Life is an Unwritten Book

The next morning was grey and cloudy.  It was supposed to rain that evening, and the air certainly smelled of it.  Compared to the brutal summer they’d been having, the cooler weather was a relief, likely a gift from Celestia herself.

The grey and cloudy weather matched Written Script’s mood as he left his home and started trotting across Ponyville with the completed short-story manuscript in his saddlebags.  The fact that this Metal Quill was newer than he was and didn’t have the experience yet was already publishing a first novel to critical acclaim irked him.  He’d been writing his first novel for three years before it was published, and that was only after a few other works of his were already accepted, while this newcomer had practically gotten himself the attention of Canterlot’s big leagues without much more than – Written Script had once heard – one year of both writing and editing.

Either the fool was a damn good writer already or he’d made a deal with someone from Tartarus.

Either way, Script made his way towards the small publishing house that sat at the outskirts of Ponyville.  It was a relatively recent building made of wood and steel frames like the Ponyville Hospital instead of the thatched roof houses that dominated Ponyville.  It wasn’t even as big as the Golden Oaks Library in the center of town, yet to Written Script the building was more important than almost anything else; his editor was the only thing that rivaled it.

Script made his way into the building and found a receptionist mare with a set of headphones sitting at the front desk.  He walked over to her.

“Hello, how may I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“I’d like to speak with Final Draft,” Written Script said.  “My name is Written Script and I have a short story manuscript he wants to see.”

The receptionist nodded and tapped a small red button on her desk with a hoof and spoke into a small microphone.  “Final Draft, sir, there’s a Written Script here to see you.”  The mare was silent for a minute before tapping the button and speaking again.  “Okay, I’ll let him know.”  The receptionist turned back to Written Script.  “He’s currently in a meeting with Metal Quill right now, but they should be done in a few minutes.  If you could take a seat on the bench over there he’ll come down and get you in a moment.”

“Thank you,” Written Script replied, bowing slightly as he turned and went to sit on the bench.

Normally, apprehensiveness would have set in by now.  Before publication, Final Draft would read the manuscript before Script’s own eyes and look for any errors.  His editor almost always covered that and so Script never had any problems, but the whole thing was nerve-wracking anyways.

But instead of apprehensiveness, there was a sort of anger or irritation.  A few weeks ago, Script would have been the one in the room with Final Draft and Metal Quill would have been waiting to be received by the head editor himself.  Script would be the one getting lauded for his work being in the magazines or being sold by small bookstores in Canterlot.  But Quill had actually made it into one of the biggest bookstores in Canterlot almost as soon as his novel was published!

It wouldn’t have been so bad, Written Script thought to himself, if Metal Quill hadn’t gloated about it the next time they saw each other.  He was actually a nice stallion the first few times they’d met, and Script actually had given him pointers from being experienced in the business.  Once he’d gotten accepted into the bookstore, though, Metal Quill had said it was “natural talent” that it was what he was born to do it and the ideas just came to him.  Written Script reminded himself of him winning a poetry contest as a colt at Cheerilee’s schoolhouse that got him a cutie mark, noting that he was “born to do it” too.

How he’d won over enough supporters to get parties and book signings confused Written Script.  Of course, Final Draft might have had a heavy say in those activities, and Script knew better than to say a bad word against Final Draft.

It wasn’t long after this thought that a reddish-brown unicorn with a brown and yellow mane came out of a nearby door.  On his flank was a red quill with a shadow underneath it.  He was laughing quite hard as a yellow unicorn with an electric blue mane following behind.

“I tell you, Final Draft,” the reddish unicorn said, “I have never seen a mare so flustered in my life.  This business of publishing a novel has been the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.”

“Oh, there’s been quite a few ponies who say their lives have been changed by a first publication,” the bright yellow unicorn said with a polite smile on his face.  “I’ve heard that story many times before.”

“Always after a first publication?”  The reddish unicorn scoffed, then returned to laughing as they walked over to the area where Written Script was sitting.  “Well, not every day do you see someone that has a first novel printed and published right off the bat.  I’m telling you, life has been good ever since I saw that big paycheck come in the mail.”

“Oh, it isn’t over yet,” the yellow unicorn said darkly.  “You still have to attend the book signings and parties not only here in Ponyville but in Canterlot and Manehattan, too.  I can’t tell you how many have caved at the pressure and never done it again.”

“Oh ho ho, that won’t be me,” the reddish unicorn replied.  “Here, even Written Script can tell you that won’t happen to me, won’t it?”

“I’m afraid Final Draft is right, Metal Quill,” Written Script said.  “I remember being tired for a week and unable to start a new project after my first book signing tour.  I was afraid as though I’d be unable to write again.”

Metal Quill smirked.  “You obviously weren’t cut out for the job, then.  Tell me, when was the last time you published something?”

“I published a short story about a month ago, as a matter of fact,” Written Script replied.  There was a spark of light blue magic from his horn and carefully brought out the stack of eight neatly-printed and numbered pages and held them out just in front of himself.  “Coming in with number twenty-two in fact.”  That’s more short stories than there are chapters in that book of yours, not to mention experience.

