If you’re thinking — “What’s this writing section about? Isn’t she a designer? Why am I seeing this?” Here’s why.
If design is my bread and butter, then writing and reading are more than food to me — they’re my soul food.
Some of my best childhood memories revolve around reading with my mom. Our home was filled with books, and my mom was, and still is, an avid and incredibly fast reader. She was a wonderful storyteller too; I still remember her being the best “story mom” for my class when I was in first grade.
I remember our visits to the local library with my mom and brother, reading through every picture book I could find and drooling over the delicious-looking food in them. My mom also wrote stories of her own, though she never shared them. I’m sure they were great.
When I was six, I started writing an adventure novel about a boy named William and his sidekick searching for treasure. I never finished it, but the spark it lit never went away. I wanted to become an English literature writer since I was six — little did I know I would actually go on to study English literature in college.
I only began writing in English in 2019, and below are a few pieces I truly enjoyed creating. I hope you like them too.
I’ve also included a Mandarin version of my story. Part of me hopes my mom will one day stumble across this by accident and see how much she has inspired me and how much I love her. (Of course, I can’t tell her directly — it’s a bit too raw for most Asian parents to hear how deeply their kids love them!)
如果你心裡正想著：「咦？這個寫作區是什麼？她不是設計師嗎？為什麼會看到這個？」
原因如下：
如果設計是我的生活主食，那麼寫作和閱讀對我來說不只是食物 —— 它們是滋養靈魂的心靈糧食。
我童年最美好的回憶之一，就是和我媽一起閱讀。我們家從小就充滿了書，而我媽以前是、現在也是一位超級愛看書、閱讀速度驚人的人。她也是一位很會說故事的人；我還記得一年級時，她是當我們班最棒的「故事媽媽」。
我記得小時候跟媽媽和哥哥一起去圖書館，把所有能找到的圖畫書看過一遍，還看著童話書裡那些好吃的食物流口水。我媽以前也會寫故事，雖然她從來沒有分享過，但我相信那些故事一定很棒。
我六歲時開始寫一本冒險小說，主角是一個叫 William 的男孩，和他的好朋友一起尋寶。雖然最後沒寫完，但那個創作的火花一直都在。我從六歲就想當英國文學家，沒想到最後真的去念了英國文學系。
我一直到 2019 年才開始用英文寫作，下面放的是我個人很喜歡的短篇作品，希望你也會喜歡。這個中文版是特別寫給我媽，因為我心裡偷偷希望，有一天當她不經意看到這篇，會了解她對我深厚的影響，還有我對她的愛。（當然我不可能直接跟她說哈哈，因為對她來說可能太赤裸了！）
It’s hardly brain surgery
“What did the doctors say?”
Robert hesitated. The words had formed so easily in his mind during the car ride, but now, sitting across from Maureen at the kitchen table with her warm hands wrapped around a vintage coffee mug, they refused to come out.
“Nothing big,” he finally said, his voice casual, though his stomach did a 360 flip. “Just something near my left ear. A small growth, I guess. They’ll need to do a minor surgery to remove it.”
Maureen’s eyebrows knit together. “Inside your head?” She leaned forward. “So… brain surgery?”
“It’s hardly brain surgery,” Robert chuckled, trying to hide the urge to vomit. “I’ll be home the same day.”
“Oh, Robert…” Maureen’s face crumpled. She pressed her hands to her mouth.
Only then did Robert truly see her. She looked more fragile than he remembered. Thirty-five years together, and those wrinkles now seemed to hold every laugh, every late-night whisper, every shared sorrow.
Robert reached across the table, stroking her knuckles. “Let’s go to bed, my love,” he said softly, rising and circling the table to pull her into an embrace. His arm slid around her narrow shoulders. She felt so small, so breakable.
“It’s hardly brain surgery.” He kissed her forehead.
Hugging trees
We drove along Route 66, out of Kansas and all the way west. Philip stared straight at the road ahead, his hands relaxed at the bottom of the wheel.
I was thinking about our kids, Jade and Ethan. They both live in California now.
