Bringing Beauty To Infinity

  I am a writer, writing was my dream, then my livelihood, and then my lingering nightmare.

   I'm not a writer in the traditional sense, I'm an emerging internet writer.

   To be precise, I am a web writer.

  In the era of the large-scale popularization of the Internet, the profession of online writer came into being. And I am the leader of this group, commonly known as the Great God.

  The day I walked out of school, my dream of writing made me join the army of online writers without hesitation. At that time, I had nothing but a laptop.

  My first book, in the new book period, rushed to the overall ranking of the website, and later it was sold on the shelves, published, and copyrighted. Everything went smoothly beyond imagination.

   Then came the second and third books, each of which had millions of subscriptions, the copyright of each book was snapped up, and each book brought me a lot of money.

   Later, my books needed to be pre-ordered, and even the number of pre-orders reached 18, and the speed of my coding was like an avalanche, growing rapidly and firmly.

   I have tens of millions of fans while getting paid for money, what a wonderful thing, isn't it?

   That time, even when I think about it now, I feel—how should I put it—like the best cigar between my fingers, exuding a touch of warmth.

   However, when writing lost the halo of a dream and became a burden that had to be done, I got tired of it.

   So, after finishing the pre-ordered book, I announce the closing of the pen.

  At the same time, in order to stop being occupied by novels, I chose to travel.

   But I am sad to find that I can't escape the world I knit by myself.

  I was drinking wine and watching beauties on the most prosperous Jinding Street in the world, and a new movie trailer was being broadcast on the big screen on the street. I smiled, it was a science fiction film, adapted from my tenth book;

  I was watching the tide by the turbulent Liusha River, and people shouted excitedly in my ears: The tide is coming! Let's see if there are any tidehead beasts! I shook my head, the story of the tide beast came from my nineteenth book, a novel of self-cultivation;

   I was watching the sunrise on the top of the beautiful Nanshan Mountain, blowing the cold wind. The big stone behind me was engraved with a line of words: A certain year, month, day, and day at the top of Nanshan Mountain. I sigh, the allusions to the Nanshan martial arts come from my sixth book, a martial arts novel;

   I sat in a city cafe, the piano piece played on the stage was named after my fifteenth book, it was a romance novel, I was silent;

   I was walking on the country road, the children after school ran by laughing, the fantasy novel in my hand was my third book, and I was speechless;

   I want to use games to numb myself, but popular online games are all adapted from my novels. . . . . .

   Slowly, I don’t want to be in contact with people anymore.

  I was walking in a deserted tropical desert.

  Dive deep in the open waters away from the coast.

   Borrowed in isolated primitive tribes.

   Trekking on untouched mountains.

   I avoided the hustle and bustle of the crowd at a distance, in fact, I wanted to avoid my novels.

   But I can't escape myself. When I'm alone, I'm obsessed with plotting the plot, and I can't help myself.

   Such days have passed for three years.

  Three years later, I finally understand that no matter where I am, there is no escape from my novel, so I decided to face it.

   I changed my pseudonym, changed my website, and started all over again. It took me a year to go from a newcomer to a new book to becoming a website **** again.

  I changed my pseudonym again, and then changed my website. It only took me half a year to become a **** this time.

  …

  I stopped traveling, I sat in front of the computer, and quickly ate myself into a fat man.

   Even so, my fingers are still flexible, and when I jump on the keyboard, it is like a elf dancing in the moonlight.

   The characters I typed out seemed to have some kind of magic power, and the words they condensed into were born with the power to move people’s hearts.

   My book is selling more and more every day.

   My fandom is getting bigger every day.

   But I am more and more confused every day.

  I swear, I hate novels, I hate everything related to novels, I don’t want to listen, I don’t want to read, I don’t want to think, and I don’t want to write novels.

   But what I heard, saw, and thought were all novels.

   But I still keep writing novels.

  Fiction kidnapped my life, what should I do?