Uncle Tu is my mother's younger brother. Ever since he took on the additional job of village radio station chief, he always carried a backpack he brought back from the Cambodian battlefield with him wherever he went. In the pocket of his faded army uniform, he always carried two blue and red ballpoint pens.
Just like that, Tu waded through the fields, crossed the mud, and went from one field to another, from the beginning of the village to the end of the hamlet to gather information. Occasionally, he parked his bicycle close to the edge of the field, and helped an acquaintance push a cart that had collapsed because of the rain the night before.
That was the story of Uncle Tu's village newspaper from a long time ago. The other day when I returned to the village, I visited Uncle Tu and heard that his children and grandchildren were entering the journalism profession. He was very happy. The two of us talked about old times and mentioned the once glorious "Mr. Tu's Radio".
Years later, when the agricultural cooperative was dissolved, he was sent by the commune to attend a news writing training class organized by the provincial radio and television station to work for the commune station.
Village journalists whisper and contemplate the heart of words before the crossroads, the confusion between morality and reality is bitter to the point of being numb. When life is increasingly rushed, fast food, studying is also rushed, loving is also rushed… then how can one achieve sophistication?
Since when have we not been patient enough to read a page of a book in the tranquility of our souls. The ancients drank a cup of tea to enjoy the warmth and aroma of the tea, and wrote with their souls in each stroke.
From a finite word, they contemplate the vastness of both width and depth. It seems that between those small words is an infinitely vast space that the writer opens up so that the reader can plant in it many ideas.
I sat in front of the computer, reading the articles that the intern had just submitted. The words dancing around in a chaotic manner challenged my patience and self-respect as a person who considered writing as a religion.
Each article, each page of writing, through words and tone, leaves a unique mark on the writer. It is almost like a fingerprint to identify each person. The most painful thing is that the article has nothing to edit, even mechanically perfect. The only problem is that it is impossible to find a unique tone.
My teacher friends are always complaining that more and more homework and tests are being written by AI. And it is very difficult for teachers to detect academic products produced by artificial intelligence.
The mid-summer heat seemed to melt everything. Suddenly I craved a breath of fresh wind blowing from the river, across the rice fields in the sowing season. It seemed that at the end of the wind, there was the figure of Uncle Tu sitting next to a notebook with curled corners and slanted handwriting. Each letter had a human face, talking and laughing like in a flower dream.
Source: https://baoquangnam.vn/guong-mat-con-chu-3156741.html
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