[ shang qinghua is seated in front of the desk, on which the piece of paper he presented at trial lays. with a pen clutched in his right hand, he stops writing mid word to look up at oda.
his eyes dart to the side. caught red-handed, he's a little self-conscious. ]
Lately, I've been thinking about writing again while there's time. It isn't much, but getting the words out has given me a good feeling.
What I have here is barely a scene . . . It's hardly worth the read.
[ also, a writer doesn't show his work-in-progress to just anyone! he'll guard this paper with his life. that being said, he beckons oda farther inside. ]
If the contest turns out in this one's favor, I'll tell you all about my most successful story.
In the meantime, how are your efforts coming along? Are you still struggling to put the words down?
[ blinking, he turns to oda with a curious look. never? he can hardly believe that. ]
What you're experiencing is a common obstacle that writers face every day. For your case, though, there seems to be more at play. Exactly what's stopping you from pursuing the paper with your pen?
[ oda stays silent for a moment, his gaze set on his own lap. he thinks about what the man in the moustache told him ten years before.
you have the qualifications to write.
it feels like a knife stabbing into him. ]
Someone once told me that to write is to write about human lives. Back then... I was an assassin, killing without a second thought. But when that man talked to me—I felt like I wanted to do something for the first time. However, an assassin knows nothing about life...so I quit. I stopped killing and did what I could to become a good person, so I could be worthy of writing a novel.
[ oda chuckles, but there’s no humor behind it; it’s void of any emotion. ]
But I failed. I lost everything I had one day and all I want... all I want is revenge.
[ oda sighs. ]
Someone as despicable as me should never be allowed to write about life.
[ once everything is said and out in the open, shang qinghua's gaze also drifts down to his own lap. his words come out in a whisper as he tries to soak in everything that's been revealed to him. ]
To make you want revenge so badly that you would throw it all away, what did you lose?
[ he snaps his head up to regard oda with a look of muted surprise, the sound of faint awe in his voice. ]
This great tragedy weighs heavily on our hearts. But you . . . you do not see it? If this is true, you've already found what you're looking for. It sounds to me like, more than anyone else, you should write.
No matter how fantastical the world, there is reality in fiction. You say that you know nothing about life, yet how can that be? A man who doesn't understand the beauty of human life wouldn't be driven to the dark depths of seeking retribution. Those children's lives were cut viciously short, but they left you a gift more blessed than any other.
[ to be surrounded by and a part of the very human life he spent so long undermining. to feel the sting of loss. to experience life at its best and its worst, probably in such a short span of time for this pitiable man.
shang qinghua sighs. ]
You don't write to talk about others. As a writer, the reality in your words come from your heart. Sir, no matter what you were in the past, the life you lead now is incredibly human.
[ there's a sudden bitterness in oda's words, his gaze suddenly cold. it's more than obvious that what shang qinghua just said hurt him deeply, like salt on his wound. ]
I watched them be blown up in front of my eyes. I saw their corpses-- you think that's a gift? You think I'm blessed? Of course you'd be able to say that when you still have a family with you, real or not-- you know nothing about what I went through.
[ his entire face twitches, and he turns his head to both school his features and tear away from oda's cold gaze. an uncomfortably long silence settles between them before he all but croaks out: ]
I . . . I didn't mean to offend. This one spoke thoughtlessly.
[ as soon as oda looks away, shang qinghua makes a face. it's an awkward grimace that he quickly fixes into an expression of polite calm. ]
When you hold a pen, do no words come to mind at all? What you write down for the first time will not always be good. This is expected. What matters is that you write something, even if it doesn't make sense.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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his eyes dart to the side. caught red-handed, he's a little self-conscious. ]
Lately, I've been thinking about writing again while there's time. It isn't much, but getting the words out has given me a good feeling.
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[ this is the most emotion oda has shown since his meltdown. he even looks a bit confused, as if sqh was suddenly talking a whole different language.
but then he looks away, a wry smile on his face. ]
Back at home... are you a writer?
