It was the golden age glitz of Equestria.
When anypony could be anything. When the dreams of anypony could happen. If a pony wanted to live by the land, they could very well do it. Huge paychecks could be made from simply pen to paper, and fame and fortune could be crafted from poetry.
Such a world was all too familiar to the famous author known as Filly Trotman. Once successful and highly sought-after, his epic tales of a mare named 'Daring Do' captivated both critics and general ponies alike. They enchanted readers in a world that bred danger and dastardly villains, weaving adventure, suspense, and drama through his crisp pages.
However, like with all things, Mr. Trotman's glowing sun of success eventually fizzled. After only eight novels in the 'Daring Do' series, critics began to look upon Filly's works with an upturned nose. It seemed as if his latest stories regarding extraterrestrial life forms and mares being protected from nuclear harm via refrigerators was not in their realistic interests.
To this day, nopony knows what became of Filly Trotman. After the extreme critical failure of his last novel, the failed author cut off his connections, all but disappearing the face of Equestria altogether. It seemed, like in a quest much akin to Daring herself, that Trotman failed to immortalize his name in the halls of The Great Authors Past. Instead, his name is only whispered among the others.
Just another brick in the wall.
Just like everypony else in this world.
- Taken from the book "The Great Trotsby" by F. Spots Fritzgerald
*****
Morning in Canterlot
"It can't be day already..." From under the thick, red covers of the bed, a loud groan sounded through the sunlit room. The lump of sheets shifted, but the pony under them made no further effort to move. The horror of the day just couldn't have arrived this soon.
Filly Trotman dreaded the day. His days were horrid, never sparing him as they passed over the feelings that he hated most. These feelings may have been curse words with how much he'd felt and thought about them, all in the neat little cycle of dread: talent, popularity, delay, decline, failure. They plagued him, eating away at his mind as he stared upon the taunting posters of his better works hung on his cottage walls.
Worst of all, the dusty poster of his first novel, Daring-Do and the Quest for the Sapphire Stone, sat above his bed, mocking him every time he opened his eyes.
Yes, Filly Trotman, usually accompanied by the utterance of "Who?" was the author of the Daring-Do series. The formerly-popular Daring-Do. The cult Daring-Do. Whatever adjective that happened to exist, they'd been used to describe poor Trotman's series of books.
The mare slowly raised his head, his eyelids barely cracking their way open. A pair of blue, weathered eyes glared through them.
"Stupid sun. Celestia, why must you taunt me, too?" Trotman muttered, rubbing his head as he spoke. By now, he'd spoken such words so many times he feared he’d be imprisoned for treason. If ever asked, Trotman notified himself to always answer Princess Luna as his favorite princess. After all, the gift of night meant rest from the day - the long, uneventful, idea-less day.
Filly dropped his hooves to his wooden floor, the old boards’ creaking still prominent from the last month. Trotman thought about refurbishing, but then he realized again that his profit from his stories had run out after his last purchase of apples. The stallion cursed himself for loving those Apple Family apples so much. He'd preferred it if Flim and Flam were still around. At least their junk was cheap and less deliciously addictive.
As he made his way out of his small bedroom, another image of past glory sneered at him. A poster for one of his later novels, Daring-Do and the Kingdom of the Jade sat near his room.
Trotman walked out to his small living room, the only pieces of furniture remaining being his beloved chair and drawer greeting him. They were the very chair and drawer that he wrote his first novel on, and every one after that. Why he kept them, he never knew. Maybe they were so comfortable that he’d never noticed, or perhaps they were the only pieces of his past glory left. Then again, the latter wasn't a good thing in any form.
"...What has happened to me?" Trotman asked himself. This question had echoed off his walls for years. His posters asked him such. His cottage would creak this question from its foundation up. The glory of the past clearly had waved goodbye long ago, and now sat with Filly inside, scoffing at him.
Forcing a smile, Filly sat down at his old chair and gazed at his small drawer, which supported only a small notebook. It was old and wrinkled, soft and malleable to the touch from usage for years. How many years? Trotman had lost count. After all, the glory days felt lost after the fifth novel, and by the time the eighth hit, it seemed everypony no longer cared.
