I originally planned to complete this novel in a year, but unexpectedly it took nearly triple that time. These not quite three years sometimes felt like bitter seasons with endless days, yet at other times passed like a white colt glimpsed through a crack, gone in an instant.
When writing this novel, I was experiencing the most difficult period of my life thus far. My life had been simple and peaceful before, surrounded by smiling faces, and encountering the darkness of human nature mostly through books and imagination. When I began writing “The Fate of Lan Xiang,” I was truly starting to read the great book of society, and my career began with storms, several times pushing me to where I could retreat no further. I remember that Spring Festival when I visited my alma mater’s old principal and casually mentioned some work issues. The principal’s gaze suddenly turned sympathetic as they said: “You’re just beginning, every day is torment – what will you do in the future?” I hadn’t thought I’d mentioned anything serious, just daily conversation, but this show of concern immediately brought tears to my eyes. Later, an elder with considerable experience and social status told me: “Many people experience such storms in life, you’re just facing them a bit early at your age.”
Whether early or late, I’m not sure, but as Lao Tzu said: “Misfortune lurks in fortune, fortune lies in misfortune.” Looking back now, great personal advancement rarely comes from self-discipline, but often from external challenges. I tasted the bitterness of being marginalized and surrounded by malice, the taste of being unable to defend myself against accusations, the taste of taking blame while others stole credit, the taste of being schemed against and framed amid mutual infighting. I saw the evil in human nature and understood that some things can’t be achieved through sheer effort and that desperate struggling doesn’t always bring turning points. This was when I felt most confused and lost. Every night, exhausted after doing the work of two or three people, I would start writing “The Fate of Lan Xiang” and constantly ponder: What is true strength and maturity? Is it developing extreme sophistication and depth, having the mindset and means to fear no schemes and even scheme back – is this success? No matter how satisfyingly my novel characters sought vengeance, when reality fell on me, the thought of becoming an abuser like those who harmed me, returning ten feet for every inch of scheming, engaging in endless fighting – using this to protect myself – felt very painful. Amid this contradiction and confusion, I struggled to continue the novel’s outline.
What should one do? I began to contemplate questions like “Who am I? Where do I come from? Where am I going?” Everyone has their moral principles, their gray areas where good and evil blur. I wanted to find ultimate guidance for my actions. I read some philosophy books and began deeply engaging with religion, then I encountered Buddhism.
This might be what Jimmy Liao meant by “Meeting the most beautiful surprise in the deepest despair.” Encountering Buddhism was my greatest fortune. Buddhist scriptures contain endless wisdom and dialectics, like a bright lamp suddenly illuminating a thousand-year-dark room.
Through Buddhist scriptures, I began to understand that ultimate strength and maturity lie in harmony and generosity, in compassion and forgiveness, in holding fast to inner goodness, in being able to let go of self-interest and attachment, in being like an alum in suffering and evil – helping it settle rather than being a stick that stirs it up. Quick vengeance is easy; compassion and tolerance are hard. That’s why people easily appreciate confrontation and the satisfaction of “repaying debts a thousand-fold,” but rarely understand tolerance, willing loss, or even returning kindness for enmity. Perhaps today’s society makes many people fearful, only able to accept competitive and vicious living, needing to rapidly arm themselves with schemes as armor for entering cruel society, unable to accept the traditional virtuous way of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, faith, and modesty. They remain suspicious, so novels dismiss such characters as “saint-like” or “naive,” warning people to maintain vigilance in relationships, either retaliating or showing appropriate affection after fully weighing self-interest.
Returning to “The Fate of Lan Xiang,” after Buddhist cleansing, I wrote with much more certainty. If Lin Jin Lou is this novel’s spirit, Chen Xiang Lan is its soul. The people I met and the things I saw all became material for this novel. Lin Jin Lou was easy to grasp, sharing many traits with my character, and outgoing characters are always vivid and easy to write. Chen Xiang Lan was more difficult – introspective protagonists are always very subtle. I wanted to write a protagonist as delicate yet resilient as an orchid, like the “Kongzi Jiayu” says: “Orchids grow in deep valleys, fragrant whether seen or not; the noble person cultivates virtue, unchanging despite hardship.” Blooming most beautifully from the most common and lowly circumstances.
