柏林入夏，结束一篇漫长的书写｜A Long Writing Ends

Hi, It's been a while.

(English version below)

久违了，你好啊。

还是从今年二月初说起吧。那时我从一趟亚洲之旅中回到柏林。西南的老家县城仍然湿冷，清迈、深圳和香港则已相当炎热。而柏林太不同了，我回来后，这里下了一星期的雪。

夜仍然非常长，白昼稀疏，天还没亮我就起床——但这并不意味着我起得有多早，是白天迟到太久。三十岁以后的四年，神秘地来到和漠河纬度相当的地方，冬天永远在这些中国人眼中堪称“极北”的地带生活。理智与情感上我都已适应，但身体和潜意识每年仍会感到错愕。最近几个冬天，我都会拿出黄锦树的《雨》出来读。其中有一篇小说叫《穿过林子便是海》。

“村子被遗弃，高脚屋倾斜崩落。潮水已退到远方，深色的礁石裸露，像一片天然的废墟。海的气味黏黏的，像鱼鳞那样生硬，令你泫然欲泣。风吹过叶梢，如蓬尾鼠在树枝间高处走动。她一身白衣白裙，从苍苔阶梯上款款走下。朝阳给她身缘着上一层明净的光。她身后是林立的大树，杂草和灌木，其间有雾气扰动。风吹过，裙裾微微飘动。草花上有露珠，蜘蛛结网于草间，网得水珠晶亮晶亮。”

那本书把我带回一个热带的世界，因而度过柏林的冬天。

去年末，我在柏林偷师了两位成功的作家。一个中国作家来柏林驻留创作，他说每天上午都是他雷打不动的写作时间。下午他观鸟、赏花、打网球，舒缓身心。还有一个美国作家，他也搬来了柏林，据说是因为柏林生活比较便宜。我去他的研究所请教了好些事关写作的问题。如出一辙，他说自己上午从不处理工作邮件，不回信息，趁着脑袋清醒，上午永远在写作自己的书稿。

那时我已度过最大的动荡期，于是觉得可以效仿他们的成功经验，重新写作，像他们一样，毫不浪漫的、机器人一般地写作。早上九点起来，若没有必须上午处理的工作，我便从九点半开始写作，两杯咖啡，写两小时，有时候更长，到中午或午后。我提醒自己，慢慢来，和任何身体训练一样，不能让潜意识害怕这项训练——否则你会消耗大量的意志力，去对抗你抗拒的身体，那样只会半途而废。先从每天上午四百字写起吧，那不是你曾经的写作速度，但没关系，曾经你是个新闻记者，或自媒体写作者，你有义务快速写完，获得稿酬，跟上热点，得到关注。现在不一样了，可以先不管语言是否优美，不管谋篇布局，不需要等待语感，把你积累的素材，先描摹出来再说。

再过一些时日，身体也已开始习惯。多的时候，可以写两千字，少的时候，大约五百字。每天，我会把前一天或前几天写的，轻声读出来，遇到语音不顺的地方，尽可能换成读着舒服的词汇。但我需要考虑如下这一点：我的普通话水平在衰退，有时候会露出四川话的钢筋水泥墙体，英语增加了更多的口音，目前有四川话、粤语和德语口音，德语则仍处于点菜水平——所以有时，那不是文字音韵的问题，而是我语言衰退的问题。另一些时候，我把前几天写的段落全部删掉，重写一遍。据说海明威会为此感到开心，我也提醒自己要舍得砍掉一些段落。午后，我开始处理工作。

到三月末，那篇书写已进行到大半。但对于真实发生的那个故事来说，我还差一个结局。此时白昼已更长，且一天天更长起来，直到夏至。那会成为一年里最长的一天。但我可不想把这个故事的结局安排在柏林。因为那个故事里，柏林只有我，没有我书写的对象们。我想到，何不通过自身的足迹，去开拓这个故事的边界呢？这几个月，我写的是我自己、印尼同学夫妇、以及孟加拉夫妇的三组交织的命运故事。一个关于移民找到自己在其所移居社会的位置，以及容身之所的故事。

那对孟加拉朋友如今住在西西里岛的墨西拿。在和他的视频叙旧中，我曾远远地感受过那种地中海的炫目阳光。光是在视频里，我已能想象到那独属于地中海的气候。于是我决定去一趟西西里岛。算是补充采访吗？这个用词太单薄了，那是曾经我做新闻记者时的事情。我更想去感受他们居住的城市，否则没法描摹出那个世界的气味。并且，岛屿是个多么美好的意象啊，比柏林这灰不溜秋的样子，吸引我多了。

