Life is an Unwritten Book

A month passed.  Amalthea not only continued to work at Sugarcube Corner but thrived at it.  She got along well with both the Cakes and their other assistant, Pinkie Pie, and got paid once a week with a small bonus for helping them out.  Amalthea didn’t care too much about the bonus; she was happy it helped out her and Written Script, but was just happy to have something to do yet still have time to be with Written in the afternoon and evening.

During this time, the other townsponies also got to know Amalthea.  She simultaneously became revered by many of the ponies for her beauty and caused feelings of jealousy among mares and stallions for being in a relationship with Written Script.  Written, meanwhile, was being shown with a new journal that he was writing in and that Amalthea was helping him write in it, and soon all jealousy dissipated as they saw the signs of their relationship – the soft gazes when they looked at each other, the way that a smile would creep onto their faces even when it seemed nothing else could cheer them up, the way they walked and danced down the streets, the simple gentle gestures made between them.  In the town’s eyes, it was wholesome yet romantic, the sort of public love affair that most ponies dreamed of.

The only major difference the public saw was that Twilight Sparkle went to Sugarcube Corner more infrequently, but they passed it off as a busy schedule.

Written Script, meanwhile, was all too thankful for using the mornings Amalthea was at work to sleep, as it was the only time he got the chance to do so.  Afternoons were spent with Final Draft at the publishing house going over things for the first short story collection – formatting, fonts, hardcover or paperback, headers and footers, final bursts of editing, deciding order – to the point where Written wondered how it was they were still finding things to work on every single weekday afternoon.  Evenings were spent first making dinner with Amalthea before heading out in the evenings for a stroll through the cool summer nights and socializing with other ponies before heading back to his house for games and small tastings of wine, after which they would retreat to the bedroom and become lost in the throes of passion – window open, blinds closed, and all activity buried beneath a few layers of sheets.

Not that Written minded that.  They all questioned the rocking and the squeaking that started a few nights after Amalthea had obtained her job at the bakery, but soon none of them asked Written about the incident and Written walked around with the journal in his saddlebags feeling quite proud of himself.

After about a month passed like this, Written was called in to the publishing house like he always was.  Despite the mounds of papers on Final Draft’s desk, Written quickly realized that none of them were his.  He sat down patiently in front of Final Draft as the unicorn shuffled through papers.

“I have a gift for you,” Final Draft said.  “And I think you’re going to like it.”

“What is it?” Written Script asked.  “And what sort of gift?  Any celebration I can think of happened a while ago.”

“It’s different than that,” Final Draft said.  “Ah, here it is!  Oh, good, it’s still in the box.”  A brown cardboard box sealed with tape was levitated to Written.  “Go on, open it up.”

Written Script opened the cardboard box with Final Draft’s letter opener, and unwrapped the item inside.  It was a neatly-bound hardcover book with a deep blue background, gold trim and fancy gold lettering with his name at the bottom.  It was about two hundred pages long with thick, light cream-colored paper.  Written Script opened the book and flipped through the pages, feeling pleased with himself.

“Post office brought that by just this morning.  What do you think?”

“It’s brilliant!” Written Script said with glee.  “Even better looking than all the designs and concept art we went through and sent to them.”

“Glad you like it.  Now, we’ll be sending a copy off to Ink Blot magazine and Canterlot Quarterly for a review, which we should expect to see within the week.”

“Are you sure?  I mean, it’s got to be expensive for reviews from there.  Just Ink Blot magazine costs nearly four hundred bits per review.”

“That’s if the author sends it in.  I am a publishing house and get a discount.  It’s still two-hundred and fifty for Ink Blot alone, but…”  Final Draft looked around to see if anyone was watching and shut the normally open door to his office.  When he was satisfied, he continued in a lower voice with a rather mischievous grin.  “…Metal Quill’s work has been quite profitable.  What he doesn’t know is right now a good chunk of his profits are going to the reviews for your first short story collection, and quite possibly a few promotional things.  Small ads in the papers and such.”

“What does he think of it?”

“He doesn’t.  First of all, I’ve made sure not to tell him.  Secondly, he doesn’t even bother to check what I’m working on.”

Written Script nodded and gave his publisher a conspiratorial smile.  “I shall wait patiently and hope the reviews come back fair at least.”

“It shall be a relief to me when that day comes,” Final Draft replied, now sounding tired and exhausted.  “Every good review, no matter how small, makes him cockier by the day.  It shall be nice for a change.”

Written Script nodded and bowed to his publisher, who politely bid him leave to work.  Written Script took his proof and headed out of the office and into the bright summer day, his mind racing now that he was heading home.

So, Written Script’s work was due for a review in a few days’ time?  That meant, for Written, that night would be time for a fifth journal entry.  While the others were merely experimental runs, tonight would be the first time that he had attempted something on a larger scale, something that might tip the balance of favor in his direction instead of Metal Quill’s.  Written Script headed home with some sort of trepidation at the thought.

