[隨筆] 大學自傳 Countdown

整理高中資料夾的時候翻到升大學的自傳，就忍不住拿出來修了。修的過程像在開時空膠囊，重溫一下剛開始寫小說的時候，對文學的困惑。

我文法跟時態很爛，讀者自己習慣一下。

Countdown

Baseball is all about surviving the countdown. At the countdown of three, each missed swing by the batter pushes him one step closer to failure.    

I look into the pitcher’s eyes. We confronted amid silence, silent as the battlefield composed by green grids, sheets of manuscript paper covered with green lines.   

I hold up my bat as if I would with my pen. How come I feel the same way in these two completely different situations? Thoughts come through my mind.  

＿＿

I write when I feel speechless. I struggle with having conversations. A face-to-face interaction would incur an immediate remark, which makes me uneasy. This feels even worse than facing the best pitcher. Face-off between batter and pitcher is uneasy, but at least there is a time gap between pitcher releasing the ball and the ball reaching the batter.

＿＿

I recently read a short story written by my favorite writer, Chu Yu-Hsun, Shadow (暗影). The narrator was a pitcher during high school, and he can throw up to 150 km/h, which takes 0.432 seconds for the ball to reach the home plate. The only thing separating the narrator and his catcher is the unchanging 0.432 seconds.

The pitcher I’m facing can throw a 110 km/h fastball, which means the ball will take 0.55 seconds to reach the home plate. An average of 0.09 seconds is needed for me to make a swing, which means I only have 0.46 seconds to make my decision.

Standing in the batter’s box, this time gap is the only thing I own.

Every time the ball flies towards me, I start my countdown.

＿＿

Writing also creates a gap that separates me and the person I am facing, since my reader can’t immediately respond to my writing. Through writing, I could dig deep into my heart and avoid spontaneous judgments. Living in the same space with others, the time gap offers me shelter. 

I wrote my first short story 2 years ago. I did it for an assignment, but it eventually came alive and grew out of my control. At that moment, I realized that I couldn’t stop writing. Every empty green grid on the paper became my enemy; I had to try every means to fill them up.

＿＿

The first pitch flies towards me

I once thought baseball was about escaping the real world. No matter how badly I’m doing outside the field, my teammates and I can still create a good game together. I am not having a good day before the game starts, so now I want to reclaim my day.

I swing.

Nothing but air.

＿＿

At the beginning, writing only satisfied a basic need, that is, expressing myself. I have gained the ability to build connections with the world, but that’s not enough. After a year of writing, which is a year from now, I found a new reason to write. Chu Yu-Hsun once said, “Fiction is to reclaim a better world through words.” (小說之所以虛構，是為了把一個更好的世界寫回來）In my writing, I fulfill things that can’t be fulfilled in reality. Fiction and baseball are both my way to escape, and just like the swing I just missed, it doesn’t always work out.

＿＿

Unexpectedly, it’s not a fastball; the top-spinning curveball flouts the laws of physics, flies out of my reach.

Baseball is about playing tricks and outsmarting the opponents.

＿＿

Half a year ago, my manuscript paper betrayed me. No matter how much sincerity I poured into those green grids, they wouldn’t form any new stories. 

I stopped writing. During that time, I read a novel that totally changed my view on the concept of fiction. In the story, a teacher who teaches Chinese literature raped his students, in his narration, he uses literature to justify his action.

In an interview, the author Lin Yi-Han asked “what if literature is just a way of using beautiful words to conceal the violence that exists in the real world. (藝術是否從來只是巧言令色？). This made me began to wonder if the so-called “better world through words” is just a narration that hides deceptions within. It turned out that Yi-Han committed suicide after the book was published; people suspect that the story is based on her real experience.

I used to believe that writing is all about venting out inner emotions, and about creating a better world, but her suicide proved that writing is more than that. When she describes a rape scene with beautiful words in the novel, it is not an ironical or contrastive writing style, but rather a fictional way to reverse her negative experience.

＿＿

I'm the leadoff hitter, so there’s no runner on base, maybe I should be more patient. Taking a deep breath, I look in the pitcher’s eyes again. Very gently, he nods. I know he is responding to the catcher’s sign, but I have a feeling that he’s nodding to me.

＿＿ 

Now I know the purpose of fiction is not “reclaim a better world through words”, but “reclaim a better world through lies”. Should I keep telling lies to myself and my reader? Yi-Han’s words occupy my brain. Maybe my lies are concealing the violence that exists in my real life.

After reading Yi-Han’s novel and interview, I spent a month processing it and rethinking the reason I write.

I come to a provisional conclusion: I don’t need a reason.

So after spending a month without my pen, I started to write again.

I don’t know what value those lies have, or even if it is causing harm, but I still write.

At least for now, I write not to make the world better, but to create a better world in the green grid, a place where I can escape, where I don’t need to answer the question Yi-Han raised at the cost of her own life.

＿＿

There comes the second ball, a fastball cuts straight through the air without any trick, so fast that I can’t even make my swing.  

 ＿＿

I have no idea how to answer Yi-Han’s question for now; maybe I will never be able to answer it. But it’s fine, one thing I learn from my writing experience is that writing isn’t an equivalent exchange. I pour all of my soul into the green grids, but it doesn’t mean I will get any return.

During the down period of writing, the manuscript paper is like a giant glove. No matter how hard I swing, the ball will always be caught. Simply filling up the grids in it with words by my own hands did not guarantee it would accept the meanings I grant it. My manuscript paper never betrayed me; there were no promises to begin with.

 ＿＿

Baseball is not just about outsmarting the opponents.

Here comes the third ball. Perhaps the world is as merciless as the grids, but never mind, I still have my pen. The purpose of the manuscript paper’s existence is to be granted meaning by me, even if it never promised me anything; all I must do is to outsmart it.

I didn’t start my countdown. The numbers don’t matter anymore.

The ball is getting closer and closer. I hold up my pen, more determined than ever, as I finally see through the whole game.

I’m ready to outsmart the world.