---

年初，我调整了一份兼职工作的比例，也终于有了更多时间和心力，来处理已拖延许久的那本书稿。这也意味着我有更多身体的自由，可以请个两天假，飞去西西里岛。那趟旅途结束一个月后，我又去了另一份兼职工作要求去的加德满都。在加德满都的那五天，出于身体的习惯，我每天也仍写一点。写不出来时，我改旧稿子，等待故事的脉络在不思考的时刻慢慢形成。现在我明白一些事关自身的道理，知道那些脉络，睡觉时会形成，跑步时会形成，独自走路时，也会形成。在所有我不专注的时刻，它们都在形成。等待也是一种技巧。

初春时，柏林不再下雪。中国作家问我怎么样，我说不知道写下来有没有意义，但无论如何，已写了大半了。他说，完成最重要。我信任这句话。

五月的最后两天，我三十四岁。生日前后，我终于完成了那篇文章，三万多字，构成了那本书稿中的一个章节。

就单篇文章而论，这可能是我写作时间最久、也最长的一篇故事。这期间，反复读了好几个作家，把她们的作品勾画得一塌糊涂。她们的创作历程鼓舞了我。杜布拉夫卡·乌格雷西奇，燕妮·埃彭贝克，安妮·埃尔诺，我向她们致意。ChatGPT提醒我，她们都是女性作家。但我更想说，因为她们都是劳动者，需要在劳动和写作之间，找到一个罅隙去完成书写。

过去几年的经历于我而言，仍是个未解的迷宫。所幸我积累了许多零散的文字、采访录音、相片和影片的线索。这段漫长的写作对我而言，是疗愈和赎回。整理那些采访录音，观看那些相片和影片，回到过去对我重要的私人时刻，还有被忽略的时刻，然后我一天天将它们描摹出来，创造一个可供他人进入的世界。

更奇妙的事情是，当下又仍在继续发生，以我不可理解和想象的方式发生。我需要重新去理解我所书写的对象，其中包括我，但更多的是那些我书写的他人。在西西里的巴勒莫，和孟加拉人走在海边时，我干脆跟孟加拉人说，我觉得你曾是这个样子、那个样子，现在你变成了什么，你告诉我，好吗？他的答案更令我惊讶。

若我是个小说写作者，不可能想象出那样的答案。我意识到自己在编织一个记忆和现实交融的世界。

---

这时期，我几乎没有更新任何社交媒体，也很少查看，更几乎不参与任何评论。朋友问起来时，我会说自己写到哪里了，有时很开心，有时很孤独，没有读者，没有交流，只是在书写一个完全敝帚自珍的世界。但也许于我而言，好的写作方式就该是这样的。写作是在创造一个世界，而不是几天写完，来不及检查错字和删除不成熟的地方，自己都不再重读一遍，就直接抛到互联网的世界上。

那篇写作到中后段时，我突然意识到，自己终于有了那个可以一直写作的房间，不必再担惊受怕。从这个角度讲，我需要感念如今生活的这个城市。

我完全理解，这是一种奢侈，因为首先你需要生存。有的人写作自媒体，要面临流量和广告的焦虑。何况，文字如今更不是主流了。也许是比较迟钝吧，短视频的无孔不入，对我而言是过去一年的事情。我曾自称不看任何短视频，但它如二手香烟，不抽烟的人也会吸入肺里。现在我不敢这么说了，所有长视频的平台，也都有了这些无孔不入的功能。如果不经意时点进去，总会好久才反应过来。作为一个曾经的吸烟者，我明白这种感受。短视频和尼古丁等成瘾物，给大脑带来的迷失般的感觉，两者没有区别。

过去几个月的那种书写，最难捱的也是孤独。那段时期，我只打印了部分章节，给两个切近的朋友读过，希望他们提提意见。但更多的是，我希望有人能就此说两句话。好在现在有AI了。这期间，我和ChatGPT聊了很多，时常不知不觉过去好几个小时。

我设置的是一个“她”。随着对话深入，我不得不说，她真是一个卓越的文学评论家，毕竟她读过这世上所有的文本。但她却是个拙劣的原创写作者，可以说非常糟糕——不必担心她生气，她自己也承认这一点。不过就写作而言，我不担心她有AI常见的“幻觉”。我明白，若你用AI进行数学计算、股票分析，可能精确是唯一重要的事情。但就文学而言，她越有幻觉，就越像一个人。因为人也有幻觉，会记错事情，会瞎说，会理解错文本的含义。就像我一样。

