Just give birth to pickles

What would you think if I told you that the vast majority of authors' stories were not written by themselves?

I know the inside story because I was one of those authors too, and I'm afraid to use that method anymore.Because, I almost died from it.

This method is not unusual, that is, planting.

The methods and steps of the planting stories vary greatly depending on the author's habits. Some people write down the outline and bury it; some people only write a beginning, and then pour inspiration into the soil; The stories that grow when everything is revived in spring are full of vitality, but the stories that grow in winter are always chilling to the bone.Planted in the city, the story will exceed the standard metal, full of miasma.Also, the author can plant the story in the past, or even the future...

I once saw an author bury the body of a cat that was run over by a car in the soil in order to breed a story about dismemberment.In short, for the excitement of the story, the authors tried their best.

There is only one thing that everyone must abide by, and that is to harvest in time.

I touched a scar on my waist, and couldn't help but want to repeat: "It must be harvested in time."

In 2005, Jing Zhe, I planted a story, I don’t know what it is, I just remember that it was a short paragraph written in a green square exercise book with a pencil, the total is only half of the palm length.

After planting it, I guard it every day, hoping to harvest a story that is different and praised by adults.I was only in primary school at that time, and I always stayed on the balcony after school, stepping on a small bench and watching it quietly.

At that time, adults laughed at me: "Your story can't grow."

I don't believe it.

Then why did I believe it again?Probably because after I went to junior high school, I learned in textbooks that the germination rate of seeds is not [-]%, and many seeds will rot in the soil. Even if they grow out, there is a high possibility of premature death.

Later, I left the township and went to school in the city. During this period, I buried a lot of story outlines, but none of them were supported by me.I also tried to write on paper myself, but it was too boring.You must know that the things planted will have a mysterious beauty, and the inner fullness and results of the story are beyond the author's expectation, which is like a kind of competitive gambling.

When I had forgotten all about the story I planted at home, someone from my hometown told me that my story had grown out and was as big as a football.It was a surprise that fell from the sky. I was so happy that I rolled on the bed several times. My mother seemed very indifferent to the fact that my story grew out. She said to me impatiently: "Then you can go back to read it in the summer vacation." , I don’t know what you’re excited about.”

But I ran back secretly before the summer vacation, because... my grandma called and told me that they were going to stab my story and burn it.I anxiously asked why, but the other side sighed and did not speak again.

When I walked to the head of the village, I saw the fruit of the story at a glance.It seemed to swell rapidly in a short period of time, and it was not as big as the football originally described. It took up half of the wall and hung like a deformed sarcoma.It is hard to imagine that the fruit of a vegetation will have the texture of animal skin.

A lot of people gathered around the old house, I squeezed in and observed it up close.Instead of growing upwards, its branches went down through the concrete balcony, which must have taken so much time that I didn't notice any signs of it until I moved.But now, its branches and leaves are extraordinarily luxuriant outside the wall, but compared to that huge spherical object, they are as fine as a hair, and that spherical object moves slightly, which is indescribably weird.

The old village head led a group of people to stand at the front, and there were a few people lying on the balcony on the second floor.When the village chief gave his life, these people took the harpoon and poked it down.The sphere burst, and green slurry poured out, drenching all the people present. Those who raised their heads and opened their mouths were the most pitiful, and they all bent down and vomited.

The fruit that spewed out the thick slurry did not collapse, and one dark wing stretched out, and two, three... densely packed black young birds fell to the ground.

Someone has already jumped in the fields.

I didn't move, what kind of story was I writing?It's so disgusting and devoid of substance, those misshapen birds even have a human leg, they hop around and call people mommy everywhere.

That's not all, a dragon came out of the fruit, its claws pierced my waist, and I was easily lifted to the sky.I thought this way at the time: Why do manuscripts grow out of other people's fruits, while real animals grow out of my fruits? Could it be that stories that have not been harvested for too long will become fine?

As for why I survived...

Of course, because every story with a dragon has a dragon-slaying knight.When the knight brought the dragon down and rescued me from its claws, he took it for granted that I should give him a deep kiss and tell him I was his.

I held my bleeding abdomen, looked at his dark blue irises, and spat out a mouthful of blood.

I really hope that in the story I wrote at the beginning, there is a girl who is the destined lover of the knight, who is rescued by the knight, and then lives happily together.But when I was recuperating, I kept guarding the damaged fruit skin like a broken nylon bag, and I never saw any girls falling out of it.

There is no love in the articles written by elementary school students, which is really terrible.

I was lying on the bed in the old house and drank Chinese medicine three times a day. What was more bitter than that was the kiss of a knight.

I am a man!

The author has something to say:

This story tells us:

Plant a wish for a boyfriend in spring, but don’t worry if you don’t grow a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.

One day something will grow out.