Lu-Hai Liang

Beijing and its endless streets and expanse of concrete desert, where it can take a lot of effort to arrange social affairs.

It’s coming up to three years since I arrived in Beijing — three years in which I’ve made friends and lost friends, through the simple drift of life.

In this time I’ve been broke numerous times, have had to scrape and meander. I’ve had starry nights and schemes come to fruition, and moments seldom preconceived.

But what am I doing now? Am I moving forward — is misery just going through the motions?

You might not understand the dilemma and that is fine. I shall put it plainly.

I could never have realized just how hard it is to succeed as a writer.

I could never have imagined what a crossroads sometimes life can be.

I do not want to work to earn money so I can pay the rent, so I can buy more things I do not need.

My instinct tells me I should move out of Beijing and head to some other places in China and stay with friends. Read, write, sleep. Convalesce.

Try to write more — that’s more important than anything. And yet why torture myself? I could do a job that’s enjoyable and worthwhile, and write on the side.

Many writers have had multiple lives. I feel like I should have those lives, because in the end it will make me better and more varied.

There’s no one telling you what your next move should be. There’s no path to follow or predetermined step. Always thus.

Money is and will always be an issue. When you’re younger you think –you’re sure of it in fact– that at some stage you will be wealthy and have enough money to do the things you want to do. But at some stage, it becomes clear that those riches might not become reality.

But that’s fine?

I should go somewhere awhile and figure things out.