I'm stuck at a writing bottleneck. Suddenly, I didn't know the direction of the plot. It feels like I've been doing useless work, and I've been spinning in circles. I didn't get out of that circle, and there was nothing new about what I created.
There is a deviation in the setting of the characters.
I can't fit into the role of the forest festival.
I have entered a state of depression again. It felt like it was going to tear me apart. I am on the edge of love and hate.
Perhaps I used the first person to narrate this story, and I felt a lot more guilty. I have always been a person who makes up stories, but I have never felt so helpless in this kind of lies.
Use more and more lies to pile up imaginary mirages.
There is no such thing as Huangjialan and forest festivals in the world. That name was just me scribbling down on paper inadvertently. For a moment, I felt like I could write this story for them. When I decided to do this, I struggled with the plots that needed to be set up for them. In the lively streets, in the turbulent sea of ??people, in the silent majority.
They just took root in my mind.
I spent sleepless nights writing, persisting, and wanted to write out my expectations for them.
Why is the effect of writing different from what I imagined.
As I was writing, I forgot, what am I writing?
Is it the environment that traps me, or the framework of the story that affects me. What is the difference between the character setting in the early stage and the order of appearance later.
Just with such a confused, trapped, and desperate mood, I carefully examined this story and experienced a sad struggle.
It's dawn, it's dark. Repeatedly. The weather is sunny and cloudy, at the two ends of time and at the beginning of memory.
Maybe I don't understand life enough. I live in such a circle, but I have never integrated into it. With a proud attitude, I was tossed and wandered.
I started having nightmares. Those images are incredible to me.
I need to calm down.
Let the manic mood calm down. Only then can I see through layers of fog, the dream hidden in the clouds. To see clearly what I want to write, I can't do one thing repeatedly.
Feel like me. Maybe it really is as bad as it gets. I can't get out of it, I just get deeper and deeper.
I'm tired.
Has nothing to do with the harsh reality.
It has nothing to do with being unable to get out of the predicament.