Filly's horn glowed with a dull aurora of white, and the book's cover slowly flipped open, revealing the same nightmarish image Trotman had seen for ages.
A blank page.
A white page, starving. Looking for some word, any word. Begging to be filled with life, the life of a character in a story or depictions of a world too fantastic to imagine. However, Filly had no answer to such hunger. He could not fill the book with life, with characters and their trials entertaining his (remaining) fans, and worst of all, his publisher.
His publisher no longer cared for his works – if he ever even cared in the first place. In fact, he barely could ever remember the title of his famous series. It'd always be Daring-Doodoo, or Dusty-Do, or the current name, Your Stupid Book. All that mattered was that Trotman get a full manuscript written, edited and proofread to him by this date or that, and was all but happy to remind him constantly of other aspiring writers waiting for him to croak or miss his deadline so they can get a shot at the bigtime.
Trotman stared at the page intensely. The page stared back. The sun slowly crept in through the window, adding some highlight to Trotman's room. Surrounding him was almost nothing. Nothing but a few piles of pages, most of them filled with scribbles, crossed-out paragraphs, and side comments that only spoke criticism.
However, adorning the walls were the various images of his created character. The many adventures he'd written to put her through. Daring-Do was his life. Her adventures had been his job, to put her through the tests of danger and every obstacle, and have her pull through with her wit and strength. She could make it through the toughest of trials, and Trotman made sure of it.
Why couldn’t he do the same? He wondered time and time again, why can't I make that last minute escape?
After a long duration of no ideas, Trotman looked out his small window. The tinted and cracked glass shone small slivers of light all over his living room. Celestia's work was admirable today, as the sun shone proudly and brightly.
His admiration, however, turned to anger as soon as he glanced at what lied next to the window. Beside it, was another Daring-Do poster. The look of adventure all-so-clear on Daring-Do's face taunted him. The various dangers she faced clear to Trotman's mind whizzed by. The many traps she escaped, the villains she fought, the treasure she'd discovered - the triumph she'd met.
Then, without warning, something happened. Something unprecedented. Something Filly Trotman, the formerly-respected, literary genius thought he'd never do and never did until now.
He cried.
The tears poured from his eyes, like a spigot gone wild. The wet, salty products made their way across his face, sobs clutched in his mouth as to hide his sorrow from his walls.
The horrible feelings of despair, of failure, of dissatisfaction filling his soul, Trotman smashed his face into the notebook. The buckling drawer screeched in response, as if whining back in a teasing manner.
Around him, the ironically cheerful light of the sun enclosed him. The world around him rejoiced in the start of a new day, while he sat here. Alone, without a thought, without help.
Without anything.
Trotman raised his head, staring down at the poster that had sparked his sorrow. His broken, battered blue eyes quickly bristled, the clear sign of anger now occupying them. The unicorn jumped from his broken look, and then frowned in complete rage.
"Y...you..." Filly stuttered out, his voice croaking back to life. His expression suddenly morphed into hatred. All of the sudden, he took off like a rocket, heading straight for the poster he'd set his eyes on.
"YOU RUINED MY LIFE!" Trotman screamed out as loud as he could as he jumped midway through his course and smashed into the poster, leaving a fairly-large dent in it from his collision. After recoiling, Trotman rubbed his head, still feeling absolute rage through his heart.
"You ruined it!" Trotman re-stated, smashing his head into it again. The wall began to buckle and crack as it was struck a third time. As quickly as his rage arrived, however, it was gone. He had snapped back to reality.
Here I am, he thought, smashing myself into a poster.
Trotman stared up at his wall, trying to think of a single thing to follow this with. No action seemed suitable. Writing was clearly not an option, his talent was not shared with such popular designers of Canterlot, and it was clear all the attention now was focused on nothing but the supposed "talented", like that wannabe 'Fluttershy' or that arrogant rainbow-maned Pegasus from a few months back.
