Life is an Unwritten Book

The rain settled in that evening after the sun had set.  It was a softer rain than Written Script had expected, yet a delivery from the local weather service said the rainstorm was planned to go on for a few days.  Still, it was a pleasant relief from the scalding summer and days where not even the darkest corners of his house felt cool enough.  He had made a fire in his furnace, though he wasn’t keen on keeping it stoked.

Written believed it entirely likely that Final Draft releasing his short story to the magazine might take a few days longer as a result.  Thus, for a few days, he was free to do whatever he wanted.  Once the short story was published and Written had gotten his pay, then he could start worrying about what to do next.  Short stories had provided a steady income, but he felt he was out of shorter ideas.  He considered finding a part-time job, something that would bring in some bits he could store away in his bank account while he applied for writing grants from Canterlot.  They probably would give it to him, what with his current track record.

Perhaps, Written Script thought as he stared out the window at the falling rain, he could spend his time with Twilight these next few days.  He could check out library books, pick up some writing guides, and shoot ideas past her.  He ran through the plan over and over again in his mind.  But that would only take one day, and it was likely he’d have another day or two before Final Draft got back to him, not to mention two more days of trying to figure out something to do.

A rather unexpected thought entered his head.  Metal Quill wouldn’t be dealing with this.  He wouldn’t be staring out a window at the rain wondering whether or not the royalties would keep coming in long enough to fund his next project.  He probably was prepping himself for his signing and publicity tour, or even spending time admiring himself and how lucky he was – or, as he might put it, how lucky Final Draft was – to have a book good enough for the folks in Canterlot.  Or he could be among a crowd of adoring fans hanging on his every word, regaling them with tales of how his idea had come to him in a vision and how he knew that he would become great.  Just thinking about it caused Written Script’s front hoof to come down with such force that he made a crack in the hardwood floor of his ‘writing room’.

He needed to distract himself lest his anger get out of control.  Written Script closed his eyes for a moment and breathed slowly in and out until he felt himself calm down.  Afterwards, he opened his eyes and looked at the desk.  His typewriter and paper were neatly organized, as was the drawer with all his pens in it.  Next to the typewriter on the opposite side of the desk was the notebook Twilight had given him.

Written realized he had not thoroughly examined the notebook quite yet, picking it up and looking at the fine brown leather that shone with a slight gleam every time the light caught it.  He noticed faint gold patterns along the sides that merely looked to be ornamental work done in gold paint.  He looked to the cover and saw an intricately-designed quill on the top, also done in gold paint, with a large amount of swirling patterns and interconnecting rectangles.  It was a rather ornate specimen of a notebook, and Written realized it as one commonly sold from the Crystal Empire, of which they were very fond of their ornamental leather work.

The thought of Metal Quill came back to Written Script.  He wondered what Metal would think if he showed him the notebook he was given.  It was not exactly expensive, but it cost a pretty penny and was not very common; any writer looking for a notebook to write ideas down into would want one of them so bad.  He thought about gloating to Metal Quill about his gift.  But that wasn’t exactly a nice thing to do even if he was treating him poorly, and Written Script tried shaking the thought out.

It didn’t help at all.  The more and more he shook his head to get the thought out, the stronger the thought came back and the more of a headache Written got.  Pride, Written realized, at his own natural talent was causing him to become jealous, and that didn’t quite make him any better than Metal Quill if he gloated about it in front of him.

Staring at the notebook, though, Written Script had an idea.  He had often heard Twilight talk about authors who wrote their thoughts down in journals.  If anything bothered them, they would write it down on the page and allow themselves to be rid of it.  It was their way of processing things and making it where emotions like anger or jealousy or greed could be released in a manner that didn’t harm anyone.  Perhaps, Written thought as he took a sharpened pencil from his drawer, he could use the notebook for that.

The rain outside kept pouring down as Written Script lit up the lamp over his desk and opened the notebook to the first page.  It was nice, neat, and clean, not to mention sturdy enough to withstand pressure and not cave in or cause accidental imprints on the next page.  Positioning his pencil on the first line, Written Script began to write.

Sixth month, seventeenth day, 1003 A.N.M.

Earlier today I went to my publisher to submit a short story and found myself speaking with Metal Quill.  I used to know him from a few years ago, when I, as an already published writer of three novels and beginning work on a series of short stories, found him attend a meeting of writers that met at the Ponyville marketplace once a week.  He was a nice sort back then, and I invited him in to learn the tricks of the trade from us.  I even invited him to the workshop that A.K. Yearling hosted a few weeks later, proud of the fact that the relatively small number of writers in Ponyville could add yet another to their number.

But the Metal Quill I knew back then is long gone.  In his place is an arrogant, self-righteous stallion who forgets he started much the same as we all did: newcomers to the profession, our talent known but needing to be honed, perfected.  Every time I see him, he angers me with his dismissive and belittling statements, and yet I cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy every time I reflect on how he has received such wildfire success in so short a time while I have been writing and publishing for nearly eight years now and have never found such luck or fame as he has.  I only hope he is still young enough to grow out of it in time, but every time I think about it I want to take his own book and whack him across the face with it.  Hard.

Perhaps it is the attention that grates me the most.  I appreciate his success, but the fact that it’s gone to his head – the crowds, the praise and acclaim, the fact that practically everyone worships him for his achievement, while I stand aside with hardly any supporters but my family, my editor, and my publisher, having fallen out of the limelight that was once mine.  Perhaps if I had someone who cared about me and adored me as much as Metal Quill’s new wave of followers does, I would not be so angered.

Written Script stopped writing for a moment.  That was a thought he hadn’t realized before.  And yet there it was, staring up at him as clear as black on white.  What if he had someone with him?  Would the company of another pony that loved him amidst his predicament be enough to stave off jealousy?

For a few minutes, Written Script pondered stopping.  He had found his anger had dissipated and the journal had done its task in relieving it.  But that last sentence kept bothering him and he stared at it for a long time.  His mind began racing, and almost without realizing it, he put his pencil back on the page.

Perhaps it could be a unicorn mare.  One with violet eyes that remind me of the sky just before the sun sets below the horizon.  She could have a coat of pure white, a coat that shines and shimmers as though she had taken great care of it.  And perhaps she would have a bright golden mane, one that flows around her head and neck almost as though she had her own halo.  Her cutie mark would be that of a heart, for her talent would be spreading love to those she holds dear.

She would be the type of mare that would be smart and intelligent and willing to learn.  Yet she would also be intimate and passionate, closely emotionally connected to the ones she loves and who love her in turn.  She would know how to enjoy a quiet evening at home, or how to go between work and play.  She would be tender and gentle, faithful and loving, even-tempered and vibrant, beautiful on the outside and inside.

Written Script pushed the notebook away from him.  His writing, he noticed, had gone from quick scribbles on the page to long, careful lettering that felt like it took a long time to write.  He thought of tearing the page out of the notebook and surrounded the page with his magic.  The writing was no more than wishful thinking, him pouring out things that would never happen onto the page, for a few scant moments living in an impossible dream.

But wasn’t that what writing was about?  Wasn’t it about those few moments of wishful thinking that led to moments that one could live an impossible dream?  All because of black ink on small white pieces of paper, one could lose themselves in a dream for a little while, for a few moments that dream becoming real.  In the end, Written Script set aside his pencil and released the page from his magic, the notebook still intact and Written feeling comfortably pleased with himself again.

Written Script took the notebook and carefully closed it, making sure the edges had not bent, before opening another drawer in his desk and gently setting it down.  Perhaps he would write more about this mare sometime soon.  Even if it was wishful thinking, Written Script thought as he trotted off to bed, that didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge himself in it.