写作焦虑，见己为上

《写作如渡，见己为上》  

——兰溪夜话之一  

兰溪江畔，夜雨敲窗，常有写文的朋友向我诉苦，说笔下千钧重，一字一句都像是从焦虑的石磨里硬碾出来的。他们愁什么？愁自己的文章够不够得上“水平”，愁哪年哪月才能在那印着抬头的纸刊上见到姓名。  

By the banks of the Lanxi River, with night rain tapping on the window, friends who write often complain to me, saying their pen feels as heavy as a thousand weights, each word seemingly ground out from the millstone of anxiety. What worries them? They worry whether their writing is “good enough,” fret about when—if ever—their name will appear in those letterhead-bearing publications.  

这般焦虑，我倒是懂的。人说“再努力一把”，这话自然不错，却终究是隔靴搔痒。写作这件事，若只盯着“写得够不够好”，就如同把自己关进一间没有门的练功房，苦练一辈子，也未必寻得着出口。  

This kind of anxiety—I understand it well. People say, “Just work a little harder.” There’s truth in that, of course, but it ultimately scratches the surface. When it comes to writing, if one only focuses on “whether it’s good enough,” it’s like locking oneself in a practice room with no door. You might train tirelessly for a lifetime and still not find the way out.  

我们兰溪老话讲“树挪死，人挪活”。有时候，人得往后退一步，问问根子上的话：我为什么要写？写作于我，究竟是一块敲门砖，还是一条自己与自己的渡船？若只被“上刊”“获奖”牵着鼻子走，那写作者岂不成了追着自己尾巴转的困兽？  

There’s an old saying here in Lanxi: “A tree stays put and dies; a person moves and lives.” Sometimes, you have to take a step back and ask the most fundamental questions: Why do I write? What is writing to me—a stepping stone, or a ferry that carries me to myself? If all that matters is getting published or winning awards, doesn’t the writer become nothing more than a trapped animal chasing its own tail?  

在我看来，好文章固然需要技艺锤炼，但归根结底，它是从心里长出来的。一个人的文字，有没有生命，不在于它被印在什么地方，而在于它是否真诚，是否见了自己的心性和血肉。写作的意义，或许不在于抵达别人的认可，而在于照亮自己的生命。  

In my view, good writing certainly requires technical skill, but in the end, it grows from the heart. Whether a person’s words have life doesn’t depend on where they are printed, but on their sincerity, on whether they reveal one’s true nature and essence. The meaning of writing may not lie in gaining others’ approval, but in illuminating one’s own life.  

当你这样想，焦虑自然就淡了。写作不再是悬在头顶的尺子，而成为可以安放生命的土地。你还在写，却不再慌；仍求好，却不惧败。因为笔在你手中，路在你脚下，你就是自己唯一的尺度。  

When you think this way, the anxiety naturally fades. Writing is no longer a ruler hanging over your head—it becomes ground where life can take root. You still write, but without the panic; you still strive for excellence, but without fear of failure. For the pen is in your hand, the road lies at your feet, and you are your only true measure.