He'd been left behind, just as his stories had. He was washed-up, without any reason to continue his pursuits for a life. His will, his life, his work. All broken.
"...I might as well just sit here. No one would care. I'd just become a part of the background, just like the bushes and trees," Trotman groaned quietly, his raspy voice somehow echoing off the walls of his cottage.
However, he realized that it'd take days for his passing to occur. Days. It might as well have been months, or even years.
That reminded him of his work. Work that no longer mattered. After all, who could pay attention to an outdated character like Daring-Do? Who could possibly care about his character any more? Who could care about him?
Without any more thought, Filly closed his eyes, hoping they'd never open again. Hoping this horrible nightmare would be over, and he'd wake up again in that world he used to live in; a world where he mattered.
SLAM!
Trotman's eyes shot open from the loud crashed that resounded nearby.
He was almost disappointed to discover he was in the same spot on the floor from before. Time had passed, but at the most only a few hours, as the sun was now above the peaks. It was close to midday.
Filly slowly lifted himself off the floor, his hooves aching from lying on the wooden floor for a good few hours. As daintily as he could, his horn glowed white and the door slowly creaked open, only to reveal a pony on the other end of it, sprawled on the ground.
"My word, are you quite alright darling?" Trotman asked, his Canterlot accent carrying powerfully, which surprised even him. The Pegasus slowly staggered up, and grinned with the eyes of a puppy dog; the rather crooked eyes of a puppy dog.
"Yeah, it happens all the time anyway!" The Pegasus responded, her voice rather slow and ungraceful.
In fact, at second look, Trotman could tell this was a peculiar little mare. Her coat sported only the color of gray, and her mane a rather faded yellow.
This Pegasus' most distinguishing feature, however, was her eyes. No doubt, their color was perfectly normal. A yellow-lime, perhaps amber color, Trotman presumed. However, they were completely walled. One looked directly at him, while the other was pointed in an entirely different direction, as if it alone was looking into oblivion itself. Trotman was so confused at the appearance of her eyes that he stared at her, not bothering to move a muscle.
"Oh, you're looking at my eyes, right?" The mare asked, her slow voice streaking into a chuckle near the end of it. It was obvious to Filly that she found humor in this feature of hers.
"Well, if you don't mind if I point it out, but - Well, anyway - What's your business here?" Trotman asked finally, breaking off his tangent and getting to the point. He regretted pushing the conversation so quickly, as any conversation with anypony was a welcome change in schedule to him after all these years.
"Miss Derpy Hooves, sir," The loveable little Pegasus said with a proud grin, "subbing for the usual Canterlot mail mare Special Delivery! HOO RAH!"
The Pegasus concluded her presentation with her call and an attempt of a salute, however the salute was miss-aimed and instead landed a square buck right to her face.
"Well, I suppose that means you have some mail for me, young lassie?" Trotman said with the smallest of smiles. This adorable pony was certainly a spirit to behold, he thought to himself.
"That depends! What's your name?"
"Mr. Filly Trotman? I shouldn't be too far on that li-" The author was stopped short, because the googly-eyed Pegasus' face suddenly blew up into a huge smile.
"Filly Trotman? The Filly Trotman?" Derpy suddenly asked, her voice from before now ecstatic in tone.
"Well, yes," Trotman responded, rather surprised she'd even recognize the name.
"I LOVED your books! I read all the Daring-Do novels from front to...umm...front to..." Derpy halted, suddenly stopped in her tracks at recalling where she'd stop in her reading. Was it the middle page? Or perhaps the last page? Second to last? Maybe it was the muffin break when she stopped?
However, amid the ditzy Pegasus' ramblings, a small scowl appeared on Filly's face.
"...Don't mention that name." Trotman stated, his voice hardening almost immediately. It was clear the Pegasus had just hit the switch on the literate unicorn...and she had no idea...
"What? Daring-Do?" Derpy asked, cut off through her rambling and back to the conversation.
