他拿着笔,颤颤巍巍地写下第一句话:一个小说家趴在家里的茶几上写自己的故事。他状似不经意地偷瞄了桌角的墨水瓶一眼,忽然不知道怎么写了。怎么写?说作家其实不想写?不不不,作家一定要写这个故事的,他一定要这么写的。所以他咬着牙继续:作家写了好多东西,用掉了好多稿纸,但是故事没写完,墨水也没……见鬼,稿纸又被笔尖勾破了。这没关系。他在心里努力安慰自己:没关系的。他把稿纸揉成一团扔掉。白色的一团一蹦一跳滚到桌 With his pen, he wrote the first sentence quivering: a novelist lying on the coffee table at home to write his own story. He looked like a casual peeking at the corner of the ink bottle, suddenly did not know how to write. How to write? Said that writers actually do not want to write? No no no, writers must write this story, he must write so. So he bit his teeth to continue: The writer wrote a lot of things, spent a lot of manuscript paper, but the story did not finish, the ink did not ... ... hell, manuscripts and the pen has been broken. it does not matter. He tried hard to comfort himself: it does not matter. He rubbed the manuscript into a ball A group of white jumped to the table