👉 According to the original text, "How to Practice Writing" may be the title of this book, but there is no relevant information found on the platform. The earliest reference to this article was published in October 1944 by Chongqing Wenfeng Book Bureau in the third volume of "New Youth Library." Therefore, it is speculated that the following content should be a column article by Mao Dun about writing.
First, Do Not "Parrot"#
The title of this small book is "How to Practice Writing."
The term "writing" should encompass a wide range, including narrative, lyrical, argumentative, and even everyday application documents; however, when people usually mention the two words "writing," the scope is not so broad, typically referring to the writing of literary works.
Of course, we do not advocate that every child should engage in literary work in the future, but we also see no reason to prohibit them from trying to write some literary pieces while learning to write. There used to be a method: after a few years of study, when it was time to start learning composition, the first step was often "couplet writing." This thing can be said to be literary in nature. However, the purpose of learning "couplet writing" was not to prepare to become a literary figure in the future. This method is no longer in practice. There was another custom in the past, where children who could write about a hundred characters would often be given composition topics like "A Discussion on Qin Shi Huang and Han Wu Di," "On Human Nature," "On Loyalty," "On Filial Piety," "On the Path to Prosperity and Military Strength," and so on; these kinds of big topics, when placed in the hands of elementary school students, could surprisingly be filled with clichés and pieced together to complete the assignment.
Such "big topics" may not be very common now, but similar situations still exist, albeit in different forms. Nowadays, our children might piece together some slogans to address other big topics, such as "Celebrating the Great Victory in Xiangxi," "On the Inevitable Defeat of the Japanese Invaders," "Reflections on the Tenth Anniversary of the New Life Movement," and so forth. Such methods are not practicing writing but rather practicing "parroting," practicing "the jigsaw puzzle of words," and practicing "applying formulas and dogmas." This is not a way to educate the young ones of humanity, but a way to train parrots. Even if the teacher does not subjectively wish for such results, in the end, such results are still inevitable. Why? Because when children encounter these big topics, they have very few ways to go beyond "parroting."
Of course, every child should know about the great victory we achieved in Xiangxi, should understand why the Japanese invaders are bound to be defeated, and should know what the New Life Movement is about; however, having this knowledge is one thing, and using this knowledge as a topic for them to write is another. Testing whether they possess this knowledge does not necessarily fall within the scope of writing and does not have to be done through writing, because the purpose of writing is to practice writing, not to transcribe what they already know. To practice writing and improve writing skills, it is best to let them express things derived from their life experiences, rather than to have them write down what they have heard. If the composition topics restrict them to merely "parroting" what they have heard, then the meaning of "practicing writing" is lost.
A talented child who receives the topic "Reflections on the Tenth Anniversary of the New Life Movement" might recall how his father or brother came home after attending the commemorative meeting and played cards all night—that is a genuine reflection derived from his life experience. However, he would certainly not dare to write such reflections because he feels that what the teacher says and what is published in the newspapers are much more impressive and grandiose. If he writes this way, he would consider it unqualified. As a result, he ends up discarding his genuine reflections and merely "parrots" what he has heard.
When "parroting," thoughts do not ignite, emotions do not run high, and even the sentences do not need to be self-created. In other words, from beginning to end, it is merely transcription, not practicing writing. However, if the teacher assigns a topic that is not so grand, such as "My Mother," "My Sister," "How I Spent My Summer Vacation," "My Favorite Thing," then even if our children want to lazily "parrot," they will find it impossible. They must engage their minds and select materials from their life experiences, their emotions will become richer, and they will have to put in effort to choose words and construct sentences. At this point, they are genuinely practicing writing.
Topics like "My Mother" can be said to have a literary quality; especially when children receive such topics, they often end up writing them as literary pieces. This is unavoidable because children's observational and analytical abilities are generally weaker than those of adults. What children love to write about are usually things that leave the deepest impression on them, evoke the strongest emotions, and are suitable for their developing imaginations. In other words, children's interest in writing tends to lean towards literary subjects, which can better unleash their writing abilities and enhance their writing skills.
