“You can write following your heart, or take a sharper, more intense approach. You can even try a smoother, more utilitarian style. I remember you once said that talent in writing isn’t formed in a day. Can you really expect these essays to flow naturally like eating or drinking, that picking up a bowl means you understand how to eat? No—you have to write. Since writing is necessary, why sit here and daydream? Just write. Only when you put it on paper will you know if it works, if it’s good.”
Xie Yan paused, stunned, and this time it lasted longer. Slowly, his eyes regained their light, and a smile appeared on his face.
“You’re right. I’ve been too impatient, too greedy. I thought that if I wrote well, I could take a break, quickly find a direction to study. Before going to the prefectural academy, I had chosen my direction. But writing, as you said just now, isn’t solved by thinking—it may seem clear, yet once you write, there are always ambiguities.
“This time I was rash. I wanted Mr. Cui’s guidance to immediately put me on the right path and never make mistakes again. That was wrong. I forgot: writing good essays is half the result of reading many good works and half from reading many flawed works. Comparing both, I can discern quality and absorb the essence. Yet I’m unwilling to leave any regrets for myself, always chasing perfection. That’s wrong. I’ve been too proud.”
Lu Yang listened, feeling both comforted and tender toward him.
The process of refining oneself is painful. No one can do it for him; he has no prior experience. Every step is exploratory, uncertain if right or wrong.
He could be excited at finding a direction, or anxious and confused about which path to take. Lu Yang couldn’t make the decisions for him—he could only stay beside him, act as a page for him to record his thoughts, feel his impatience and uncertainty, and guide him with words he had spoken when resolute.
Pride is a double-edged sword; Lu Yang hoped he wouldn’t overly suppress or deny himself because of it.
He said to Xie Yan, “I’ve met sour scholars, but you’re more endearing. I like talking with you. Before, you didn’t really seem like a scholar. The first time I noticed your seriousness was when you were copying books at the vernacular study hall. I watched you from the window—you were so earnest, so captivating. I really liked it.”
Xie Yan couldn’t help but sit up straighter.
Lu Yang, seeing him eager as if waiting for more praise, continued: “You’re so young, with such talent and a photographic memory—this is something to be proud of. I’m proud of you too.”
Xie Yan relaxed a little. “When I wrote and studied before, I didn’t think so much. Recently, my desire for results and impatience distracted me from maintaining a calm mind beyond writing.”
At this, a spark of realization hit him.
He told Lu Yang, “Today, I spoke with my teachers about exam essays. I said how essays should be written, focusing tightly on the topic and its essence, not thinking outside or beyond the text. I spoke convincingly and even taught others, yet I made a mistake—my thoughts weren’t about the essay itself but about things beyond it. I was truly confused.”
Understanding dawned on him. He wanted to record his thoughts from today, so Lu Yang let go of his hand, giving him space to write.
“I’m thirsty. I’ll go to the kitchen for pear soup, then come back to keep you company.”
Xie Yan nodded. “Please come back quickly. Without you, I feel unsettled.”
Lu Yang promised and left the room. Outside in the courtyard, he looked at the sky—change was coming; not a single star was visible. He poured himself some pear soup, rinsed his mouth and washed his face, then returned. Soon enough, Xie Yan set down his brush.
His thoughts flowed freely; he wrote clearly and smoothly, his mood lifted, his face radiant. Upon seeing Lu Yang, he hugged him and kissed him twice, each with a distinct “pop” sound.
Lu Yang, feeling cold, suggested soaking their feet, so Xie Yan quickly fetched water.
Sitting together with their feet in warm water, Lu Yang looked at Xie Yan’s draft papers. His thoughts were smooth, and his study plans for the near future were outlined, which made Lu Yang shake his head slightly.
“Ah Yan, you’re not suited to making rigid schedules. You always lose track of time, forget to read, take notes endlessly. Just follow your direction—speed doesn’t matter. Unlike me, I plan a year, complete tasks one by one, and adjust gradually. You don’t need to schedule every day; otherwise, unfinished tasks will stress you out.”
Xie Yan listened. “Then I’ll adjust!”
After soaking their feet, Xie Yan went to fetch water and rinse. He returned to the room, snuggled into the blanket with Lu Yang, and leaned against the kang cabinet while reading together.
They looked at two volumes of letters. One had been brought back earlier by Li Feng, and Lu Yang had written short replies, with longer ones on additional sheets.
Xie Yan hadn’t seen them for a long time. Today, Lu Yang showed them to him.
He read the later writings, noting the Mid-Autumn reflections.
Seeing Lu Yang add marginal notes, Xie Yan found it adorable.
This notebook recorded his emotional journey at the prefectural academy. He had intended to share his feelings with Lu Yang and unexpectedly recorded his path along the way.
Moved to tears, Xie Yan wiped his eyes and turned to hug Lu Yang.
“I said I can’t be without you. Without you, I wouldn’t understand the things I do.”
Lu Yang stopped him from belittling himself. “No, you can do it. You’re just impatient because I’m here.”
Xie Yan insisted, “I just can’t be without you. Tell me you won’t leave me.”
What could Lu Yang do? Of course, he obliged.
After putting the notebooks aside, Xie Yan muttered that writing this way was convenient, more readable than letters, and fun for notes and comments.
Once in bed, he recited: “Knowledge comes with action, and action perfects knowledge. I’m still too inexperienced.”
Lu Yang, yawning, teased: “My top scholar is of course inexperienced.”
Xie Yan hugged him, laughing: “My little husband is also inexperienced!”
Lu Yang was the “great husband.”
Xie Yan added: “The great husband is also inexperienced.”
Lu Yang teased, “How many husbands do you have?”
Xie Yan replied firmly: “Only you!”
Lu Yang was satisfied.
No more idle chatter that night; Xie Yan, excited, kept hugging and kissing him. Lu Yang, not busy recently, allowed it, intertwining with him, taking the simple joy of their life together.
Lu Yang wanted to conceive a child, feeling their future child would be clever. Thinking of this, he smiled. Since Xie Yan said this year’s “seed” was bad, he didn’t insist—he didn’t want a dull child to frustrate him.
By mid-September, it rained.
Li Feng and the others didn’t go up the mountain; the drying field work was paused. They gathered around the long table in the small shop, listening to Hu the healer explain various methods of processing medicinal herbs.