When he arrived at home, Amalthea was at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea.  She got up at his arrival and came over to him.  “You’re home early,” she said.

“Final Draft has made the final adjustments to the book,” Written said as he pulled out the proof to show Amalthea.

The mare’s eyes lit up in awe and pleasure with the sight of the book, carefully taking it into her own aura and flipping gently through the pages as though they were delicate glass.  “It looks beautiful.  The font is readable yet has class, the text is nicely spaced, and your artist did a good job on designing the titles and giving an appropriate picture.”

“It is beautiful,” Written Script said.  “My written word has been put into print, into a tangible, hard cover book.  It really feels like I’ve made it.”  He kissed Amalthea on the lips, feeling the warmth from her touch.  “All I need is a mare to congratulate me.”

Amalthea giggled and kissed him again.  “So, what comes next?” she said excitedly, closing the book and giving it back to Written.  “It goes to the shelf in the bookstore?”

“Not quite,” Written Script replied.  “Final Draft is sending them off for review.  I shall only hope the review is fair or even good.” Written continued with a slight more emphasis than normal.

Amalthea got the hint.  “Perhaps you should write in your journal tonight,” she said with a wink.  “After all, this is a momentous occasion and a chance to put yourself and your talents out there.”

Written nodded.  “But first, I think I need to treat you.  How about an evening at Le Cigare Volante?”

“The new upscale restaurant they opened a few weeks ago?”  Amalthea faked a swoon.  “I am not worthy!”

“Oh, stop dramatizing like Miss Rarity,” Written Script replied in a playfully irritated tone.  “You are worth it.  Every bit.”

That evening, Written Script put on a fancy shirt and Amalthea dressed herself in a neat summer dress; nothing Canterlot-worthy but enough for a night on the town.  The two headed to the small, fancy restaurant and gorged themselves on fresh-baked bread, steamed vegetables, soy chicken, and a shared plate of garlic mashed potatoes and washed down with a smooth red wine.  Written even decided to indulge a little and ordered a cheesecake with chocolate and caramel drizzled in it and a glass of a fruity desert wine to go along with it.

Once dinner was finished, Written returned home and barely managed to write the journal entry; Amalthea was kissing him constantly on the cheek and begging him to come to bed.

Seventh month, twenty-third day, 1003 A.N.M.

I have just received word from Final Draft that my book is now officially finished and ready for release.  It is a beautifully designed thing, if I do say so myself, but while the art is beautiful there is no greater pleasure to me than to see my book in print.  In the flesh, if I could get away with the phrase.  I have held it in my hooves and have read through its pages yet it feels as though I am in a dream, though I have been reassured by my publisher, my lovely Amalthea, and by the feeling of wine in my stomach that I am not asleep.  (At least, not at the moment…)

Anyway, there is one more step before its official publication, and that is the preliminary reviews.  This upcoming week shall judge whether my books shall succeed or if they shall flop.  Final Draft is sending a copy of my collection to Ink Blot magazine and the Canterlot Quarterly to see about obtaining reviews from these esteemed, high-class magazines and their editors and reviewers.

All I can do is wait and hope that the reviews give my work praise.  Amalthea and Final Draft assure me they will, and I feel myself agreeing with them.  They shall give my work praise.  They’ll have to once they see how hard I’ve worked on it.

Written had hardly finished writing the final lines before Amalthea dragged him off to the bed and under the sheets.

Not that he had a problem with that.

A few days passed after the journal entry.  Written found himself almost entirely in a positive mood that was only helped by Amalthea’s own successes at the bakery (her chocolate peanut-butter pie was a hit among the townsponies) and the arrival of a check from Final Draft for the time he’d been spending getting the book ready for publication.

Even with the journal entry fresh in his mind, Written soon forgot about the reviews.  Life was good for him at the time being.  He enjoyed reading over his proof during the mornings and afternoons and passing it off to Amalthea in the evenings, watching as she gasped and laughed and even cried and sang in what he believed were all the right places.  Certainly if Amalthea had liked his book as much as he did, one who had hardly read any of his stories just over a month ago, perhaps other ponies would be pleased with it, too.

Written was still bathing in his ecstasy about a week and a half later.  The morning was cool with a slight breeze and the sun was shining gold on everything.  Written had woken up feeling well-rested and quite awake and ended up writing two poems that morning on his typewriter just for the hell of it.  He was in the middle of a third when a knock came at the door.

Curiosity quickly took over; Amalthea was at work at Sugarcube Corner and he hadn’t been expecting anyone to drop by.  Written left his typewriter, whistling a little tune to himself and went to answer the door.

