The Arrow Maker and the Proposal Reviser

At eleven at night, A Zhe opened the proposal. Sixth draft.

His boss had said that afternoon it was fine. The client had said no problem. He stared at the wording on page three, the caption on page seven, the number in the footer. In the drawer was a sheet of foil-packed stomach medicine, two pills left. On the desk, the pothos leaves drooped; one corner of the keyboard cover curled up. He changed a comma, then changed it back. The cursor blinked. He saved. He closed it. He opened it again.

Lao Zhou was not like that.

Lao Zhou made arrows. Cut shafts, install points, install anti-dry-fire tail pins, install nocks, mark glue lines, glue helical fletching, wrap the front of the fletching, wrap the back. Hot melt glue the same amount each time. Pull the helical fletching tape open. Same length. From behind, the three fletchings sat at an exact 120-degree angle. He made his own strings. Calculate string length, put it on the serving jig, tie the string ears, serve the string, tie the nocking point. Someone asked him, no one requires it, why bother? Lao Zhou paused, then said, What do you mean no one requires it? The arrow requires me. The bow requires me. The feel requires me.

Lao Zhou did not get tired doing this. When he was done, he shot one arrow. Hit or miss, it did not matter. He touched the fletching and smiled. He said, The greatest pleasure in archery is making arrows, making strings, tuning bows. A good archer makes his own arrows. He was poor, did not make money, wasted his ambition on toys. A friend asked him to help make arrows, said just make them casually. Lao Zhou refused. He said, You want to do it sloppily, and I still will not help you make them. No way I am ruining my family’s reputation. The friend called him foolish. He said, I am poor and happy. The best things in the world are made by people like us, with this attitude. This happiness: if you understand it, you understand. If you do not, no amount of talking will make you understand.

A Zhe also could not stop.

But A Zhe could not stop as if someone were whipping him from behind.

When he was a child, he scored ninety-eight. His father asked, What about the other two points? He folded the test paper and put it at the very bottom of the drawer. Later, whatever he did, it was like searching for those two points. He revised the proposal because if he did not revise, he panicked. He did not think the sixth draft was better. He sent it out and waited for a reply. His palms sweated. When someone said it was good, he let out a breath. Three minutes later, he thought again, Is the caption on page seven not solid enough?

He wrote code. The function ran. He refactored until dawn. He made presentations. The PPT was already clear. He adjusted fonts until his eyes ached. He sent emails. Read them three times. Afraid one punctuation mark would cause misunderstanding. People said, You are too serious. He smiled. In his heart he thought, I am not serious. I just do not dare not be serious.

He finished a project. Got promoted. Got a raise. Was praised. At the celebration dinner, people toasted him. He smiled. On the way home, he thought of the wording on page three. Lying in bed, scrolling his phone. Seeing others do better. Could not sleep. Took stomach medicine. Got up early the next day, kept revising.

Lao Zhou had his own test.

Once, he was making a string for someone. The person said, Just about right is fine. Lao Zhou cut the string. He said, Find someone else. The person said, What is wrong with you? Lao Zhou said, I have been like this my whole life. He sat at the workbench, serving the string. One loop, two loops, three loops. His hands were steady. Outside, it grew dark. He turned on the light. Under the light, the string ears were tied neatly. He picked it up and pulled. He was satisfied. He made a cup of tea. The tea went cold, and he still did not drink it.

A Zhe did not have that kind of satisfaction.

When he finished something, he saw flaws. When someone said it was fine, what he heard was, You are still not enough. If the work was good, he was safe. If he was perfect, he deserved respect. He did not dare accept not being good enough. He was afraid. His repeated checking was defense. Lao Zhou’s repeated checking was creation. When Lao Zhou stopped, it was satisfaction. When A Zhe stopped, it was anxiety.

Where was the line?

Ask four questions.

If no one knew, if it could not be monetized, if no one praised it, would you still be willing to do it?

When you stop, is it calm satisfaction, or anxious shame?

Was this standard chosen by you, or forced on you?

Does it make you freer, or more afraid?

A Zhe could not answer. He sat in the late-night office, staring at the screen. He thought of Lao Zhou. Lao Zhou did not need to answer. Lao Zhou was busy serving a string. Lao Zhou’s standard grew out of the arrow shaft. A Zhe’s standard grew out of fear. Lao Zhou made arrows. A Zhe used proposals to prove himself.

A Zhe had tried to stop.

He set a stop rule. Revise one more time, then submit. When the timer rang, stop. Check three times, then end. The first time he submitted early, his hands shook. The sky did not fall. The boss said got it. The client said thanks. He waited all afternoon. No one scolded him. He went home. The pothos was still there. The keyboard cover was still curled. He messaged Lao Zhou and asked if the arrows were done. Lao Zhou said, Done. Come get them tomorrow. A Zhe said, Thanks. Lao Zhou said, What are you thanking me for? I had fun.

The next day, A Zhe went to get the arrows.

Lao Zhou handed him three. A Zhe touched the fletching. A 120-degree angle. He asked, How did you do it? Lao Zhou said, Slowly. A Zhe put the arrows in his bag. On the way home, he thought of page seven of the proposal. He took out his phone, opened the document, glanced at it. He closed it. He put the phone in his pocket and kept walking. The wind blew leaves to his feet. He stepped over them.

See you tomorrow.