When I was a soldier, the most like autumn. Down the guard post, into the shade of the trees, look through it this month one, was translated into his hands full with more than a rotten piece of paper the "People's Liberation Army Literature and Art." This tattered magazines, the last will to my hands, because I was the only high school students the whole company, but also see the slowest, most carefully.
Sixteen-year-old soldier, many of the illusions, the biggest wish is that when a writer. Writers can sit in the chair in bright and clean, romantic chic to stories, rather than in the gravel in the veteran. I never thought to use guns to kill, can I require this career military master of seven light weapons. Some Petty temperament, I do not want to use the gun sounds, I would like to use a pen to write verse.
But thirty years ago, the network is still a myth. Writing for the web, have not seen God. That season, the writing is still a very sacred profession. Literature of "altar" art "circle" on the altar under the altar, Quanliquanwai, entirely different, like a natural moat. In ancient times the city wall is like, slipping the moat bridge, outside the city to city people, can only hope the city sigh. At that time, to climb the altar, and go into the circle, almost prohibitively difficult.
That year, in accordance with the true stories of his comrades, wrote a story called "Eagle Yi" sleepwalk won a national award. I flew home to write a newspaper interview, has erected a large picture windows into the city park, walking in the street shouting "stupid soldier" looked down upon the girl, but also said door and the big brother to "exchange ideas." One night I was promoted into a publicity officer, and that similar scenarios and Fanjinzhongju. My father suffering from coronary heart disease, the day a half kilogram booze liquor, ranging from sober, was taken to the hospital directly. Unfortunately, I casually toss a lot, after all, is not a material as a writer,'d hang around in the power transmission industry for over two decades. Later, I wrote an award-winning industry in the province songs, including such sentences: "a container full of light and heat of youth, pride in the power grid to run." I light and electricity, and write bald youth. That writers dream ship the broken boat stranded on this. Now grown old, not as a writer, has become an expert. S neighbors have broken someone's lights, gates, and even computers, rice cookers, to cry out: Fengming brother, trim it to Allah. So I picked up the electric pen, write in the neighborhood Fiat sister, mother and small daughter were in her face now.
"Suddenly, such as spring night, the Trees of pear blossoms." The world is becoming faster, there will be a network of inter-Yi Sha, thank God, in the United States created a pair of good men and women, the raising of a guy named Bill Gates • . That's when the network, with literary Web site, with the blog, with modest, the ivory tower down, everyone is equal, all code words of his name or call themselves. Writing in the network era, the writer of this name the Holy Spirit, has become Miss Street as the station in general. It was this dig, said: Although few people read poetry, whenever squatting, and poetry's certainly more than the toilet. In fact, we really do not need to see the author's name is too sacred. In the development of the times, the noun meaning is changing. Miss this example, the word mea
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nt lady, now evolved into the middle of the night to work "slip of women."
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