What does it mean to hang a brush on the door?

When I was in the third grade of primary school, there was a course called "Calligraphy Class". Rural people don't think this is art, so it is called "calligraphy". When I don't use this kind of thing, I am jealous when I watch my sister write. She is in the sixth grade and has been writing for several years. When she was away, I secretly took out her pen, and according to her appearance, I hung my palm in the air and scribbled some words I knew. It's another language, crooked, but with thick strokes and deeper ink than pencils. You can write well and enjoy the same fun as Huai Su from a distance. Later, my sister complained about my mother because I broke her brush. My mother thinks that a few cents' brush is more important than my interest, which definitely strangles my artistic enlightenment. I seem to have cried secretly. I think the children at that time were jealous, angry and helpless when they watched their brothers and sisters write.

But when I officially took this course, I was full of surprises at first, but I soon got tired of it.

The introduction of teachers began with the teaching of "Eight Methods of Permanent Characters". It is stipulated that two newspapers should be filled out every day and then submitted for inspection. In fact, it is more appropriate to say that writing is not accurate and that it is graffiti. At that time, there was not even an inkstone except a bald pen. The so-called inkstone is a rough porcelain bowl with a gap. It's a pity to throw it away at dinner and just use it to fill me with ink. After the initial novelty, I looked at the liter and bottle of ink, and every time I breathed too much, it would cause a potential fear psychologically. I don't know when I can finish writing this big bottle of ink. When my fear has not disappeared, more fears follow. My mother took advantage of her position to move all the old newspapers to be sold in the brigade home. I looked at a newspaper more than a foot thick and was filled with emotion.

Except for the occasional teacher's 70-80 homework, most of the time this monotonous and boring writing method is difficult to maintain long-term motivation, and the boredom is getting worse every day. So practicing calligraphy was regarded as a kind of torture by me, and the font was quietly enlarged day by day, just to fill in two newspapers more easily.

It was my uncle who rekindled my desire to write. He works in the county and can go home once a year or so. He can sing opera and occasionally write a few words to express his feelings in his spare time. He was my childhood idol. When he got home, he picked up the waste newspaper and read my handwriting, saying it was very interesting. Excited, he picked up my pen, put it away, wrote a continuous line of words like turbulence, a newspaper, and finished it in a few minutes, then hung it on the wall with thumbtacks, and stepped back and said it was cursive. This is the first time I have seen a word that doesn't talk about the rules before closing and hiding. More importantly, the speed of writing has given me a bright future. My uncle said, don't be too disciplined in writing. If you are too self-disciplined, the words you write are also craftsmen. His words made me feel like a bosom friend.

Soon, my uncle brought me back some copybooks. It's not red-faced, it's wasted on Huai Su. They are magnificent, and their lines are like rivers and waters, which makes people's blood boil. My uncle said that this is the font that Chairman Mao practiced in his old man's house. Chairman Mao also practiced this character, which made me even more awe-inspiring.

From then on, the super-stage process of practicing calligraphy from regular script to running script and even cursive script began. To tell the truth, I don't know most of those words, but the descriptions one by one are far moved by their momentum.

Imitating an image is the first time a child expresses the objective world. Before that, there were too many external images in the child's mind, but he poured out too little. Describing a successful image is a feeling of longing for praise from the outside world and an indescribable sense of success.

I pasted my words from the wall beside the kang to the window. The walls of our house were covered with my "works" at an amazing speed at that time. Even the tables and magazines, including the wooden boards in the box, were covered with Chinese characters that scared me away. The newspaper my mother brought home completely made me write fast. I remember one day, I was so excited that I couldn't find a piece of paper to write on, so I dug out the account book my mother gave to the brigade. This book has alternating red and blue lines and good water absorption. I wrote all the words in this book in the blank from beginning to end. At the end of the year, when my mother checked out, she was surprised when she turned it out. She opened the book page by page at me and screamed at me in despair, "What can I do?" Turn over another page. "What should I do?" Needless to say, I got another fat beating.

I was scolded for writing. Gradually, the words in the newspaper can no longer satisfy my desire to express. I am eager to have a bigger piece of paper and make a work in one breath. But my mother won't buy me a big piece of paper. A big piece of paper costs fifteen cents, which is her daily workload. My eyes rested on our newly-built house. My dad didn't know where the white ash came from, so he painted the wall of our house white that no one else had. A white wall, what good paper, I am excited about my discovery. One day, while the whole family was away, I put two stools together and stood on them, reaching the roof. With a stroke of my bald pen, I wrote a newly learned Tang poem on the newly painted wall, with dripping ink. After writing, I still hate that the pen is not thick enough and the ink is not black enough, and I am intoxicated with my calligraphy works.

How many years later, I realized that writing poems on the wall was not my patent. Qin Guan left a message on the wall to get to know Su Shi, Lu You and Tang Wan exchanged inscriptions in Shenyuan, and Song Jiang's anti-poetry was reported by his wife. I'm not a legendary story, and I'm not guilty of decapitation. Mom came home, looked at a wall of words and sighed helplessly.