Metal Quill flinched and flailed a hoof at the stack of papers, causing Script to lose his hold and for papers to be scattered everywhere.  “Get that out of my face!” he coughed.  “I don’t need to see that when I have my own things I could be looking at.”

Final Draft said nothing, but started picking up the papers and sorting through them, rearranging them as he picked them up in his own yellow glow.

Metal Quill coughed a few times before his face returned to the smirk it had been originally.  “You know, you should come to the signing over in Canterlot.  We were thinking it would be in about three weeks’ time.  I’ve heard it’s lovely around this time of year and the bookstore has all sorts of books from all over Equestria available for purchase.”

Written Script nodded, watching as Final Draft took the stack of papers and went to speak to his receptionist.  “I’ve heard it’s so big, there’s seven floors; one for each of the major genre types.”

“Oh?  So you’ve been there?”

“No.  I’ve simply always dreamed of going.”

“Here’s your chance, buddy.  How about you grab a ticket and come on down to the signing?  You could have a drink or two and watch the festivities.  Maybe I’ll even give you a discount or even a ticket to the seminar I’ve already been asked to attend, learn a few tricks of the trade.”

“I think I’ll be fine without the discount or the seminar, thank you,” Written Script said as politely as he could.  “Congratulations on your publication, though.  Perhaps I will head down to the signing, though.  After all, what harm is there in supporting a fellow writer in his work?”  Script put on the most genuine smile he could muster, yet even that seemed a little fake to him.

Metal Quill seemed to have bought the gesture of goodwill, as his laugh returned.  “Good to see you finally coming around there, Script.  Maybe I’ll get you a seat up near the front table for the dinner afterwards...”

Perhaps Quill was realizing his taunts were not being taken well, Written Script assumed.  He seemed to have gone back to his old ways.

That was, until he passed him and quietly said into his ear: “…just to remind you you’re only second best now.”

Written Script went from something of a grey color to bright red.  That mother—

“Don’t feel so bad,” Final Draft said calmly.  He had a soft baritone that Written Script recognized as him being in a good mood, and the stack of papers he recognized as his recent short story in his yellow aura.  “He’s been doing this all afternoon.”  He placed a hoof around Script’s shoulder and led him off to the doorway he had come out of earlier with Metal Quill.

“What were you talking about with him earlier?” Written Script asked.

“Oh, his schedule of book signing events.  I’ve got five cities lined up in the next three weeks, can you imagine?  I once had a writer under my hoof that broke down for about a month afterwards and I had to convince him to start writing again.  He turned out great and moved to a Canterlot publisher, but he still brings in an article now and then.”

“In any case, at least you can say you warned him,” Written Script said as they entered the door and walked up the stairs.

“I’ll be warning you, too, someday soon.  I had a peek at the manuscript while you two were talking and I am pleased.  It fits with the theme and word the magazine is going for.  It’s simple, yes, but well executed.”

“What is Metal Quill’s novel about, if I may ask?”

Final Draft pushed open a door with his hoof and invited Written Script in.  Script sat himself down on a well-worn green chair facing an old wooden desk that reminded him of his own.  On it was a slightly newer typewriter model compared to Written Script’s and a cup filled with inkwell pens and pencils.  A large set of filing cabinets sat behind and below the desk, which Final Draft sorted through as soon as he sat down in the larger blue chair opposite Written Script.

“Oh, it was some complicated mystery piece.  It wrapped up nicely, but I thought it was going to be too convoluted for the folks in Canterlot, what with being nearly four hundred pages long with thirty or so characters and too many twists when he submitted it.  Ah, well, I suppose you can’t get everything right all the time; they ate it up.”

From the shelves below the desk Final Draft pulled out a large manila envelope, some stamps, and a piece of beige stationary paper with a red and gold border.  “As for you,” he said, “I’ll be mailing this out sometime either today or tomorrow, once I’ve attached a little letter to it.  Expect to hear from me soon about your pay from the magazines and the company soon.  Once it’s been out for a while, we’ll release your first of two short story collections.”

“Two, sir?”

“Marketing idea.  Bring out the first set of eleven and get them good and interested.  Once we bring out the second set of eleven, they’ll be eating up both to own them all.  And they’ll both be around one hundred and seventy pages each, so it won’t seem so overwhelming.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me, Final Draft, sir,” Written Script said happily.  “You seem to know what you’re doing, so I’ll let you continue on.”

Final Draft sighed.  “If only Metal Quill was so cooperative.  Are you going to come to the signings?”

“I was thinking about at least going to the Canterlot bookstore.  You know, just to show some goodwill towards a fellow writer.  Perhaps that combined with the stress of the parties and campaigns will mellow him out a bit.”

“I should hope,” Final Draft agreed.  “He keeps that smug attitude much longer, and he’ll soon wear out his welcome with the Canterlot folks.  Well, enough of this gossip.  I’ll get to work on getting this ready, so for now you’re free to go.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Written Script said, getting up and bowing his head politely to Final Draft.  “I’ll call you up if I have any new ideas in the meantime.”

“Your business is always appreciated here, Written Script.”

Final Draft reached a hoof out across the table, which Written Script reached out his own hoof and shook his publisher’s.  Once he was excused, Written Script left the building.  The air was still cool damp, though a patch of sun was shining through as Written Script made his way through Ponyville.