Say something

I used to read, not to write. To write means a lot more than mere to talk. When I talk, I don’t care much about what I am talking; or when I care, it is already too late. But I do care what I write, for the words remain, and the follies mark.

Yet time is that I have to write. I have to publish. Gladly I have  papers accepted, however, compared to others, the number is negligible. Years and years of work is needed to pile up my articles.

That is why I am in anxiety. I read, write, think, revise, everyday, and to no end. Reading and understanding is not even half of the job I need to do; to elucidate and distribute something new, some really good information, is important.

I have read numerous papers. Some good, a lot mediocre, a few bad. Bad in design, bad in writing. I have not produced work that I can be proud of, however, the bar has been raised high, my taste has become rather fine. I hope this taste will not inhibit me from doing daily boring jobs.

Say something, do something, everyday, and finally I could publish something really worthy.

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