Chapter 377 Writer
"May, Monday. The target went out to buy some food... He talked to a street vendor at the market. Other than that, everything was normal!"
“Tuesday, everything is normal!”
"On Wednesday, the target dined at 'Papa Hopper's' restaurant...everything was normal..."
"On Thursday, the target was ready to start a new creation... He bought a blank notebook, pen, and ink at the store... He kept observing..."
“Friday, everything is normal!”
"On Saturday, the target began to improvise... mostly poems and the beginnings of novels... Unable to determine whether it is contaminating, observe carefully... The sample has been sent for inspection..."
"On Sunday, the target fell into a frenzy of writing... It is not certain whether it is accompanied by delirium... Prepare to forcibly interfere... After 30 seconds, the target returned to normal, and the interference was suspended... Report..."
——Excerpt from Luo Fu’s investigator diary.
… …
"Finally... this Eastern ascetic, Western doom sorcerer, had his true spirit exploded and entered the embrace of the Styx?"
“What weird stuff am I writing?”
Roca looked at the novel he had written in a daze.
In other words, there is a little bit of the novel at the end, but at the beginning there are more graffiti and poetry... It's quite confusing.
When it comes to literary creation, the author must already have a structure in his mind before it is put into words.
But when he looked at his own words, he felt very... strange!
Even though he had written the ending, Rocca had no memory of conceiving a beginning or a middle.
Thinking back to his writing state just now... it reminded him of the first time he got drunk. It was when he had just graduated from the Faculty of Arts, and several friends forced him to drink a full glass of "rum bomb", a drink made of sparkling sweet wine mixed with high-purity liquor, which could make the drinker faint and lose consciousness.
The state I was in when writing just now was somewhat similar to when I was drinking so much that my memory was lost. I couldn’t remember what happened at all.
"Since that time, the condition seems to have become more serious..."
Roca muttered something, opened the drawer, took out a huge brown glass medicine bottle, took out a white pill from it, and swallowed it with cold water.
His attending physician told him that he had mild mental problems, but he didn't need to worry too much, as taking medication regularly could alleviate the symptoms. In addition, most urban people of this era have some physical or psychological illnesses, which is normal.
“I don’t feel normal at all…”
Roca tore off a page from his notebook, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it precisely into the wastebasket that was already half full.
As a freelance writer, the royalties he receives from regularly submitting articles to newspapers, magazines, and publishing houses are his only source of income, which covers his rent, daily expenses, and medical expenses...
"Well...if the situation gets more serious, do I need to be admitted to a mental hospital? No...once you go to that kind of place, you can't get out because you can't prove that you are mentally normal...and the hospitalization fees are high, etc. Why do mental patients care about the cost?"
Roca was amused by his own fantasies and felt that he could use them as a joke in his new novel.
Well, although he is a writer, he writes all kinds of things.
Novels are the main source, but not every one of them can be approved by the publishing house.
In addition, poems are shorter, take up less space, and are more likely to be favored by some literary magazines.
Although the royalties are not much, they are a strong supplement in times of hardship.
In addition, he even wrote gossip news for some tabloids, which was not decent for an author, but for the sake of livelihood... At least when publishing the news, Roca changed his pen name.
"What happened that time?"
After taking the medicine, Roca rubbed his brows and said, "I seem to have forgotten something...but the doctor said that it was a traumatic reaction. Don't force yourself to recall it, but accept it slowly..."
He felt a little dizzy, as it always happened after taking medicine, so he fell directly on the bed and soon began to snore.
Whoosh!
The evening breeze blows, open the window.
A dark figure jumped in from the window and picked up Roca's draft paper on the table.
…
Roca is dreaming.
Those seem to be a series of strange adventures, and if they could be written down, they should attract some attention.
But the picture flashed too fast, and the characters seemed to be shrouded in a layer of mist and could not be seen clearly.
Moreover, there are only some broken fragments, which can hardly bring any inspiration and it is very tiring!
However, tonight's dream seems to be a little different. That character seems to have become a little clearer?
the next day.
Roca got up and saw that everything in the room was the same as last night. He subconsciously shouted, "Attribute bar?!"
It was quiet all around.
There was no light screen appearing in front of his eyes.
"Why do I suddenly want to say this term? Is it because of my youthful chuunibana? Or do I want to confirm that I am special?"
Roca shook his head and laughed, walked to the dining room, opened the heavy and thick refrigerator, sniffed the milk inside, thought it was okay, nodded, poured himself a glass, and put two slices of oatmeal bread in the toaster to toast.
bite!
The two pieces of baked bread jumped up automatically and were taken out by Roca. He dipped them in ketchup and made them into a simple sandwich. Adding milk made it into a breakfast.
If the royalties were sufficient, he would choose to add a slice of fried bacon or egg, but now, Roca is troubled by nightmares and has to pay a large amount of medical bills, so his living standard has inevitably declined.
“But as a writer, even a down-and-out writer, you still have freedom!”
Roca drove the second-hand car he bought with an installment loan and prepared to visit a few of his friends.
They regularly hold cultural salons, similar to book clubs, to exchange writing experiences and techniques.
The people involved are not only the authors, but also painters, musicians... Although most of them can only perform on the streets, when you think about Roca's own status, it's almost the same.
If the event could attract one or two wealthy businessmen or upper-class ladies, it would be considered a very honorable thing by the organizers and worth bragging about for many days.
While driving, Roca felt the strong wind passing by his ears, and the dizziness in his head eased a lot: "I seemed to hear that name yesterday... It's a bit strange... Fang Xian?... No, no, it should be Fang Xian?"
"Hmm, what a strange name. If he were the protagonist, readers probably wouldn't accept it, right?"
"But maybe you could give him a new name and write a novel based on it?"
"Why...I still feel like something is wrong?"
