About Ruika
A writer's journey
Writing is a communal act. What’s often considered a solitary process is actually an open space where a writer plants and cultivates seeds of connection. Sources of input and inspiration - be it readings, conversations, relationships, the nature, or an honest take on one’s own lived experience - nurture and sustain the creative output. That's why whenever I write authentically, I never feel isolated. Instead, a profound sense of connection with myself and the worlds around me flows through every word.
When I was growing up in Chengdu, writing was first a required task before it became voluntary and intentional. With all her foresight, my mother’s mandate on weekly journal-writing predated the school’s mandate on essay assignments in Chinese classes. As a child in elementary school, I regarded both of these mandates as homework that must be completed, and nothing more. The journal entries and essays from that time encompassed mostly a laundry list of things I did on a particular day, with little reflection.
My indifference shifted in the early adolescent years. I began journaling not for my parents or schoolwork, but for myself. Feelings, ideas, observations, the quiet rain, the fire clouds, the heavenly sunset, and of course boys were recurring themes. Keeping a journal was no longer a perfunctory task, but a way to carefully archive the dramas and fantasies in the private theater of my inner adolescent self. As stressful and invisible as those years were surviving the rigorous secondary education system in my home country, I frequently turned to writing for refuge and a sense of "I left some kind of legacy in the world." The process of recording words and adding timestamps gratified me so much. A small number of peers who also liked to 咬文嚼字 (pronounced as yǎo wén jiáo zì, a Chinese idiom that literally means nibble the phrases and chew the words), and even the authors and poets that we read as a part of our Chinese classes, made me feel less alone. The literary ambience of my language-educator family and my primary residence on the Sichuan University campus fueled the wordsmith in me by osmosis.
First my mother, and then my word-loving peers; first the innocent hide-and-seek with neighbors' kids, and then the "bad boy" who stealthily passed notes to the "good girl" in class; first the Tang-dynasty poet who reminisced about his youth, and then the 19th-century Chinese writer who famously gave up medicine to pursue literature. Always contextual and never isolating, these sources of input and inspiration sprouted in childhood, decades before I dared call writing and publishing my life's work.
Moving to the United States for college uprooted me. Words were different here, written, spoken, and unspoken; they accosted and terrified me, and I held on tight to the ones I knew. Lengthy readings for classes and sexually charged slangs of 18-year-old Americans overwhelmed me. Formerly expressive and confident, I turned abruptly mute and painfully reserved, upending an already brittle sense of self. There seemed never enough minutes in the day to absorb all the words thrown at me, or all the words I wanted to convey. Studious and quiet as a result, but awkwardly eager to connect, I crossed path with anxiety that swelled and then numbed as college years went on.
The first 18 years of intellectual influence from my family and home country gradually reemerged as the shocking newness of America faded. A year before graduating, something deeply anchoring led me to a group of word-loving, creative friends that were not only literature buffs but also welcoming souls. They offered an intriguing view of what it's like to speak, read, and write with intention and passion. I can confidently say that they formed the second wave of input and inspiration for the writer in me, away from home.
Now another 18 years into America, words and I have blended together in much more varied and nuanced ways. The relationship has blossomed in so many dimensions that the timid and reticent 18-year-old international student in me could have never imagined. From ways to write a book, earn an income, and study the human mind, to ways to make meaning, grieve, and parent, words now surround me but no longer intimidate.
Writing remains a communal act, and is now more firmly rooted in community than ever. Through Fieldnotes from a Watcher, I hope you also discover a sense of belonging within the worlds around you.
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