Chapter 110: My Hand Is Cut, But I Still Wrote Ten Thousand Words Today—I

My hand was cut, but I still wrote ten thousand words today; this time, I’m asking for monthly votes with full justification.

At noon, I was slicing meat with a thin, long knife and cut the fleshy part of my left middle finger, about one-third of a centimeter deep.

My first thought was: damn, I just posted, and if I get diarrhea in a couple days and can’t write ten thousand words, now I’ve cut my hand—this time, I definitely can’t keep going.

But wouldn’t readers think I’m faking it if I say this?

It probably isn’t that incredible, right?

But I didn’t have time to think more, because my hand was covered in animal fat—I immediately placed it under the kitchen sink, pulled hard down my arm to squeeze out blood, trying to expel dirt from the wound (recommended by Da Yi Ling Ran: this trick taught me by surgical history).

At the time, the sink was full of blood, but I couldn’t post that picture.

Then I stuck on a band-aid and rushed to the hospital; by then, my thoughts had become clearer.

Writing ten thousand words can be interrupted, but this upward trend in performance is too critical—I must treat this properly, heal the wound quickly, and resume writing ten thousand words as soon as possible.

Bandaged, tetanus shot—the doctor was professional: first a skin test, then the injection.

Hmm, as I received the shot, I realized: human fear of needles forms in childhood, and this psychological mechanism lasts a lifetime.

Sigh.

I’m not begging for sympathy; while being bandaged, I told the doctor: “My job requires typing—please wrap it thinly, thank you.”

When I got home at night, I thought I’d just write six thousand words and call it good.

But sitting in front of the computer, I didn’t want to write only six thousand words anymore.

A few days ago, when I announced the bonus rule—adding one extra chapter per rank rise—a reader asked, “Aren’t you going to kill yourself?”

Chang’an answered: “I want to change my fate.”

Sitting at the computer, Chang’an thought of Yulou, and of the detailed outline already written.

Yulou must cultivate the Sui Mai Gui Shui Qi through suffering, step by step, to achieve his great endeavor.

What about me?

As the author, what about me?

When heaven is about to bestow a great responsibility—

The fragrance of plum blossoms comes from bitter cold—

Sigh.

I’m such an East Asian self-PUA superhero.

Then, from just after six p.m. until past midnight, I didn’t dare touch my phone, didn’t even fish once, and wrote exactly ten thousand words.

At first, the gauze the doctor wrapped around my left middle finger made it easy to accidentally press four or five keys at once, slowing me down.

But where there’s a will, there’s a way; after writing over an hour, I adapted to the rhythm of having half my left hand disabled.

Slow and steady, if you keep going, you’ll arrive—little by little, I completed another ten-thousand-word day.