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“We came from nothing,” my dead mom’s voice always echoed in my head. I grew up without a television, so I had no idea how poor we were. When you have nothing to compare yourself with, I guess that’s the ticket to happiness.
Silence filled the car. Neither of us wanted to turn the radio on. We were used to the quiet—in twenty years of marriage, there had been a lot of it. And we were comfortable with that.
The scenery hadn’t changed much. The same types of trees had been singing the same note for an hour. Their arms stretched wide, hugging each other as if afraid one of them might fall.
The day I left for college, my school counselor came to pick me up at 7 a.m. None of my family were home. Maybe they weren’t there on purpose—I don’t remember. That was thirty years ago. My mom and dad died consecutively over the past ten years, and my two brothers still live in the same old house we grew up in. I haven't seen or talked to them since the funeral.
“You okay?” Philip asked. I jumped.
“Sorry, hon—deep in thought?” he said apologetically.
“Yeah, just thinking about my two old brothers.”
“Oh, Barb,” he said, placing his hand on my knee.
“You know there’s nothing you can do about it, right? You’ve tried your very best,” he said tenderly.
Indeed, I had tried my best. I had called, mailed letters, and even once drove up to Connecticut to try to see them. But they didn’t want to see me. We were right outside the house—they just pretended they weren’t home. I knew both of them were there because I saw Charlie smoking his pipe from the attic window right before we walked up.
“Maybe they hold a grudge against you for leaving them behind,” Philip had said to me as we gave up on the forever-unanswered door and started walking back to the car. I had tears in my eyes, but I held them in until we were inside.
I can see that.
I can see why they’d resent me for leaving—but I would’ve resented them if I hadn’t. Sometimes, we have to make selfish decisions, or we cannot live.
I leave nothing behind. As the years go by, I keep telling myself that. I’ve been slowly, slowly hardening my heart and letting things go. There’s nothing I can do, not anymore.
“You’ll never be fully detached, Pancake—” Philip told me once, when I was sobbing into his chest. “You have such a tender heart, you know.”
The trees were still passing by outside the window. I wanted to move forward, to get rid of the same old trees—only to realize that I am one of them. I’m the one afraid of falling, so I stretch my arms wide to hold on to the rest. And they hold me back, too—so I’ll never leave them behind.
Jermane
The rain in Times Square resembled the heavy, descending words in Cloud Gate Dance Theatre’s About Island—not sharp enough to pierce the skin, yet maddening in its loneliness.
In a Times Square café, Saba’s lips opened and closed as he practiced telling stories no one would ever understand. His editor, sitting across from him, weary, mindlessly tore napkins into pieces.
In a darkroom in Taipei, a girl displayed her photography to this man she had only recently met. Schrödinger looked at the girl's tattoo and wondered: if today never came, would tomorrow still have yesterday?
All eyes followed Jermane as she danced, her dance moves made the world blur, like sipping wine while tasting a piece of daydream. Jermane was obsessed with dancing—not for the art, but to numb herself, hoping one day love wouldn’t hurt, hoping that all affection could be free of attachment and resentment.
Jermane, Schrödinger, and Saba had been friends since high school—once a group of eleven, then eight, then four. Their trio felt like either chance or fate.
The first time just the three of them met was on a day so cold it made the sky cry. Saba, trying to help Jermane through a depressive broke up, invited Schrödinger—who was on holiday from the military service—out for dinner.
“Maybe people on military service just have too much free time,” Jermane thought. “I’ve never seen this trio hang out together before.”
That day, Jermane made a flimsy, unconvincing resolution to leave the guy she was seeing; Schrödinger confessed to ending a year-long relationship and was now recklessly swiping through dating apps; Saba listened to their love lives and wanted to tear the house down.
Jermane always knew, deep down, she loved Schrödinger. They were so philosophically in sync—you understand me, I understand you. But they could never meet when both were single. Schrödinger soon found another partner, and Jermane entered a secret relationship of her own.
Saba? He was just discovering what love might feel like.