However, literary topics cannot be generalized. Some literary topics can also induce children's tendency to "parrot," such as "Beautiful Spring" or "The Great Yangtze River." These topics can lead most children to adopt the same approach they used for topics like "On the Inevitable Defeat of the Japanese Invaders." Spring, of course, is something from their experiences, and they may have some impressions of the Yangtze River; however, how to write about the beauty of spring and the greatness of the Yangtze River can confuse ordinary children, making it difficult for them to start. Thus, convenient shortcuts arise, and they pull out clichés they usually see in books, such as "the yellow oriole sings," "the butterfly soars," "the sun warms your heart," and so on, playing the jigsaw puzzle of words again. This is also a form of "parroting," and it cannot be considered imitation because imitation, while following someone else's style, at least involves some creation.
In summary, the primary principle of practicing writing is to avoid "parroting" and to express one's own thoughts; to select things from life experiences that leave the deepest impressions, evoke the most intense and sincere emotions, and to express them using the words and sentences one finds most appropriate. Once this primary principle is grasped, we can further discuss specific views on how to practice.
This chapter serves as an introduction to this small book. It is addressed to children, but it is also a message to their teachers—especially regarding the current trend of assigning "big topics," which I wish to express my views on.
Second, Several Conditions of "Beauty"#
What constitutes good writing? Children practicing writing often ask this question. Or, they may narrow the question down to literary works and ask how to make a piece beautiful.
Such questions cannot be answered in just a few sentences, but here, we cannot help but attempt a simple answer: every piece of writing (not necessarily literary, but literary works are included) has two aspects: content and form. The aspect related to thoughts and emotions is called content; the aspect related to the structure and arrangement of words and sentences is called form. To use an analogy, form is like a person's appearance, while content is like a person's knowledge and character.
A person may have a beautiful appearance but lack knowledge, which is colloquially referred to as a "decorative pillow." However, even if someone has a beautiful appearance and considerable knowledge, if their character is poor, they will not be valued by others. The same goes for writing; only writing that has both good content and good form is considered good writing. Non-literary writing, such as historical, philosophical, or political writing, also requires good form in addition to good content: the works of great historians, philosophers, and political theorists are also perfect in form. This does not mean that they paid special attention to the perfection of form while writing; rather, it is because their thoughts are extremely profound, their knowledge is vast, and their emotions are sincere and passionate, resulting in their words naturally being extraordinary. Only writings belonging to applied sciences do not need to emphasize the beauty of form.
As for writing literary works, one must consciously pay attention to the perfection of form; however, this does not mean that having a perfect form is sufficient. A person with a poor character and no knowledge, even if they strive to emphasize their external appearance and are skilled at pretense, cannot ultimately deceive discerning eyes. An article that has only formal perfection but lacks substance is equivalent to such a person.
Beauty comes in various forms: gentleness and elegance are beautiful; grandeur and boldness are also beautiful; symmetry is beautiful, and complexity can also be beautiful; leisure and grace can be beautiful, but intensity and passion can also be beautiful; brilliance and joy, as well as gloom and solemnity, can both constitute beauty. All these forms of beauty cannot be divorced from thoughts and emotions. From this perspective, something that is lacking in content or even poor cannot truly possess beauty in form. What is commonly referred to as "poor content" but "beautiful form" is, in fact, not truly beautiful; it is like an ugly woman applying makeup, which can only deceive the near-sighted or be hidden by lighting.
Since beauty cannot be sought solely from form, it cannot be said that certain words are beautiful while others are not. We cannot say what kind of sentence structure or arrangement can be beautiful while others cannot. We can only say that there are several necessary conditions, and if these conditions are met, the writing will be beautiful; otherwise, it will not be beautiful or not sufficiently beautiful.
What are these conditions?
The first is clarity and fluency. Express your meaning clearly and unequivocally, without causing misunderstanding; this is "clarity." Express your meaning in a simple and straightforward manner, especially in a way that the public loves and is accustomed to, without deliberately showing off your talent, being obscure, or being pretentious; this is "fluency." To be clear, you should not look for ready-made phrases from books to match your meaning but must come up with phrases that fit your meaning yourself. To be "fluent," you should not be overly subjective, firmly believing in your own way of expression, but should pay attention to observing and learning from the ways the public expresses themselves.
The second is that emotions should be sincere and passionate. What counts as sincere and passionate? There is a saying that "the fishbone is stuck in the throat, and one cannot help but spit it out," which is an explanation of this point. Never engage in dry heaving; dry heaving is equivalent to "moaning without illness," which is unacceptable.
