英文演讲：Reluctant Writer, Devoted Soul

🍀言初🍀

　　7月27日，头马活动，我来了一个PS备稿演讲，拿了一个Best。本期主题谈写作，所以有感而发，回忆了此生写作与我之间血脉相连的情感关系。

‍ Reluctant Writer, Devoted Soul

‍What is the thing called writing?

To me, writing is a form of genetic inheritance.

With every leap in genetic science, I grow more convinced of what we once called destiny—an invisible pull, like gravity, that keeps drawing you back to what you were born to be.

I believe it’s coded in our DNA.

My father was a writer. He adored writing.

I remember him hunched over his desk, fingers dancing on the paper, lost in a world only he could see.

Naturally, I rebelled. “Not me,” I thought. “Too dull. Too exhausting.”

But genes, it seems, have a stubborn way of circling back.

I ended up majored in Chinese literature I once loathed—

and eventually, became a media professional who lives and breathes by the written word.

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What is the thing called writing?

Writing is pain.

My first short story was published in my sophomore year of college.

It was born of heartbreak—my first love had ended, and the ache demanded release.

That story was like a wound I had to lance with words. It hurt, but it healed.

Letters from readers poured in, and their empathy felt like balm.

Some people bleed on paper so others can heal.

Since then, whenever sorrow knocks—like when I lost my parents—I write.

Writing became my thread and needle, stitching myself back together.

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What is the thing called writing?

Writing is love.

I’ve filled notebook after notebook with parenting reflections.

My children bring me an experience of life that was raw, surreal, and endlessly wondrous.

To write about it was to relive it—to taste again every magical, messy, sacred moment.

That love—so fierce, so consuming—I have never felt for anyone else.

So I wrote. And wrote. I still do.

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What is the thing called writing?

Writing is survival.

To be honest, I don’t always love it. Writing is brutal.

It stings my eyes, burns my shoulders, wears down my spine.

It heals the spirit but breaks the body.

And yet I write—because it feeds me, grounds me, keeps me going.

Because it’s the only way I know to make sense of this world—

and to make life just a little better.

After all these years, I’ve become—reluctantly, but inevitably—a writer.

I’ve written over a million words. Edited at least that many more.

My blog has drawn 1.4 million reads.

Now, even on Xiaohongshu, I’m teaching children how to write.

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So, what is writing?

It’s the thing I tried to escape but never could.

It’s the quiet rhythm beneath every chapter of pain and joy.

It’s what I curse when I’m weary, and bless when I’m whole.

It is, quite simply, the most loyal companion I’ve ever had.

I didn’t choose writing—sometimes, writing chooses me.

I am a reluctant writer, but a devoted soul.