When Xiang Lan first appeared, she was like most novel heroines – having experienced hardships, defensive and sharp-tongued, returning barbs without mercy, hopeful for the future. With unreliable parents, wanting to escape generational servitude and marrying servants, she entered the Lin household. Like every newcomer to the workplace, she wanted to work hard, find backing (good superiors or middle management), earn respect, and ultimately achieve her goals, but reality rarely cooperates. Popular heroines today are often iron ladies who, whatever they face, remain either optimistic or extraordinarily strong, quickly recovering with gritted teeth – as if weakness and tears make one a “fragile flower.” Those who write this way likely haven’t experienced true despair, so they can describe it lightly. I prefer to show the timidity and helplessness during tribulation, the tears and fragility, the fear of an unknown future, and the breakdown when “everyone understands principles but can’t control small emotions” – just human nature, nothing shameful.
Jiang Hui Yun was a character I deliberately chose. If given the protagonist’s halo, she would be a popularly appealing figure – realistic, rational, skilled in worldly means, good at speaking and pleasing others, getting along with everyone, and kind to friends while never hesitating to strike opponents. Though kind-hearted, when things conflict with absolute self-interest, kindness can be reasonably discounted, excused by “I’m not a saint.” Most people are such “neither good nor bad” types who consider themselves righteous – very typical. These two characters represent different values and, ultimately different mindsets. The former thinks of “me,” “my benefits, face, position,” “my future comfort,” and “better them than me”; the latter thinks not just of “me” but also “them,” “whether my actions will hurt others,” “I see others’ difficulties, so I’m willing to lose and forgive.” Different thinking modes lead to intense conflict when they face unavoidable challenges that tear through harmonious interactions. Tribulation is often a test that can either destroy or make a person – either dragged down by murky reality, tainted by self-righteousness and excuses, or remaining kind after seeing all ugliness, willingly sacrificing to preserve purity.
This is what I wanted to express. Through repeated trials of character facing death and rebirth, the protagonist sheds bloated pride and illusions, moving from sharp words to non-contention, soft speech, becoming increasingly humble, calm, and profound, understanding compassion and courage through experience, emerging from the mire without resentment or blame, possessing religious-like openness and freedom, letting the world appear honestly and peacefully before her eyes. Her status rises from lowly to noble, but her character moves from pride to humility, always bowing by earth and dust, without a trace of flamboyance or sharpness, only gentle inclusiveness. This is the meaning and ideal behind creating this character.
Some readers complained about Xiang Lan’s later transformation, while others offered sincere praise – it depends on the personal breadth of mind, aesthetic taste, and life experience. As for me, I’m satisfied with telling the story according to my vision.
Interestingly, as Xiang Lan’s circumstances improved in the story, my work situation also improved. After observing me for a time, several superiors supported me against the opposition. I moved to a better place with my own office, and my current superior is a generous, humorous scholarly leader. Looking back, Buddha’s teachings helped me respect karma and get through those difficult times. This strengthened my belief that results gained through schemes, even if obtained, are either quickly lost or imperfect; but step-by-step adherence to conscience with patience, though seemingly disadvantageous, will ultimately bring the most complete karmic reward.
After “The Fate of Lan Xiang,” I probably won’t write such a long novel again, nor likely write about ancient settings. My next book will be set in the Republic era, a story I’ve held for a long, and after that, I might try modern settings. I’m not a professional writer and have no grand ambitions – I’m content if each book helps me break through and progress somewhat.
“The Fate of Lan Xiang” truly ends here. Completing this book feels like finishing a spiritual practice. I thank the readers who accompanied me, especially those from Yan Shan Private Residence and He Yan Shan Manor who gave me the firmest support and help in my most difficult times. Making connections through a novel is the best gift from writing this book.
After all this rambling, finally, I want to share Master Kuan Ru’s teaching that moved me to tears in the temple when I heard it during my most confused period like clarity poured into my mind:
No matter how difficult circumstances are, don’t give up – be patient, and preserve good karma.
No matter how treacherous the environment is, don’t give up being a pure good person.
In the rolling red dust, persist in being clear-minded.
In the flood of materialism, persist in being clean.
When everyone says human hearts are unfathomable, persist in believing in human goodness.
When propriety and music fail, hold fast to inner morality and ideals.
When all call me foolish, persist in viewing the world with a simple heart and innocent eyes.
Persist in your spirit and beliefs, even if persistence leaves you alone.
That’s all.
Thank you, everyone, from the bottom of my heart.
Dawn, July 14, 2014