My dream as a writer

I have a newspaper on my desk with my business advertorials. As I sat on the sofa watching it, I thought of the newspaper from many years ago, its black type wafting to me with a faint scent.

That was years ago. I was 13 or 14 years old, in junior high school. I was a thin, shy teenager. My only hobby is scribbling in my diary. I think running and playing table tennis are physical activities, while writing is mental. Both are enjoyable. At that time, I had a dream that WHEN I grew up, I would become a writer and let my words spread across the country into the type of newspapers and books. Think of it now, I feel very funny, laugh after all lost.

I had little to read except textbooks and a Chinese dictionary. Occasionally the language teacher will bring a thin "middle school students to read" let the students see, like a piece of fresh meat thrown into the hungry wolves. There's no way I can get it. I looked at the thick Chinese dictionary on the table and flipped through more than 1,700 pages. I decided to memorize it and made a plan. After a year, the Chinese dictionary has been worn out beyond recognition. Many strange and beautiful Chinese characters and words into my mind, let me feel that I am closer to the dream of being a writer.

Once I spent a long time writing a composition. Now I still remember the name of it is "My dream", as for the contents I have not remembered. The other day I had a wild idea of putting it into type, so I copied it neatly onto paper and put it in an envelope. I borrowed a newspaper from my Chinese teacher and wrote the address on the envelope in the foot of the newspaper. On the weekend, I rode my bike for nearly an hour to the town post office with the letter in my hand. I slipped it carefully into the mailbox and rode my bike slowly along the tree-lined road, dreaming that the postman would hand it off to an old editor with black-rimmed glasses. The old editor read it carefully, with a slight smile on his lips.

I plucked up the courage to borrow the newspaper from the Chinese teacher again and again, but completely did not find their own article. A month later, when I was about to despair, the submission letter turned a corner.

It was Thursday. The third class was Chinese class in the morning. The sun was bright and warm outside the window. The Chinese teacher just set foot on the platform, inexplicably bright eyes to me. He waved a newspaper as if to make an announcement. The classroom was silent and the students looked up at him. He cleared his throat and told everyone in a solemn tone that one of my compositions had been published in today's daily paper. The students' eyes gathered on me like a beacon of light, and then there was a burst of applause.

The teacher held the newspaper and read the article to everyone. After reading, she wrote down four groups of rare words on the blackboard and asked everyone what they meant. Everyone looked at each other, but no one answered. He walked over to me, rubbed his hands on my worn-out Chinese dictionary and said, "Dear students, Chinese is the most beautiful and rich language in the world. I hope you will love our Chinese and remember, write and ask more questions in the future."

It was not long before the newspaper sent me money in the mail, barely enough to buy a pair of trousers, but the joy IT gave me was never forgotten. It's the joy of seeing your dream blossom.

Since then, the Chinese teacher will be generous to their books to let me see, so a thick masterpiece into my life. And I told him about my dreams of being a writer. He was shocked.

Many years passed, and my dream seemed impossible. After college I worked as a copywriter, and what I wrote was often typed, but it was all commercial ads. The literary classics on my bookshelves are gathering dust, and my dream of being an author is drifting further and further away from me. I suddenly felt that the skinny dream boy of many years ago had been drowned by wine and buried by thick fat.

I suppose life is a book, too, made up of pages tightly printed with type. Every page of type, there is a dream, there is a story, or contains beautiful, or contains helpless.