Wherever the journey leads, may warmth remain.｜Wandering Under Different Stars

After writing the ninth story, I can finally catch my breath.

Here are the nine stories. If you don't want to read the rest of this piece, you can just read the stories 😄.

This is not an end, but a pause. (In plain words... because the tenth piece isn't finished yet, I really can't publish it today 🥹)

Along this stretch of road, I have seen so much courage, and I have also seen my own limitations. Mainly because I talked a big game earlier, and I didn't expect the hole to be this deep 🕳️ 🕳️ 🕳️ 🕳️.

Stories of a hundred people?! Who on earth is so ignorant and fearless? 🤣 🤣

Every time I start a story, I worry: can I really write it well? Every time I finish, I wonder: do I really understand them?

Maybe not enough, or maybe never enough.

But each time I write, I get a little closer.

The interviews are actually quite relaxed, just friends chatting.

We sit in a café, order food and drinks (yes, I pay for the interviews). We talk along the timeline—about studies, work, kids, those valleys we can't climb out of, and awkward moments at work. But when it comes to writing, it gets hard.

The hard part is making it feel like the protagonist themselves. I don't want to write "my understanding of them"; I want the protagonist to read it and think, "Yes, this is really me."

I don't listen to the recordings over and over, because I already noted things down during the interview—not on paper, but in my heart.

When they talk about something important, my mind automatically places a "bookmark." I remember their expressions and tone. I remember even more my own first reaction when I heard those stories.

Transcribing the recordings into text is to help me and ChatGPT sort out the timeline and verify details; when I actually write, I rely on that feeling of "being present with them."

The protagonists of these stories are not just interview subjects; they are all friends I have known for a long time. So when I write, I'm not just reconstructing that one conversation, but looking back at the fragments of our years together—working together, drinking coffee, playing badminton, meeting their families, and complaining together about bosses, companies, prices, housing, pets, kids, and Melbourne's weather 😜.

Those little bits of life all became references for my writing.

If they have their own WeChat official account, video channel, blog, or Xiaohongshu, that's invaluable first-hand material. Not for quoting, but for getting a feel for how they express themselves. That tone is more real than any description.

Writing about people is never time-consuming; it's heart-consuming.

Because the words must do justice to that person's truth.

I have to shed the identity of "author" and become a listener—to feel, to get closer, to understand.

Sometimes I think I already have it all figured out, but halfway through writing I realize that "my understanding" is just my own version. So I stop, delete the whole paragraph, and rewrite.

That back-and-forth is slow, lonely, and maddening, but I like it.

Because when the words finally "match the person," the whole article suddenly quiets down, and the protagonist finally breathes on the page.

From the very first piece, I have involved the protagonists in the final revision.

I first write to a point I think is good enough, then send it to the protagonist on WeChat for review. I say: "You should focus on three things: any details that are too off and need correcting; anything you don't want included and want deleted; and any places where you think I should add more."

I don't ask "Do you like it?" because that's not the point. The point is whether, after reading it, they can say, "Yes, this is me."

This co-creation process turns my protagonists into "people who finish the story together with me."

The details they add make the story more real and vivid. The painful past they delete is not because they are avoiding it, but because none of us want to glorify suffering. I especially love the content they proactively add—it makes the story more complete. As for the things I got wrong, those are all on me, and I just fix them honestly.

More importantly, their approval far outweighs any praise.

If one day a protagonist doesn't approve of the version I wrote, I would not hesitate to abandon that article. (Luckily, my friends have been kind, and so far it hasn't happened.)

After writing for so long, I am more and more convinced: good writing is all about revision.

Not the kind of revision that is "polishing," but the kind where you take yourself out of the draft again and again, delete the clever lines you were so proud of, and leave behind a bit of clumsy description; delete the background exposition and leave a detail that lets you see a face. Add some rambling to scenes that look too clean and empty, to show a living, breathing person.

Sometimes, as I revise, the draft ends up revising me. It makes me shift from wanting to write a decent story to "putting them back into their own life."

The pace isn't fast, but as the story slowly takes shape, my heart feels clear and joyful. It makes me resonate with what Sally said: "The world is broken and tattered, and music patches it up." After all, writing is also patching things up.

Titles, titles age you.

The main title and subtitles are like two invisible bones—without them the article can't stand; but if they're too blunt, the piece feels flat.

The process of polishing titles is a lot like when I used to draw illustrations: often feeling inadequate, often scratching my head, often racking my brains, and occasionally ecstatic. Especially when I finally find a perfect title but can't show it off to anyone.

So I learned to lock the title away and let it ferment on its own. By the time the article is truly finished, the title has gone through many iterations.

Giving each person a title is not a technique; it's more like "echoes of a conversation."