"I said don't say that name!" Trotman shouted, his voice on the edge of any sanity he had left. Gone was his re-forming, delicate tone. Now back was a fierce tone he only carried a few hours ago when he took out his anger on the character herself.
Derpy now sat in front of the enraged writer, a usual look of bewilderment on her face. Was she doing something wrong? She didn't screw up again, did she?
"Oh, sorry," Derpy stated, her eyes surprisingly losing their gleeful luster as she hung her head from the commencing scold. Trotman, still hearing his shout from before echo off the walls of his head, softened his eyes at the saddened look of the filly he'd just screamed at. Was this it, now? Was he suddenly making other ponies' lives worse?
"...Look, I deeply apologize. What do you say I get my mail now? Courtesy of a sweet little Pegasus?" Trotman said, poking his head down to meet Derpy's gaze. At this remark, the mare's expression lightened, and she quickly and rather-efficiently pulled out...one letter. Trotman's heart sank.
"Oh, that's all?" he asked, his tone now drifting off into nothing. Derpy shared the same sad look now appearing on Trotman's face as he stared at the single envelope. It would likely be from his publisher, one that, once opened, decided his fate of writing career. Derpy thought of speaking, but something clicked in her head that told her it wouldn't be suitable to. With Filly's expression, it couldn't have been a good time.
"Thank you. Thank you for your delivery." Trotman slowly said, his eyes back to their weathered, sad state.
"No problem, Mr. Trotman," Derpy responded back, the tone of sadness seeming contagious in the air between the temporary mail mare and soon-to-be failed author. Trotman turned away, and slowly made his way back into the cottage. Hearing the door shut behind him, and a beat of wings, he could tell that the day had come.
There couldn't have been a better explanation for the long time without notification. The letter just had to be from his publisher, meant to cut any connection left away from Mr. Trotman.
Derpy had unfortunately taken the worst role possible in this stage show. A show based around the horrible life of a stallion named Filly Trotman. She took the role of the deliverer of fate. Fate simply sat in Trotman's hooves. Inside the envelope, inside this square-shaped asylum of doom, lived what would become the rest of his life.
Slowly and cautiously, Trotman opened the letter. The fold slowly slipped off, the foundation holding it together easily peeling away. His publisher clearly didn't care to get an envelope of high quality. That couldn't be good.
Trotman flipped the letter upside down, ready to watch a long slip of paper come rolling out. Likely a scroll, signed by his publisher detailing his firing. Trotman awaited the long scroll to appear...
But it never appeared. Instead, however, a sheet of paper lazily floated out and rested itself on the floor.
Trotman's welling eyes found themselves unsure. Unsure whether to explode into tears or to inspect whatever this letter was.
Slowly, he lifted the letter up to his view, and began to read through the rather well-penned script.
Dear Filly Trotman,
My name is Rainbow Dash, the fastest Pegasus to come out of Cloudsdale and the next Wonderbolt!
Not too long ago, I was laid up in the hospital because of a crash landing I had. My friend Twilight gave me a book, "Daring-Do and the Quest for the Sapphire Stone", and I thought that it was so uncool to read! Ha, how wrong I was!
I ended up getting so caught up in reading it, I got accused of stealing slippers, and practically got committed!
Basically, I want to thank you for those awesome stories you wrote about Daring-Do! It's so cool to finally read something that isn't all egghead-y and nerdy! It's like you get all the really cool ponies, and wrote a story for us! It's no wonder you wrote all those books!
Anyway, I know I'm kinda getting off here. I'm sure you're probably real busy and have better things to do than to listen to a Pegasus bug you about your work, but it's still SO awesome! I love reading thanks to you! I love the stories, and Daring-Do! Your stories are...huh...let me think...
OH YEAH! Your stories are undeniably,
unquestionably,
AWESOME!
Thanks for reading, and thanks for making me love reading!
Your newest AND BIGGEST fan,
Rainbow Dash
Trotman simply looked at the scroll for a long while. His face was blank, as if wiped of any emotion he had previously. However, emotion was all too prevalent inside of Mr. Trotman. The problem was, it was all moving far too quickly in the writer's mind. Thoughts whirled around and a myriad of feelings all seemed to be ready to push through him at once.