The third is that the heart should be open, and thoughts should be pure.
The fourth is not to write for the sake of writing. This means not for grades, not to show off, not for personal entertainment, not to amuse others, and not to serve as any "stepping stone." Why write? Because there are thoughts, feelings, and observations; because what I think, feel, and observe is not only personal but also related to the majority of people outside of myself.
If all four of these conditions are met, your writing will resonate with readers, as if every sentence is speaking for them, stirring their emotions, and making them laugh with you.
Crying together, being angry together, being passionate together, and ultimately walking together with you. Anything that can stir people's emotions to such an extent is usually called "powerful," but "power" is indeed manifested in external phenomena. What gives rise to "power" is "beauty." The appeal and dynamism of "beauty" are incredibly great; "beauty" should be interpreted this way, and the beauty of writing should also be measured this way.
Third, Materials and Description#
The content of the previous two chapters is mostly argumentative. Why do we express these arguments? Isn't this small book supposed to discuss how to "practice" writing? To answer this question, we must make a few more arguments.
First, we must not forget that the term "writing" here refers to literary works, not historical or political writings, nor academic papers, especially not any application documents. If we were discussing how to practice writing "reports," composing "eight-line letters" for social occasions, drafting "official documents" for upward and downward communication, or creating "advertisements" for buying and selling property, that would be entirely different. In that case, we would not need any arguments at all; we could simply start with "formulas" to practice. However, what we are discussing here is how to practice writing literary works, so we cannot avoid some theoretical arguments. Although these arguments may seem to have little relation to practical practice, lacking them is like a ship at sea without a compass.
However, having a compass alone is not enough, so now we need to offer some practical advice on actual practice.
Beginners are often impatient; they wish they could swallow all the techniques of their learning object in one go. They hope to find a complete set of orderly procedures to memorize, and then everything will be fine. Many people hold such hopes for literary works. For example, under the topic of how to write something, there are often enthusiastic and impatient individuals who hope to open a book and find countless procedures lined up like mathematical formulas. However, literary works cannot be written according to any procedures. Even if someone has established certain procedures for them, it is unlikely that one can create furniture according to a blueprint like a carpenter, let alone that such procedures actually do not exist.
Therefore, what we are going to discuss here is not any procedures, let alone any secrets, but rather a few steps and principles.
Let’s first talk about principles.
Materials are the first problem encountered by writers. It is often heard, "I haven't found the material yet," or "The material has already been written out." This statement is actually just casual talk; in reality, it is not a matter of having or not having materials, but rather of being "mature" or "immature." The subjects for writing accumulate bit by bit in daily life; they cannot be obtained all at once and be perfectly suitable. A person's mind is certainly not like a warehouse; a warehouse can sometimes be filled to the brim and unable to accommodate even a small item, and sometimes it can be emptied. If one says that a person's mind can also be filled and emptied, that is inconceivable. As long as a person's nerves are normal, their mind is always receiving external stimuli, which means they are always accumulating materials. Therefore, it is not a matter of having or not having materials, but rather of being "mature" or "immature." When you feel that you do not have enough, it is actually a sign of immaturity.
So, what are the signs of maturity? The signs are a surge of inspiration, excitement to the point of being unable to contain oneself, and in a moment of closing one's eyes and meditating, the entire piece suddenly appears in the mind, as if it has already been written and memorized.
If you find that your thoughts are sluggish when you start writing, feeling that nothing seems right, then that indicates immaturity. At this point, it is best to simply put down your pen. Even if this means permanently saying goodbye to your unfinished piece, it is not a loss. Here, someone might ask: Since it is not yet mature, can I wait for it to mature? Of course, you can, but do not misunderstand; waiting for materials to mature is not simply a matter of time. It requires more accumulation of life experiences and experiences from various aspects, not just from the one aspect that is still immature.
Or, someone might ask: Since it is not yet mature, it seems that something is missing, so should I go find what is missing? I believe that is not advisable.
Do not misunderstand; the materials for a literary work consist only of tangible people, objects (including nature), and events. When materials feel lacking, it is not simply a matter of adding one or two characters, writing one or two natural scenes, or adding some storylines. If the problem were only this simple, it would be easy to solve. The materials for a literary work also (and mainly) include ideological issues: your stance on the materials you are writing about, your views on all the issues involved, your understanding of these materials, and so on. Therefore, the process of material maturation is not (for example) physical but rather chemical; it is not merely an increase in quantity but a qualitative change achieved through an increase in quantity.