For example, Loki. Over the years I've watched him grope his way toward his direction. He does SEO, and he's also searching for "what he really wants to do." I thought of the line "Suddenly turning back, the person is there in the dim lamplight," and of "searching and searching, cold and desolate," and of "searching for them a thousand times."

The word "百度" (Baidu) contains both "search" and "seeking." That's how the title was settled—not just a title, but a footnote to his life and career.

Later I felt that coffee, as the connection between us, deserved a place, so the coffee knowledge shouldn't be wasted—let everyone learn a bit.

I originally wanted to use "Life Without Limits" to describe Sally. It sounds good, but it's too generic. It's her, and it's not her.

So I went through her WeChat official account and Xiaohongshu, reading many of her posts. At some point I suddenly got what "jazz" means to her—freedom, flow, imperfect but rhythmic.

Then I remembered The Legend of 1900, dug out the scenes that moved me, watched them several times, and finally found her core.

The piece about Brother Ming and Sister Ming was the easiest. Because "A Doubles Life" is the name of their Xiaohongshu account. That name itself is perfect—it's both their life state and their tacit understanding. I just borrowed it and let the story unfold.

And my elder brother, Old He—the title is plain, because I feel Old He is simply my elder brother.

For Michelle's story, I had already decided from the start to focus on her recent job search. But strangely, from the day I interviewed her, "One Flower, One World" kept circling in my mind. That's her temperament, and also her way of seeing the world.

Every time I choose a title, it's like getting to know the person all over again. It's not for the sake of looking good; it's my way of thanking them for their sincerity.

When the title is settled, it's like the last chord of a melody, landing where it should, giving the whole story its complete tone.

The hardest part is actually "writing a unique person."

Not writing what they have done, but writing who they are.

With just a few thousand words, to make a reader who has never met this person say after reading, "I feel like I know them now"—that's really hard.

Everyone has their own rhythm and aura. Some speak fast, some are more composed; some still laugh when talking about hardship, some are so sincere they leave themselves unguarded; some think as meticulously as program code, some always act on intuition.

These differences are easy to sense in conversation, but once they fall into words, if you're not careful they get smoothed over and become uniform, losing all character.

I often get stuck here.

The same optimism—some are born with it, some have been through suffering; the same silence—some are steady, some are quietly grieving; the same persistence—some rely on courage, some use scientific methods; the same independence—some enjoy solitude, some have no choice. These subtle differences are the soul of a character, yet they are the easiest to erase in writing.

So I can only mull over the language again and again, delete the pretty adjectives, and replace them with a bit of action, a bit of tone, a moment that lets people "see." Maybe it's just a sentence they said in a certain scene, tears they shed at a certain moment, or guilt they couldn't put into words about something. But it's those small places that make a person real.

After writing the ninth story, my health bar is basically empty. The allusions I can use, the movies I can recall, the fitting metaphors—like the few pencils left in a drawer, getting shorter with each sharpening. For example, if I hadn't happened to start reading Beyond the Four Seasons, I wouldn't have thought of the word "旷达" (openness).

Although I've been trying hard to keep up, it's really far from enough. So, if you're ugly, you just have to read more.

And because there's no ready-made trick to apply, it forces me to press my ears a little closer and my eyes a little nearer. To put down "what I've written before" and aim at "the person in front of me."

Slowing down is the tuition I must pay.

I don't reply to each one.

I read these comments over and over, and even screenshot and save them. Not because they praise my writing, but because I can feel the quiet resonance. It's like someone far away nods at you, saying nothing, but you know they have walked the same night road.

Sometimes they ask me: will these stories get harder and harder to write? I say, yes.

Because I know more and more clearly that behind every character is a real life, and I don't dare to summarize it lightly.

But precisely because of that, I think it's worth it.

To let others see a part of themselves, to let a story leave a mark in someone's heart—that's the response I want most.

I have always accepted "not writing it perfectly round." Not round doesn't mean incomplete; it just leaves the "ending" temporarily blank.

Wang Zengqi's works are often commented on as "writing fragments, not summaries." Now I understand: fragments are not laziness, but respect. Respect that the character is still on the road, respect that life hasn't finished writing its ending.

All we can do is put that one point of the present clearly into the light.

After nine stories, I find that I am not just recording other people's wandering; I am also re-measuring and re-examining my own direction.

With each person I write, I become a little more certain: understanding between people doesn't come from conclusions, but from getting closer.

Next, I will walk a little slower (that is, from weekly updates to irregular updates of the character pieces).

Let the stories have time to ferment, and give myself time to feel more deeply, to learn and accumulate.

After all, the start of the hundred-day daily writing was also the starting point of my current new job. Adding these nine character pieces, over five months, I passed probation early in my full-time job, and in my spare time wrote 120 WeChat official account articles. I even admire myself.

The light is still on.

The night is still long.

The road is still ahead,

and you are all by my side.

Wherever the journey leads, may warmth remain.