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Before all this, I wrote on the side. I wasn't too good at it, but I like to think that I've improved since.
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[ oda closes his eyes. it seems there’s something on his mind but...he doesn’t want to say it ]
It’s too bad I can’t read mandarin—I wish I knew what you wrote.
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[ also, a writer doesn't show his work-in-progress to just anyone! he'll guard this paper with his life. that being said, he beckons oda farther inside. ]
If the contest turns out in this one's favor, I'll tell you all about my most successful story.
In the meantime, how are your efforts coming along? Are you still struggling to put the words down?
no subject
[ oda breathes out through his nose, his small attempt at a laugh. upon shang qinghua’s request, he goes inside the study, sitting down next to him.
when asked, oda freezes again—only for a flash of a moment—and shakes his head again. ]
No. I think it’s proof that I was never meant to become a writer in the first place.
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What you're experiencing is a common obstacle that writers face every day. For your case, though, there seems to be more at play. Exactly what's stopping you from pursuing the paper with your pen?
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you have the qualifications to write.
it feels like a knife stabbing into him. ]
Someone once told me that to write is to write about human lives. Back then... I was an assassin, killing without a second thought. But when that man talked to me—I felt like I wanted to do something for the first time. However, an assassin knows nothing about life...so I quit. I stopped killing and did what I could to become a good person, so I could be worthy of writing a novel.
[ oda chuckles, but there’s no humor behind it; it’s void of any emotion. ]
But I failed. I lost everything I had one day and all I want... all I want is revenge.
[ oda sighs. ]
Someone as despicable as me should never be allowed to write about life.
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To make you want revenge so badly that you would throw it all away, what did you lose?
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[ oda says this in an even tone— emotionless, even. ]
They were murdered.
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This great tragedy weighs heavily on our hearts. But you . . . you do not see it? If this is true, you've already found what you're looking for. It sounds to me like, more than anyone else, you should write.
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[ oda looks up at shang qinghua, eyes wide in confusion. shang qinghua might as well be speaking to him in latin. ]
What do you mean?
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No matter how fantastical the world, there is reality in fiction. You say that you know nothing about life, yet how can that be? A man who doesn't understand the beauty of human life wouldn't be driven to the dark depths of seeking retribution. Those children's lives were cut viciously short, but they left you a gift more blessed than any other.
[ to be surrounded by and a part of the very human life he spent so long undermining. to feel the sting of loss. to experience life at its best and its worst, probably in such a short span of time for this pitiable man.
shang qinghua sighs. ]
You don't write to talk about others. As a writer, the reality in your words come from your heart. Sir, no matter what you were in the past, the life you lead now is incredibly human.
no subject
[ there's a sudden bitterness in oda's words, his gaze suddenly cold. it's more than obvious that what shang qinghua just said hurt him deeply, like salt on his wound. ]
I watched them be blown up in front of my eyes. I saw their corpses-- you think that's a gift? You think I'm blessed? Of course you'd be able to say that when you still have a family with you, real or not-- you know nothing about what I went through.
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I . . . I didn't mean to offend. This one spoke thoughtlessly.
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[ oda's gaze softens, but he immediately glances away out of shame for his own actions.
he's already messed this up, huh... ]
It's not your fault. [ oda sighs ] Maybe you're right, actually. I just...don't know how to do it--how to see it like that.
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When you hold a pen, do no words come to mind at all? What you write down for the first time will not always be good. This is expected. What matters is that you write something, even if it doesn't make sense.
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[ oda hesitates, still unable to look back at sqh ]
I had something I once wanted to write but...if I try now I can't think of anything. My mind becomes blank.
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When I wrote, it was to vent my strong feelings at the time. A mind that's simply blank is . . .
[ he trails off, his head lowering before it snaps back up. ]
You need inspiration.