小说写了三十年,三十年还在泥泞跋涉中,其间滋味只有自己清楚。去年的秋天,树叶开始飘落的时候,抑制不住有些伤感,那些伤感来自文学,也来自生活本身。我从县里的一个部门调到市级文联,感到诸多不适应,其中最为主要的就是舍弃一种熟悉,去重新构建新的生活,自然有些寂寥。记得那个秋天,还有整个冬天,我一直走在一条河边,常常一个人走着,灯光斑斓了流动的波纹,摇碎了灯光,也摇碎了一种映照,还有凄惶的心情。那时候就常常想,人这一辈子,究竟有多少时间是为自己活着?三十年,鸡零狗碎,都在跟文学较劲,五十岁开始,为文学活着, The novel has been written thirty years, thirty years still muddy trekking, during which taste only their own clear. Last autumn, leaves began to fall, unable to suppress some sad, those sad from the literature, but also from life itself. I transferred from a department of the county to the municipal Federation of Literary and Art Circles, feel a lot of not fit, the most important thing is to give up a familiar, to rebuild a new life, naturally lonely. I remember that autumn, as well as the winter, I have been walking in a river, often walking alone, the flow of colorful light ripples, shattered the lights, but also shattered a reflection, as well as the mood of panic. At that time, I often thought that in my whole life, how much time would I live for myself? For thirty years, all the time, I was struggling with literature, starting from the age of 50, living for literature,