These are experiments in writing across languages: some are ideas I gave myself an hour to finish, others came out of writing jams.
Writing in a language that isn’t my first keeps me away from extra adjectives and emotional coloring. The stories move through what the characters do, and dialogue carries the bonds between them. Verbs become a game’s interactions; nouns become its art and settings.
Since 2025, fragments of stories have been finding me: along the river in Savannah, at a campus bus stop, in an airport in Shanghai, on a crowded New York subway. I catch them in the cracks of busy days and develop them from there.
Why are they all named Row? Friends often ask whether it is an IP. I don’t really know. I just can’t write a story that doesn’t belong to him. It feels like one boy living many lives at once. Or perhaps everyone is one person living through different things: strangers, still intertwined like roots underground.
That is everything I know about Row so far. I hope to find the answer as I keep writing.
这里是一些跨语言写作的实验:有些是给自己 1 小时完成的想法,有些来自 writing jam。
用非母语写作,让我远离多余的形容词和情绪渲染。故事依靠人物的行动推进,台词承载人物之间的羁绊。动词成为游戏的交互,名词成为游戏美术的场景。
从 2025 年开始,一些故事的片段陆续找到了我:萨凡纳的河边、学校的巴士站台、上海的机场、拥挤的纽约地铁。我在忙碌生活的缝隙里把它们捕捉下来,再慢慢发展。
为什么它们都叫 Row?是 IP 设计吗?朋友们常这样问。我自己也不知道,只是写不出不属于 Row 的故事。像是一个男孩同时生活在很多地方;又或者,世界上的每个人其实都是同一个人,在经历不同的事情。人与人尽管陌生,却像地下的树根一样交错在一起。
这是我目前所知道的关于 Row 的全部。期待在更多尝试中,找到答案。
The soldier endures countless hardships, struggling with an unwavering will to survive on the open water.
But when he finally drifts back to his hometown and sees his family again, he realizes the truth — he has already died.
Row, once a patient with delusional disorder, has finally recovered. But the side effects of being cured have only just begun.
At the clinic, the doctor, his family, and friends congratulate him. A diagnosis form of “Recovered from Delusional Disorder” is handed to him. Row returns to his normal life, but a quiet emptiness follows him everywhere.
During another ordinary day, he keeps thinking about the cause of his illness — his imaginary girlfriend. After work, he goes to their usual café, drinks coffee alone, and watches children swinging in the park. But she never appears again.
That night, when he returns home, he suddenly begins to cry. This is the true side effect of being cured.
Row is a lonely, eccentric man living alone in an old building. Every day, he lowers a basket from his window with notes asking for help. Passersby sometimes respond, sometimes ignore him. People start to wonder: Who lives up there?
Day after day, the same lonely rope hangs from the fourth floor — carrying strange messages, small requests, and bits of payment. Over time, the rope grows longer, digging into the ground. At its end, Row meets a tree, a mole, and finally the Earth’s core — and in the end, he becomes a tree himself.
A boy named Row loves one of his mother’s paintings more than anything. He dreams of living inside it one day.
Carrying the painting, he leaves home and begins to wander — searching for places in the real world that resemble the scenery within the frame, hoping to find the entrance to the painted world.
Along the way, he jumps into ponds, crosses bridges holding lotus leaves, and finally reaches the edge of the painting. There, the painted world becomes real, and his parents turn into figures inside a painting. In the end, he steps into another canvas — returning to reality.
Row is an astronomer. After graduation, when humanity stops exploring space, he loses his job.
To continue observing celestial data, he moves to a small town and takes on a strange task — writing obituaries for dying stars.
Meanwhile, news of an approaching meteor shower and the end of the world throws the entire town into unrest.
Row is still an unborn baby. His mother dreams, and fragments of that dream drift into his unformed mind.
News arrives: his father has died in the war. Then comes the long journey, the relocation, and the pain buried far away.
During the three months before his birth, with only a faint consciousness, Row experiences a secret part of his mother’s life — her grief, silence, and unspoken despair — things he would never know after he is born.
Without a complete brain, he can only feel through weak sensations, sharing her emotions and pain in fragments. That was the world before his birth.
Here I treat fan fiction as narrative design practice. I take an existing narrative product, study how its format shapes the way stories get told, then write something original in that product’s own language. The question is never “what happens next?” It’s “what kind of story could only be told here?”
- Observation
- Love and Deepspace doesn’t tell its best stories through the main plot. It tells them through cards. The main plot has to answer “what happened?” A card only has to ask “what if?”
- Design call
- Let the main plot fade into the background. Each card is a self-contained shard of time and space. Cards don’t have to explain each other, and they don’t have to make room for each other.
- Mechanic
- So I write the way the cards work. The player, Miss Hunter, isn’t holding a single timeline; she’s holding a hand of fragments. How she orders them, pairs them and flips them is up to her. Each combination unlocks a different meeting, and a different aftermath. The story stops being something the writer hands down and becomes something the player puts together.
- Card structure
- Card art (the image) · Card line (the hook) · Story (the fragment) · Bond unlock (an echo in the present-day timeline)
Five stories that never happened. Five stories happening now. Five possibilities, each one a blessing and a wish. Fate comes apart thread by thread, and running through every version is a love that never burns out.
Before he was Qin Che, the one who can do anything, the one who keeps everyone safe, he was a boy alone in a tower. Scared, and shunned by everyone around him, he kept cutting off the dragon horns that grew out of him and breaking them into pieces. Again and again.
How much does it have to hurt before you can break your own bones with your bare hands, not once but over and over?
A power you can’t hold back, growing out of your own body. Fear. Helplessness. The whispers. Confidence. Courage. Strength. In the end, they were all the same thing.
That was me before I met you.
在这里,同人写作是一种叙事设计练习:选取一款已有的叙事产品,分析它的载体如何塑造讲故事的方式,再用这个产品自己的语法写一段原创内容。每次要回答的不是“接下来发生了什么”,而是“什么样的故事只能在这里讲”。
- 观察
- 《恋与深空》最适合讲故事的位置不在主线,而在卡面。主线需要回答“发生了什么”,卡面只需要回答“如果是这样呢”。
- 设计判断
- 主线可以淡化为背景。每一张卡面都是一块独立的时空碎片:彼此不必解释,也不必互相让路。
- 机制
- 因此这里的同人按卡面的逻辑来写。猎人小姐手中握着的不是一条时间线,而是一组碎片;如何排列、组合、翻面,由她决定。不同的组合解锁不同的相遇,也解锁不同的后来。叙事的主导权从“作者给定”转向“玩家组装”。
- 单卡结构
- 卡面描述(画面)· 卡面语(钩子)· 正文(碎片)· 羁绊解锁(在当下时间线里的回响)。
五个没发生过的故事,五个正在发生的故事,五个充满了祝福与祈愿的可能性。命运抽丝剥茧,无数可能性里纵横交错的,是永恒不灭的爱意。
在变成无所不能、保护所有人的秦彻之前,他也曾经一个人站在角楼上,因为恐惧和他人的排斥,把从身体里生长出的龙角一遍又一遍割掉,掰碎。
人要有多么痛苦,才能无数次把自己的骨头亲手拧断呢。
从身体里长出无法抗拒的力量,恐惧,无助,非议,自信,勇敢,强大。这些其实都是一样东西。
那是与你相遇之前的我。