Life is an Unwritten Book

Written Script sat at his desk, staring at the blank sheet in the typewriter before him.  For some reason, today, the words would not come out as well as they had been mere weeks ago.  He tapped a hoof on the period key with the ticking of the nearby clock, the typewriter giving a steady clicking noise as it marked the paper with little black dots.  Finding that nothing would come to his head, Written Script turned to the clock to see how long he had been sitting there.

Five minutes.  He’d only been sitting there five minutes.  It was a new record for the shortest time sitting at the desk before he’d gotten either bored or impatient enough to leave.  Written Script stared out the window, watching the ponies outside his window talking with one another.  He could see Sugarcube Corner down the street that went from his house.  Written Script bonked his head on the desk and held his head with his hooves.

Just twenty minutes, he told himself.  In twenty minutes, you can go treat yourself to a few cookies.  Twenty minutes will make a thousand words, and in a week you will have another short story to send off.

Had it been a few weeks ago, a simple five thousand word story would have been sent off to his editor in five days.  That was three days of writing and two days of editing it personally before putting it in the mail or delivering it himself; she wasn’t too picky about which he chose.  A week or two later, she’d send it back with her corrections and he would rewrite it and the process would begin again.  One short story per month would run this way before he’d send it off to the local publisher and begin the process again.

His editor currently had a short story of his right now.  It was a simple one about a pony whose innate magic was that everyone found him cute.  It was a silly little affair, but his editor had laughed a little about it and helped him make it funnier than it was originally, so he was happy.  Currently was the third time sending it off and, should everything work out right, he would be sending it in to the publisher to run in the next month’s writing magazine.  He’d get a decent advance, plus some royalties for every issue purchased (no small amount since it even sold in Canterlot and Phillydelphia and Manehattan circles) and was about to get some funding for a short story collection.

Written Script pinpointed that as the source of his current lack of focus.  He was worried about sending the stories back to see if his editor could find any more mistakes and, after sending over twenty stories to his editor, could finally publish a short story collection.

He’d already had some credits to his name.  His novella about a strange being entering Equestria had been a hit among crowds and propelled him to fame.  His novel of a romance had received decent reviews but wasn’t as popular as his first.  Then came a one hundred seventy-five thousand word behemoth of a novel that got good reviews but had a small yet loyal following.  As a result, he lived comfortably and did have a few ideas stored away for later, but his publisher hadn’t taken any of them quite yet, especially while his short stories were getting good reviews and he was currently under pressure to keep writing them.

There was a shuffling of paper slight metallic clink at the front door.  Written Script, thankful for yet another distraction, got up and walked over to the door.  He opened it up and found a grey mailmare with blonde hair walking away from him.  Looking down, he found an assortment of letters and a large envelope that was rather thick.  Written Script picked up the letters and the package and carried them to the kitchen for them to read it.

The first was from his publisher.  Written Script opened it eagerly, but soon wished he hadn’t received the letter at all.

I regret to inform you that the party we arranged for the release of your next short story has been cancelled.  Critics have taken quite well to Metal Quill’s newest novel and I’ve got a few bookstores to arrange things with for parties and book signings.  Damned thing might be the biggest hit this publication’s had since our beginning.  Again, still looking forward to your short story to come and the magazine is willing to wait until they’ve got it, so don’t let me down.

Regards, Final Draft.

Written Script looked over to the large pile of envelopes sitting on his writing desk.  There weren’t very many – only about fifteen for his family and one for his editor – but now he’d wasted the money on them.  He could still throw a party of his own, but it wasn’t exactly cheap to do so even in Ponyville.  Ah, well.  His editor would potentially give him something of a gift anyways.  She was nice like that.

Written Script sorted through a few bills and took some time to allocate some bits to them and get return letters ready before looking at the package itself.  Written Script opened it to see eight rather clean pages staring back at him, along with another small note attached to it with a header labeled ‘From the desk of Twilight Sparkle’.

Just finished the look through, and I’m proud to say I think this one’s now ready for publication.  Make sure you’re satisfied with it, though, before sending it off and remember that I’m willing to talk over any new ideas you might have with it or other ideas.  Also, I heard about the cancellation of the party for your short story.  Too bad; getting a twenty-second short story published in a row isn’t an achievement that comes by too often.  I’m still willing to read it and will be picking up a magazine for the library shortly.

-T.S.

Twenty two short stories written over the course of nearly two years.  It wasn’t Written Script’s longest work, but he considered it one of his better ones, and his editor had been fairly happy with it as well.  Written went and took the paper with the line of periods on it and removed it from the typewriter before writing up a quick note.

Thank you so much for the support.  Yeah, I’m bummed about the cancellation, but I’m sure Pinkie Pie would be willing to throw a party for me anyways.  It was going to be a small thing but maybe we can have one later.  I’ll be coming around the library tomorrow to see if you have any more old books that you’ve found lately; I have to meet with the publisher then I’ll be stopping by on my way home.  I’ve really been enjoying that copy of Metamorphosis by Kafka you gave me last time, so I’m looking forward to what you find next.

Written signed it and pulled the piece of paper out of the typewriter.  Sealing it up in an envelope, he gathered it and the bills and put them in the small mailbox outside his front door for sending mail and retreated back inside and to his typewriter.  Perhaps now, with the encouragement of his editor, he could write.

As he did, he forgot all about the party cancellation and his competitors recent work.  The world outside, even Sugarcube Corner, faded away as he lost himself in flights of fancy and he poured himself onto the page.  The cookies could come later.  For now, there was work to do, a story to write that he’d wanted to for a long while.

At least, since he sat down that morning.