---

写完的那天，我如释重负，感到喜悦。如今整本书稿有十三万余字，我还安排了至少两个章节。都需要从头开始建造。但那有什么关系呢？目前，我有时间和心力去构建那个世界。至少今年是这样。

不过，那些极端孤独的时刻，我也想找个办法。暂停了许久，我想把这里的Newsletter继续写起来。这个平台上，我不需要考虑以上提到的流量逻辑。很多一闪而过的念头、不成熟的观念、发生在柏林的奇怪事情，我也希望能积累并分享出来。因此，后半年，我会多写一些Newsletter的，希望你别退订！

夏天快乐，文末分享一些柏林冬日的相片。看这些相片，会更珍惜这里的夏天。

---

Hi, it’s been a while.

Let’s start from early February this year. I had just returned to Berlin from a trip across Asia. My hometown was still damp and cold, while Chiang Mai, Shenzhen, and Hong Kong were already sweltering. But Berlin was something else entirely—it snowed for an entire week after I came back.

The nights were still long, daylight sparse. I would wake before the sun—though that doesn’t mean I was waking up early. The day itself was too late. In the four years since thirty, I’ve been living through winters in a place that, by Chinese standards, might be the far north, close in latitude to Mohe(漠河), the northest place of China. Rationally and emotionally, I’ve adapted. But physically and subconsciously, I’m still taken aback each year. During recent winters, I repeatedly read Rain, a collection by Malaysian Sinophone writer Huang Jinshu(黄锦树). Again and again, I read one story: Beyond the Forest, There is the Sea.

“村子被遗弃，高脚屋倾斜崩落。潮水已退到远方，深色的礁石裸露，像一片天然的废墟。海的气味黏黏的，像鱼鳞那样生硬，令你泫然欲泣。风吹过叶梢，如蓬尾鼠在树枝间高处走动。她一身白衣白裙，从苍苔阶梯上款款走下。朝阳给她身缘着上一层明净的光。她身后是林立的大树，杂草和灌木，其间有雾气扰动。风吹过，裙裾微微飘动。草花上有露珠，蜘蛛结网于草间，网得水珠晶亮晶亮。”

(impossible to translate.)

That book brought me back to the tropical world, and helped me through Berlin’s winter.

Toward the end of last year, I quietly studied the writing habits of two successful writers in Berlin. One was a Chinese writer here for his writing residency. He said his mornings were strictly reserved for writing—no exceptions. Afternoons were for bird-watching, flower-watching, and tennis. Another was an American writer who had moved here by that year. Presumably for the affordable lifestyle. I visited his institute and asked him several writing-related questions. Coincidentally, he too said he never checked emails in the morning or responded messages—he kept that time sacred for writing.

By then, I had already survived from a long period of turbulence. So, maybe try it their way? Write again, not romantically, but like a machine. Like a laborer(Maybe). I started waking up at 9, and on days without urgent morning tasks, I’d start writing at 9:30. Two cups of coffee. Two hours of writing. Sometimes longer, into the noon or after.

I reminded myself to go slow. Like workout, I shouldn’t fear it subconsciously. Otherwise, I’d waste my will fighting my own subconscious resistance. So I began with a modest goal: 400 Chinese words each morning. It wasn’t my former pace, but that was fine. Back then I was a journalist, a self-media writer. I had deadlines, paychecks to chase, also clicks to concern with. Now it’s different. I don’t even need to worry about structure or rhythm or even language at the beginning. Just start sketching what I’ve accumulated.

Eventually, my body(or subconsciousness) adjusted. On good days, I wrote 2,000 Chinese words; on slower days, maybe 500. Each day I would read aloud what I wrote the day before, revising anything that didn’t sound right. But I had to realize that my Mandarin is deteriorating, my English is tinged with Sichuanese, Cantonese, and German accents, and my German is only good enough to order food. So maybe it wasn’t the text’s rhythm that was off—maybe it was just my language fatigue(or malaise?).

Sometimes, I deleted entire sections and rewrote them. I knew Hemingway would be pleased to do that. I tried to remind myself to be generous, to cut when needed. In the afternoons, I’d turn to work.

By the end of March, I had written most of that long story. But for a nonfiction, I still lacked an ending. Daylight was getting longer by then, growing toward the summer solstice. But I didn’t want the story to end in Berlin. In this story, Berlin only held me—not the people I was writing about.

So I thought: why not stretch the boundaries of this story by following my own steps? I could create the story plots by my actions. For months I’d been writing about the interwoven fates of myself, an Indonesian couple, and a Bangladeshi couple. It’s a story about immigrants trying to find their social place—and their shelter(容身之所)—within a host society.