However, this discussion may seem too deep for children, so please remember: the materials for writing accumulate bit by bit in daily life, and this accumulation happens unconsciously; if there is no accumulation, trying to find materials at the last minute will not yield good results. Another concern for beginners is the method of description. It is often heard, "I can only narrate straightforwardly, but I don't know how to describe. Please tell me how to describe." Some have catered to this request by compiling what is called a "Literary Description Dictionary." Some even hope that such a "dictionary" will teach them how to describe. In fact, this approach is futile.
To be honest, there is no method for description. Moreover, it is impossible to have a method. What is called "description," in literary terms, is merely a matter of "visualization." What does "visualization" mean? Simply put, it means that the people, objects, and events in the work can be directly presented to the reader's eyes without relying on abstract explanations.
In "Water Margin," the characters of Li Kui and Lu Zhishen are similar yet different; both are reckless, yet each has their uniqueness. "Water Margin" writes about these two characters through their words, actions, and responses to problems, resulting in two distinct individuals with their own personalities appearing before us. We usually call this "good description," but in reality, it reflects the author's skill in visualization.
Why does he have this skill? Is it because he understands some methods? No. He has this skill simply because he observes deeply and thoroughly; before putting pen to paper, he has already had these two characters living vividly in his mind. If one does not seek to have the characters they write about come alive in their own heart and instead foolishly pursue some method of description, that will certainly be in vain. Therefore, do not worry about whether you understand the method of description; do not worry about whether you can describe. What you should be concerned about is whether you have living people, objects, and events in your heart. If you do, then description is merely a simple technical issue. As mentioned earlier, "write from the characters' words, actions, and responses," there is nothing simpler than that; there is no mystery.
There are two common misconceptions that often lead people astray. The first is the belief that "description" relies on ornate language. They think that the more adjectives they use, the better the description, often resulting in a cumbersome string of adjectives, most of which are clichés. In reality, if you have fresh feelings and can express what others have not, one adjective is enough. The second misconception is viewing "description" as decoration, believing that the "story" is the skeleton of a piece, while background descriptions and character descriptions are merely the paint applied on top. This separates "description" from the overall technical issue; in fact, description is an organic part of the overall technique.
In summary, in simple terms:
What is usually considered a purely technical issue of description actually also falls within the question of whether the materials are mature; when the materials of a work reach a mature state, the issue of description will not arise. Maturity, in turn, is mainly a matter of learning, cultivation, and life experience, in other words, an ideological issue.
Fourth, Do Not Fear Repeated Revisions#
Now let’s discuss the steps in writing practice.
If you feel a surge of inspiration and your writing flows effortlessly, then I suggest you write boldly and freely. At this moment, do not hesitate; believe that the words rushing to your pen are the best and most appropriate. Write until you have expressed everything. The word "polish" is not needed at this time. Do not worry about the choice of words; just write down whatever comes to mind.
However, once you finish the piece, you must change your attitude. Now you need to critically examine what you have just written. At this point, do not harbor any leniency towards your own work. Every paragraph, every section, every sentence, and every word should be scrutinized. Do not hesitate to delete anything that is not good (according to your judgment at this time). Revise and revise again without getting tired. You should "polish" each word, each phrase, and each sentence as meticulously as a coin dealer distinguishes the authenticity of silver coins.
At this time, if you find too many undesirable paragraphs, sections, sentences, or words in your first draft, do not lose heart; being able to identify flaws in your own draft proves that your judgment is strong and healthy. It is when you cannot find any flaws that you should reflect. Why can’t you find any flaws? Is it because your piece is already perfect? Of course not; the psychology of self-deception and complacency is the greatest hindrance to progress. The reason you cannot find your own flaws indicates that your judgment is not necessarily sharp. You must find ways to enhance your judgment.