Of all those he had been expecting to drop by, it was not the reddish brown unicorn with the brown and yellow mane currently boasting a pair of earthen brown saddlebags.

“Well, if it isn’t Metal Quill!” Written Script said pleasantly; not even the sight of his ‘rival’ coming over could put him down.  “How have you been?  Oh, forgive me; please, come in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Metal Quill said irritably, “don’t go gloating.”

Written shrugged and stood out of the way.  Metal Quill came inside and looked around the house.  “I got to admit,” he said, “this is actually a nice place.  Little small for my taste, but seems well-cared for and nice solitary quarters.”

“Actually, do you remember that white unicorn with the blonde mane that was with me at Sugarcube Corner about a month ago?  She lives with me.”

“Is that so?”  Metal Quill said.  “I’ve never had anyone over more than a night.”

“Yeah,” Written Script said, “It makes this less lonely.  Can I interest you in a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Nah,” Metal Quill said.

Written stood silently as Metal Quill made his way over to the living room and set himself down on the couch.  “So, it’s not like you to just drop by for a social visit.”

“No, it’s not,” Metal Quill agreed.  “I was wondering if you’d read the papers recently.”

“I haven’t been.  Is there a news story out?  Perhaps regarding one of your tour dates?”

“Ain’t been finalized yet,” Metal Quill said.  “Manehattan’s being finicky with when they want me to come over.  Anyway, I was wondering if you’d seen the literature column in the Canterlot Quarterly.”

“Actually, I was planning on heading to the bookstore this afternoon to pick up a copy.  Anything amusing in it?”

“Should be for you,” Metal Quill said.  He quickly rummaged around his saddlebags and pulled out a crumpled up piece of paper.

Written took the paper and smoothed it out on the coffee table.  After he had flattened it out enough to read the text, he scanned quickly over the column.  A guest author had been asked to write the literary reviews for that week, none other than A.K. Yearling, author of the critically acclaimed Daring Do series.  The title in question that she was reviewing was that of Written Script’s own short story collection.

It wasn’t good.

It was glowing.

Written couldn’t believe his eyes.  A.K. Yearling not only had personally picked to review his book, but went into a little more than just the review.  She reminisced for a sentence or two about meeting Written and how polite he was and her working with him in her creative writing seminar before going into the fact that Written had some of the best grammar she’d seen out of recent young writers.  With the basics out of the way, A.K. Yearling took up an entire page on writing a synopsis of each of the eleven stories included in the collection, followed by a review.

Every single story had been received positively, both as a marker of how Written had improved and as a sign of how well he was currently doing.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Metal Quill said.  “It ain’t often someone gets the attention of A.K. Yearling.  I thought I would have will how well received my book has been lately.”

“I didn’t even know I had it,” Written said, dumbstruck.

“Well, you do,” Metal Quill said sharply.

Written scanned over the column again.  “Do you have a review in here?”

“It apparently got pushed back,” Metal Quill replied, seeming as though he was holding something back.  “I was supposed to have the highlighted section, but yours got so much attention they pushed it to the front.  I’m in the back.”

“Well, yours is also older than mine by about three months,” Written said.  “They might be trying to make way for the new entrants.”

“It’s not just age,” Metal Quill said, his voice low but seething.  “I was getting top billing, then you went and pushed me out.”

“Don’t kill the messenger,” Written said guardedly.  “All Final Draft did was send it in.  As for me, I had no part in what A.K. Yearling has to say or how the Canterlot Quarterly works.”

Metal Quill raised an eyebrow at him.  “I’m not blaming anyone.  It just seems to be a bit specific on the timing, not to mention the fact that it’s one of the best reviews I’ve seen come out of that magazine in the past two months or so.”  There was a moment of silence before Metal Quill spoke again, his voice quivering though hardly a single emotion crossed his face.  “The last time someone did that, it was me.  I was the one who graced the main page, who had the glowing reviews.”

“It could be you again,” Written said.  “It’s just bad timing.  I’ve had it happen once before.  You just keep pushing on and work on something else.  You get back up there eventually.”

Metal Quill stood up from the couch.  “Celestia be damned if I’m going to fall out because of ‘bad timing’.  If you ask me, the system is flawed if there can be such a thing as ‘bad timing’.”

Written went to the door and opened it as Metal Quill approached.  “I don’t know how you managed to do it,” Metal Quill said.  “But don’t think it will happen again.  You just got lucky that time.”

“I will let the cards fall where they may,” Written Script said calmly.  “Perhaps you should learn to do so as well.”

Metal Quill’s eyes narrowed.  “Son of a bitch,” he said as he turned around and walked away.  “You’re Final Draft’s favorite.  He doesn’t understand I’m the one with the talent and the money.  The sooner he realizes this, the better.”

“Oh, he understands,” Written Script said to no one in particular, shut the door, and retreated to his writing room.