Her writing is richly diverse, effortlessly weaving together the natural world and human experiences with a magical touch. Sunlit in tone, pure in language, and vibrant in content, each piece stands as a uniquely creative work.
— Xu Dexia, Editor-in-Chief of Children’s Literature Magazine

★Poetic Imprints of Growth: With delicate and vivid prose, Zhang Mudi captures the joys and sorrows of youth—from sunlight by the window to childhood carousel memories. Each essay reads like an unfinished poem, inviting readers to rediscover their own youthful echoes within the words.
★Dialogue Between Soul and Nature: The book brims with tender observations of the natural world. Through pure language, the author builds a bridge between the heart and nature, guiding readers to appreciate life’s simplest beauty and wisdom.
★The Solitude and Resilience of Growth: Like a pumpkin growing silently, unassuming yet full of strength. Zhang Mudi’s writing balances youthful sensitivity and melancholy with an undercurrent of resilience and hope, perfect for anyone navigating the journey of self-discovery.

"The onion, carrot, and tomato refused to believe in the existence of the pumpkin. They dismissed it as fantasy. The pumpkin said nothing. It just kept growing."
— "When the World Was Young"

Inspired by this quote, "Like a Pumpkin, Growing Silently" collects Zhang Mudi’s high school essays. Her writing radiates warmth and originality, embracing themes from nature to human connections.

Renowned children’s author Lin Yan remarked:
"Walking through these words, I often pause in a daze: these stories, these youthful emotions — I’ve lived them too. I long to step closer, to breathe in the scent of those days again, to grasp the folds of clothes and hems of skirts, to embrace every essay and feel the quiet breath of each silent word."

Bachelor of Dramatic Literature from the Central Academy of Drama, Master of Film Theory and Practice from Newcastle University in the United Kingdom, and a member of the China Writers Association. She is currently a screenwriter.

Her published works include the "Youth Trilogy" (the novel " Intermittent Footsteps", the poetry collection "The Invisible Wind Blows", and the essay collection " Like a Pumpkin, Growing Silently"); the essay collection " Like Mist"; the short story collection "Whose Dreams in the Dream"; the long fantasy novel "The Young Simon and the Tamed Reindeer Lyka"; the long youth novel" Running Towards the Sun"; the picture book "The Cherry Tree"; and the "Zhang Mudi Fantasy Literature Series" (including "The Mirror in the Sky", "The Forest of Summer", "The Kite Lantern That Flew Away with the Wind", "The Night-Light Bird, Grandpa’s Secret Theatre", "Miss Qiu’s Clothing Store", and "The Bear Living on the Roof").
She has been honored with the title of one of the Top Ten Young Golden Writers by "Children’s Literature", the Excellence Award in the Fairy Tale Contest by "Oriental Children", the Taiwan Mudi Award, the Jin Jin Award by "Children’s Literature", and the Silver Award in the Hot Spring Cup Fairy Tale Contest by "Children’s Literature". Five of the books in the "Zhang Mudi Fantasy Literature Series" have been selected for the "National Hundred Classes and Thousand People Shared Reading List"; The Mirror in the Sky has been included in “Shanghai’s Good Children’s Books”; and "Miss Qiu’s Clothing Store" has been selected for the National Close-to-Mother Tongue Graded Reading List.

Part I: There’s Always a Voice That Moves Me to Tears
Part II: Because Lives Overlap
Part III: Another Me in the World
Part IV: A Candy Street for One
Afterword

Part One: There’s Always a Voice That Moves Me to Tears

Days by the Window

Once again, spring escaped from the turned pages of the calendar, and I, too, moved from the dim corner of the classroom to a sunlit spot by the window. Here, golden light spilled like lace across the floor all morning, flowing in like a tide, twisting and turning, its bright fragments soaking into the warm air with a soft, rustling whisper.

The sunlight arrived as quietly as a cat’s footsteps — sometimes reserved, sometimes fervent — and even the dust seemed to come alive, dancing in the light like floating willow catkins. By noon, sitting by the window, my gaze would always fill with a sky so blue it was almost transparent, yet layered with depth. I marveled at its vastness, its wonder, its beauty and nobility. No shade of blue I could name would ever match the sky’s sacred purity, and the cheese-like clouds drifted like moving castles, casting their serene joy into the chambers of my heart.

From the window, I looked out at a mottled old wall. On rainy days, the cascading curtains of rain made mysterious sounds, and the wall’s crown was shrouded in damp, low-hanging clouds. In the cracks where time and years pressed together, reckless new grass sprouted — frail and lonely. In the stillness, something intangible seemed to hover, like whispers of sorrow and fate. The breeze plucked the strings of the rain, and droplets tapped against the gray tiles with a rhythm so precise, so harmonious, that it enriched my hearing and imagination. I couldn’t help but furrow my brow in quiet reverence, thinking of the lingering grace of the Wei and Jin dynasties — of lutes and zithers in friendship, of bells and drums in celebration… and so on. I heard the voice of the water, and in the depths of time, I heard either immense silence or clamor.

In the dim rain, lights flickered on in many houses, their warm yellow glow wrapped in mist, creating a scene as enchanting as a fairy tale, beautiful as a heartbeat. If thoughts had colors, mine would perfectly match this rainy vista — pale, faint, quietly lingering. And the sky, washed clean by the rain, seemed either to suddenly open its arms or to hold itself even tighter, like a still life, like a brand upon the heart, carrying a vague chill. Compared to the warmth of pigments and canvas, the solitude of still life is far more entrancing.

A few tall poplar trees stretched their stiff limbs, silently budding, neither showing off nor seeking favor, deepening their green hue on their own, nurturing their own charm. The pine trees, just stepping out of winter, sprouted a fresh batch of needle-like leaves — sharp, slender, like a piercing cold, whether you liked it or not, accepted it or not. They stood there, always loftier than mere uprightness. Flowers, meanwhile, were another kind of expression — flamboyant, ingratiating, gaudy, brimming with coquettish resentment yet dazzling in their brilliance, stirring ripples of commotion.

In this small, frozen space, great tufts of willow catkins would sometimes drift in, or a few deft swallows would whirl past, making my heart skip a beat and giving rise to fleeting illusions. The hidden fragrance of time seeped through such scenes, strand by strand, like secrets, like a nostalgic mood. The longer I gazed, the more entranced I became, until I felt I alone was spring’s closest companion.