However, if you identify flaws but feel powerless to revise them, you also have no reason to lose heart. Writing ability cannot be developed in leaps and bounds. Generally speaking, revising a first draft is like refining a rough product; you straighten the lines that are not very straight, polish the rough surface, and scrape off small blemishes. At this point, you cannot conclude that your writing ability has improved; the you who created the rough draft and the you who refined it are not very different. Therefore, when you find flaws and revise repeatedly without satisfaction, on one hand, you must admit that you have done your best yet it is still not satisfactory; on the other hand, you have no reason to be disappointed with yourself. You do not need to angrily tear up the original draft. Instead, you might as well hide the original draft, wipe the sweat from your forehead, and temporarily forget about it. You can continue reading and playing— or, to put it simply, continue living. If you have favorite works by renowned authors, it would be good to take them out and read them again.
After a period of time (and it won’t be too long), you can take out that original draft and try revising it again; at this point, you may be able to revise it more satisfactorily, or perhaps the parts that needed revision still cannot be satisfactorily corrected, but you might discover new areas that need revision. Regardless, this is a sign of your growing ability and enhanced critical judgment; if you still feel there is nothing to add or subtract, then you should be cautious.
Do not envy the phrase "writing without a single correction." If, after completing the first draft, you truly feel there is nothing to change, it is either due to your arrogance and complacency or because your critical judgment and writing ability have stagnated at their current level without any progress. For beginners, the only method of practice is to revise repeatedly, tirelessly. Revise today, then revise again in a few days, and again a few days later. After revising, read books, study masterpieces, and when you feel inspired after reading, revise again. Discovering flaws in the original draft time and again indicates that your ability is growing day by day; the secret to practicing writing is not to fear revision. Moreover, do not be shy about showing your original draft to others. Listen to others' criticisms with an objective attitude. Regardless of whether the feedback is positive or negative, do not take it at face value; weigh it carefully on your rational scale. Take notes and revisit them after some time for further consideration.
Perhaps someone will ask, "If that's the case, isn't revision endless? Wouldn't that mean a piece is never completed?"
Not at all. From the perspective of a person's entire writing journey, revision is indeed endless, which means learning is endless, and progress is endless; this is truly a matter of "not stopping until death." However, regarding a specific piece, after several revisions, there will come a time when it should be concluded. After millions of words in "War and Peace" have undergone years of revisions, it was finally published; let alone a thin piece! When it is time to conclude, it should either be presented to the world or placed in the corner of a desk drawer. If neither is done, and one continues to revise endlessly, that would be either a joke on oneself or a sign of a slight mental issue.
So, what level should one reach to consider it time to conclude? One is based on your sound judgment at that time, which you find reasonably satisfactory, and the other is based on the opinions of respected peers regarding this piece.
Fifth, Explore Freely and Explore in Multiple Directions#
In practicing writing, one often encounters the situation where a piece is completed, revised repeatedly, yet still does not turn out well. At this point, one feels tired, and self-confidence is shaken. However, after some time, changing the topic or the genre can surprisingly lead to a work that is vastly different from the previous one. If we say there has been significant progress in just a day or two, that is clearly unreasonable, leading to another explanation, the most common being: "This topic is easy to write; that one is not." The most plausible yet ultimately uninformative explanation is: "At that time, your inspiration was lacking; now it has come."
We should not shift the responsibility to "inspiration," nor should we attribute honor to "inspiration." At the same time, we cannot agree with the theory that some topics are easy to write while others are not. "Inspiration" is too elusive and intangible; if there truly is such a thing as "inspiration," then according to the mental state when "inspiration" comes, it is merely a matter of exceptionally concentrated attention and heightened creativity for a certain period. However, if your mind is originally empty, then what is called "inspiration" cannot lead to any achievements. Therefore, the key issue still lies in whether your subject matter is mature. When you produce a piece that has been revised multiple times yet remains unsatisfactory, it is often because your subject matter is still immature, and you have not yet grasped some of the technical aspects of the genre.
Since this is the case, writing practice should not be confined to a specific range of materials and a specific genre. You should expand the scope of your practice to the greatest extent possible. Although the signs of whether materials are mature are roughly as mentioned in the third chapter, they can sometimes be misled by subjective factors. Even if you feel a surge of inspiration when you pick up the pen, what you write may not reflect that. Therefore, you should not be confined; the direction of your practice should be open to all sides.
Everything you have experienced is a potential object for writing practice.
Everything you have touched upon in terms of genre is also a potential object for writing practice. You must first explore freely and explore in multiple directions, and then you can achieve mastery in one area; you must first develop freely and develop in multiple directions, and then you can find the path that suits you.