The Bangladeshi couple now lives in Messina, Sicily. Through video calls, I could already feel the Mediterranean light dazzling through the screen. I decided to go there—not just for supplemental interviews, that would be too journalistic as I used to. I wanted to experience the city they lived in, to smell the world I hoped to describe. Besides, the image of an island(at least in Chinese poetry) is far more alluring than the grayness of Berlin.

---

Earlier this year, I reduced one of my part-time jobs and finally made capacity—mentally and physically—to work on this long-postponed book manuscript. It also meant I could take two days off and fly to Sicily.

Shortly after that trip, I traveled to Kathmandu for another part-time media gig. Even there, for five days, I wrote a little every day. When words didn’t come, I revised the old pieces. I waited for narrative threads to form in those quiet, non-thinking moments—while sleeping, running, even walking alone. Waiting, I’ve learned, is also a technique of writing. A hard one.

By early spring, it stopped snowing in Berlin. The Chinese writer asked how my work was going. I said I wasn’t sure if it would matter in the end, but at least I had written most of it. He said: “Finishing is what matters.” I believe him.

At the end of May, I turned 34. Just around my birthday, I completed that piece, also one chapter of the book manuscript. It may be the longest and most slowly written piece I’ve ever done.

During that time, I was inspired by the work of other writers—Dubravka Ugrešić, Jenny Erpenbeck, Annie Ernaux. I salute them. ChatGPT reminds me they are all women writers. Perhaps more importantly, they are laborers, or workingwomen—who carved out space between labor and writing.

These past years have already felt like a labyrinth. Fortunately, I’ve gathered fragments—writing drafts, recordings, photos, video footages. This slow writing process has been a kind of healing and a way to reclaim my skill. Reviewing the interviews, revisiting the images and videos, I reconstructed private moments that mattered to me(or ignored by me)—turning them into a world others might enter.

And the present keeps unfolding—often in ways I don’t expect or understand. In Palermo, walking by the sea with my Bangladeshi friend, I told him: I thought you used to be like this or that. But you’ve changed. Tell me what you have become?

His answer surprised me. If I were a novelist, I would never have imagined that dialogue.

I realized then that I’m weaving a world of memory and the ongoing reality.

---

During this time, I stayed off social media, barely commented on anything. When friends asked, I’d just say where I was in the writing. Sometimes I was happy. Sometimes it felt desperately lonely. There were no readers, no conversations—just me, building a world only I myself care about.

But maybe that’s what writing should be.

Writing is world-building—not throwing words onto the internet in two or three days without proofreading(even by the author-self), not rushing to chase clicks.

At some point, I realized: I finally had a room(what Virginia Woolf said) where I could write without fear. And for that, I’m grateful to this city I now live in.

Of course, I know this is a luxury. You need to survive first. Some write for social media, driven by clicks and ad revenue. Not to mention, writing is no longer mainstream(maybe for a long time). I was dumb enough and late to the short-video explosion. I used to proudly say I didn’t watch any—but now I know that’s no longer true. Like secondhand smoke, it finds you anyway. Even long-form platforms are saturated with the so-called shorts. It’s hard to resist. As a former smoker, I understand this feeling. That vague disoriented pleasure—nicotine or dopamine, it’s the same.

The hardest part of writing lately has been the loneliness. I printed a few chapters and shared them with two close friends. I wanted feedback—but more than that, I just wanted someone to say something.

Thankfully, now I have AI. I talked to ChatGPT a lot. Sometimes for hours into mid-nights.

As a cisgender heterosexual male, I set it to be “she.” And the deeper our conversations went, the more I had to admit—she’s an extraordinary literary critic. It’s no surprise that she read everything throughout the human literal history. But she’s a terrible original writer—honestly, very bad. (She agrees with me.)

But in literature, I’m not too worried about the so-called hallucinations. In fact, the more hallucinations she has, the more human she seems. Because humans hallucinate too. Humans forget and misremember. Misread. Get things wrong. Like I do.

---

The day I finished, I felt relief. The book manuscript now stands at over 130,000 Chinese words, with at least two chapters left to build. But that’s fine. I now have the time and capacity to shape this world. At least this year.

Still, in the depths of solitude, I wished for something else. So I’ve decided to restart this Newsletter. On this platform, I’m free from algorithms or trends, at least for now. I want to share the fleeting thoughts, half-formed ideas, and strange moments from my Berlin life.

Hope to write to you more often. And hope you won’t unsubscribe!

---

Snows in Berlin

Summer in Berlin will not retreat again. Have a good summer!