / that I haven’t seen a crape myrtle in many years.
Yesterday, while out for a walk, I finally couldn’t resist going over to take a look at the field. This is the field I see from my bedroom window every day. It isn’t completely flat—it’s lower in the middle—and from where I stand, it forms a beautiful arc. Between the field and my house is a gravel path (which also serves as a bike lane), and we often see people in brightly coloured athletic gear running or biking past. My wife and I often walk along this path too. It’s quite long and leads to a restaurant we both like. I asked my wife if she wanted to go to the field, but she didn't want to. I’m certain that what’s been planted in the field this year isn’t wheat; what I'm unsure about is whether it's rapeseed, an oilseed crop.
My daily breakfast usually consists of two boiled eggs, half an avocado, and a slice of bread (or sometimes a baked potato or something else). My wife usually has just one boiled egg, though lately she's stopped eating breakfast. This morning, while peeling an egg, I suddenly remembered the continuous tapping sound the old man downstairs claims to hear every day—could it be me tapping eggs? Before peeling an egg, I always gently tap it a few times against the edge of the ceramic sink to crack the shell open, making it easier to peel. The sound of the egg tapping on the sink is actually very faint, but other than that, I really can’t think of any other sound—a continuous sound that rings out every morning.
Little Xi (my wife) said the first storm of the year has already arrived. She added that it actually made landfall yesterday. Today is 23rd October. I remember now—the wind was indeed very strong yesterday, mixed with rain. I don’t remember if the rain was heavy or light—maybe it wasn’t that heavy, otherwise why wouldn’t I remember? I do tend to forget some things easily, while other things stick in my mind very clearly. I don’t know if everyone is like this. Lying in bed, I listened to the sound of raindrops hitting the windowpane. When Xi and I went to a nearby town, the leaves on the roadside trees had beautiful colours. I said these trees would look even more beautiful in a few days. I’m not sure if I actually said that out loud or if it just popped into my head. The leaves on the tree outside the kitchen window are noticeably fewer than a few days ago. I know it's because of the strong winds these past few days. But even without the wind, the leaves on these trees would still be falling.
We ran into that neighbour who often wears a long red coat. Xi and I stopped to talk to her (him). She (he) asked Xi if we’d been away a few days ago. Xi said yes, we’d taken a trip to Scotland. We chatted a bit more about Scotland. Xi asked if she (he) had gotten a new dog. She (he) said no, she (he) had just had the dog’s fur trimmed. Every time we ran into her (him), she (he) was walking her (his) little dog. She (he) is getting on in years and seems to live alone. She (he) said her (his) dog is 8.5 years old, which is quite old for a dog. Once, when we ran into her (him) at a nearby bar, she (he) greeted Xi and me loudly and invited us to sit with her (him).
I know winter is coming, and the winds will grow stronger and stronger over the next few months. It will rain more and more, too.
After several days of strong winds, it was a calm and sunny day.
My wife said, “Let’s walk to downtown.”
Author: Fish Lu is an independent writer based in the UK, where he writes daily short reviews of contemporary English-language poetry on his X account. He is the author of several Chinese-English poetry collections, including Fire Hydrant (消火栓). He lives with his wife, writer and translator Xi Nan.
Translator: Xi Nan is a writer and translator working in English, Spanish and Chinese. Her work explores memory, time, displacement and the complexities of human relationships, often drawing on everyday life and personal experience. She currently lives in England with her husband Fish Lu.