It’s another Thursday evening, exhausted, holding my phone that was transcribing my interview recording just now. I was glad that I remembered to wear my dark green thrifted coat before leaving dorm today, late fall, chilling wind scraping my sweater collar. Whenever it happens, whenever we start working as a journalist, in the stuffed alleys, in an undiscovered underground venue, in an enclosed crowd, in a lonely newsroom, in the chilly winds, I feel my life burning, scorching when my fingers fly on the keyboard and my pen scuffling on the paper, but there is always more, more remains uncollected. I guess that’s why nonfiction writing has always grabbed me: it is about lives, and it burns my life. It’s about collecting the uncollected, unheard of, undocumented, unrespected, even when everything else is inflamed.

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