Trotman whizzed his pupils back to the letter, reading every word he could find that struck him deeper than any harsh word any critic could speak. His eyes ran wild across the piece of paper, popping at every word he saw that seemed to praise him. He wondered how it was even possible for praise to greet him after such a long time. Every positive word jumping at him in shock.
Cooler
...thanks to you...
Awesome...
Newest and BIGGEST fan...
All of the sudden, the gears in the mind of the once-popular author began working once more.
Perhaps a cobweb or two began to unhitch in such gears, because Trotman suddenly noticed the light of his window once again. This time however, it seemed much brighter, like a beckon to what it shined on, which was the very notebook he had left blank for the last few months.
However, this time, not a single bad thought crossed the mind of Filly Trotman. In fact, a look of concern hit across him. After all, he thought, how will ponies know what would happen next to the exciting character of Daring-Do?
Daring-Do. Suddenly, the name became not a source of anger.
No, rather, Mr. Trotman smiled at the remembrance of the name. It was almost as if a memory of an old friend a pony knew. In fact, joy began to fill the unicorn's eyes.
"What am I doing? I need to get going! There's adventures to be written! Peril to be escaped! Antiquities to be found! All in the life of Daring-Do!" Trotman suddenly burst out, his voice singing out something he thought he'd never hear in his lifetime ever again.
How could it be explained, he thought. A simple letter had suddenly turned his black heart of coal into a burning flame. It was odd, indeed, but suddenly realization hit the stallion.
It wasn't just this piece of paper! It was the want for more. The support that he received, it made him see what it truly meant all those years past. Truly, he had never known what he needed to start his career again, but it suddenly became clear.
This letter, this simple letter from a Pegasus named Rainbow Dash had made him realize that he inspired someone. Someone was inspired by him.
Somehow, Trotman felt himself pick up the notepad with his magic. However, it wasn't the slow, forceful pull he usually had. No, it was rather a frantic one. A pull that only a pony with idea and innovation on his mind.
"I.-I'd better get going! Celestia knows all those ponies are anxious to read of Daring-Do! A spectacular story, I promise them I'll weave!" Filly Trotman shouted aloud. His heart lifted, his brought the notepad down, lifted a nearby quill and stared at the blank page. He was so excited that he almost began writing right away, but he stopped himself.
"Well, this is a great rush, but what is a story without a title?" Mr. Trotman pondered, his mind now working in the ways much of a mechanism courtesy of Flim & Flam would. Quickly, his eyes dilated in realization, a huge grin donned on.
"I got it! How about...Daring-Do and the Temple of the Dunes?" Trotman finally exclaimed. Without a hitch, his quill went off, not only penning the title, but the shaping the first story outline on the sheet of paper.
Daring-Do had certainly gotten herself into a mess this time. Here she was, faced with a roof of spikes closing in on her, reading to turn her into a mess of an adventurer. Perhaps Miss Do's many assistants before were correct, that chasing after fortune and glory would get her killed. She'd even believe it herself, whenever faced with the impossible. However, even now, she knew for a fact she wouldn't get killed doing it today.
And suddenly, Trotman found himself engrossed in his mind.
Before long, he was quickly hoping the night could come later. For as long as the light shined on him and his working mind, he could continue to write what his mind lead him to.
And whether or not he'd succeed in his venture back to the top, he did not care. Whether he'd prove all the critics wrong, he did not care. Whether he'd impress his publisher, he did not care.
All Filly Trotman cared about now was pleasing the audience. The audience that read his original book. The audience that spanned as far as Appleloosa or Fillydelphia. The audience, whether unicorn, Pegasus or Earth pony, that continued to love the stories, no matter how far he fell.
And somehow, no matter how far he fell, he had somehow been able to escape this horrible curse that plagued him for so long. Like Daring-Do had done countless times before, Mr. Trotman had pulled himself from the brink, and was now after the only thing that mattered:
The fortune and glory!