Thus, beginners should be energetic and have a broad vision, traversing the literary wilderness. They should attempt to write about all the dynamic aspects of life they encounter and try all literary forms. Today, try writing poetry; tomorrow, try short stories, report literature, or essays; the day after tomorrow, try scripts— it does not matter. Just be serious while writing; do not treat it as a joke. Do not be afraid of being told you lack perseverance; in fact, whether you will engage in literary work for a lifetime is still undecided at this moment! Moreover, the practice at this time does not need to be constant; what does it matter? Do not be lulled by the idea of "making a stunning debut," setting a circle for yourself from the start, believing that you will complete a masterpiece in one go. This cannot be considered a determined direction; it is self-imprisonment. Choosing a specific direction to specialize in too early is actually a synonym for stifling self-development.
Perhaps you are writing a diary every day? Then treat your diary as your territory for free exploration and development. Do not adhere to the old-fashioned way of writing diaries, such as recording the month, day, day of the week, whether it is cloudy or sunny, hot or cold, what letters were received or sent, whom you met, or what you did—these are unnecessary. You are not a big figure; these mundane records will not be regarded as historical materials, so you do not need to waste effort on them. Instead, try to record what you find worth noting in various forms. Today, if you send your elder brother off to the army, you can write a poem in your diary. Tomorrow, if your neighbor is taken away by the landlord for owing rent, you might as well write a piece of report literature. The day after tomorrow, if your father and mother argue about something, that gives you a chance to try writing a script. Practicing writing requires writing more and writing often, so keeping a diary is also a method; however, formulaic, mundane diaries will not benefit you. Use the energy of writing a diary to align with the purpose of practicing writing, and the methods suggested here are indeed practical.
Sixth, Technique Is Not a Mysterious Thing#
We assume that the readers of this small book already possess a certain level of skill in using words. Please do not feel intimidated by the term "technique," thinking it is unattainable and being very afraid. Also, do not associate the term "technique" with a long list of adjectives, some strange and uncommon words, or even some awkward sentences that are neither colloquial nor literary. What is called "technique" is not mysterious. You need not be shy and say, "I am not skilled enough." In fact, being able to express your meaning clearly is already a technique. It is often encountered that someone cannot express their own thoughts clearly, right? If you can express your thoughts according to your emotions, whether gently, firmly, optimistically, or with a low and indignant tone, then that is a further degree of technique. As long as you do not fall for the trap of believing that what is written on paper must be the words and sentence structures found in books, and as long as you boldly write down what you say, you have no reason not to believe that you have a fair grasp of technique.
You must first eliminate the common mystical view of "technique" before discussing how to acquire it.
The most basic unit of any literary work composed of words is the "word." In the past, when people discussed writing methods, they would start with "refining words." This means finding the most appropriate, freshest, and most resonant single words for what you want to express or the emotions you want to convey, or the things and events you want to tell about. We now also advocate "refining words" and encourage finding them in this way. However, while some people (and some still do) believe that one should look for them in books, we advocate looking for them in the speech of living people—at least, this should be the primary and fundamental approach. In this regard, I do not oppose "chatting."
Several single words are linked together to form sentences; thus, the method of organizing sentences is the second step to study. This should also be sought and studied in people's conversations. You can keep a notebook to record clever and unique words or sentences you hear at any time. However, the method of organizing sentences can also be explored in literary works of various styles. There, the organization of sentences has been processed by the author, making it more coherent and varied than what people usually say. Coherence and variation are the key points of sentence construction techniques.
Up to this point, "writing" and "speaking" are consistent, and the technique of "writing" is rooted in the technique of "speaking." Further, "writing" requires its unique techniques, but they are not mysterious.
Let us illustrate this issue with a practical example.
In a teahouse, someone is telling a story. The storyteller is eloquent, so the story is very engaging. You record the story and study it; you will notice its highlights, such as the vivid and clever language, which cannot be matched by writing. However, compared to some good written stories, its structure is somewhat loose, and the development of the plot is flat. This small study tells us one thing: the person telling the story in the teahouse has not necessarily studied the techniques of storytelling because they are not intentionally trying to be a storyteller.
On the other hand, stories written as literary works are superior because the authors deliberately pay attention to the techniques in this area. Structural techniques are necessary. The so-called structure not only refers to the arrangement and coordination of people and events but also considers the rhythm of the entire piece—this is the rise and fall of emotions generated from the development of the story. A piece of writing (with some exceptions) cannot maintain a single tone from beginning to end; if it does, it becomes flat and lacks beauty.
Therefore, there must be "waves," just like a piece of music that has fast and slow beats, high and low notes. The people, objects, and events in a piece must have a basis in reality, yet they are ultimately fictional creations by the author. Because they are fictional, the occurrences, developments, and conclusions of these people, objects, and events must be both emotionally and logically coherent, possessing 100% authenticity, while also being compact, with all parts forming an organic whole and having a rhythm of rise and fall. Only then can it enhance its color, movement, and charm, and strongly resonate with readers.
We must learn these techniques from the world's and our country's classics. These techniques have been created and studied successfully by countless talented individuals over hundreds or even thousands of years. These techniques are still evolving and will never reach an end.
However, such techniques are not only found in classics; we must also draw the motivation for creating new techniques from social life. Society is changing, and new social experiences will produce new artistic techniques. This can be understood by studying why new literary forms have emerged in specific historical periods from ancient times to the present. However, this aspect is not very simple, and this small book cannot accommodate it; we can only briefly mention it here. For detailed study, one must read specialized books.
In summary, what has been said can be encapsulated in a commonly heard phrase: "Learn from life."
Seventh, "Write" and Then "Read," "Read" and Then "Write"#
The previous sections have provided several suggestions on how to practice writing; now we add a supplement: "read more." "Write more," do not fear revision, and in addition, "read more."
"Reading" and "writing" should go hand in hand and be connected. Understanding how to "read" will also help you understand how to "write." The scope of "reading" should be broad and diverse.
The purpose of "reading" is not to plagiarize phrases or mimic styles but to learn techniques! Thoroughly studying the writing methods of classics and grasping these methods for your own use is the essence of learning.
Therefore, "reading" must have a method. Copying beautiful sentences is not the correct method. If reading is only for the purpose of copying beautiful sentences, it would be better to buy a "Literary Description Dictionary." Spending excessive time on detailed studies of a single chapter or paragraph is also not the correct method. This results in seeing the trees but not the forest. Discussing the techniques of beginning, development, and conclusion from the perspective of composition methods, whether praising the cleverness of a "turn" or the extraordinary connection of a "foreshadowing," is not the correct method. This is akin to performing magic tricks; although others may be astonished and impressed, you yourself possess nothing beyond that little "technique." If the authors of the classics were to hear such statements, they would probably not acknowledge that they had so many small calculations while writing.
Of course, there are many problematic ways of reading, but we do not have time to list them all now.
When we read a classic, we should pose questions; we seek answers from the classic. How to ensure that the classic can answer our questions depends entirely on whether our reading methods are correct.
Our first question: What is the author's purpose in writing this book? What does he hope the reader will understand?
The second question is: What methods did the author use to accomplish this task? Did he complete it fully, or not?
The third question is: What are the characteristics of the methods used by the author? Is this the only good method (here, we should compare it with other classics)?
The fourth question is: How were the main characters successfully created?
The fifth question is: Did the author create a new style?
The answers to these five questions can be elaborate or concise. Each answer can be long enough to fill a small booklet or even a book, or it can be as short as a few dozen or a hundred words. But regardless of length, it is impossible to answer without having read the entire book several times and fully digesting it.
There is a significant difference between being good at reading and not being good at reading. Those who are not good at reading merely circle around the outside of the book, resulting in a superficial understanding, merely skimming the surface. Alternatively, they may dive deep into the book and find it hard to come out. They get lost in the words and lines, just like getting lost in a forest. They may analyze every branch and leaf in minute detail, yet they fail to see the whole tree, let alone the entire forest. In contrast, those who are good at reading first dive into the book and then emerge to stand high above it, overlooking it.
However, reading classics to learn writing methods requires first diving in and then emerging to stand above the book, which is certainly necessary, but it still feels insufficient. We must also be able to disassemble it and then reassemble it, just like technicians disassembling and reassembling a machine. Being able to disassemble and reassemble, and then becoming familiar with the subtle intricacies of the machine, is how we should approach reading classics, allowing us to truly learn valuable lessons.
Finally, let us summarize: practicing writing does not involve any secret methods; it is simply about writing more, reading more, not fearing revision, writing and then reading, and reading and then writing.