The Following Story Has Been Discontinued

by Fillyphil

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad, Original Character
Length: 6959

Okay, um. A short description for my story... Ugh, I can't think. I can never think when it matters most. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself writing this description before the story's even finished.

"This is a story about Twiddle and his bad night." Erm... It's straight to the point, but I think I can be a little more thoughtful than that. Let's start again.

"We all have been there, on the cusp of giving up on everything you've ever worked for." Err -no. I really don't want to appear preachy nor make too broad of assumptions either. It shouldn't be so obvious -it should be subtle, portraying a meaningful emotion and moral without ever actually saying it outright. Just try one more time.

"Down under the the stolid stars gazing upon the earth, beneath the smokestacks and thatch roofs, Twiddle sat at his-" no, no, no; this isn't right either. I mean, sure it is an omniscient narrator like it should, but... I don't know, it's nice but it just doesn't fit in with the feel quite right. Ugh.

Okay, focus. The summary needs to reflect the story in a brief selection, so what is this story? Oh Celestia, is it bad that I don't know?

Published 2014-02-23 06:40:11 UTC
Last updated 2014-02-23 06:40:11 UTC

Chapter Zero

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The thinnest hand jolted minutely to every tiny dash mark in succession, taking a short eternity for it to stutter its way around the face of the clock, and then start over again. Twiddle sat at the table with his head on its side as he watched the second-hand, one fore-leg wrapped around from his muzzle to the crown of his head, and the other standing on its elbow with the hoof reaching down like a crane and fiddling with his mane. A candle in its pan sat at the table with him and projected a radius of light that reached just far enough to illuminate the wall behind him with a reflected dull glow on the plaster surface, but otherwise left much of the dining room and adjoining kitchen in darkness. The silence rung sharply in his ears.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Where did the ‘tock’ ever come from? Twiddle asked himself. His intrigue into the realization lingered for only a moment before dissipating quickly in the confines of his mind as an abandoned speculation, pressing his thoughts back to nothingness and silence.

He shifted his position into one with his forehead on the edge of the dining table, his fore-legs wrapped around the sides of his head and his eyes gazing down into the stark darkness in his lap. The shadows over his groin appeared definite and obvious at first, as the darkness seemingly should have been, but as he observed closer, without moving his head from the table’s edge, he saw sparkles and flashes that glowed and shimmered like fireworks. It created shapes that shone green and red, and faded back and forth between existence and naught.

Darkness wasn't the lack of something, he postulated, but like, a boiling pot of water, so full of potential energy that it seeps out into the world as brief images and flashes.

Come on, focus.

He sat up straight in the stiff wooden chair, blinking away his exhaustion as a piece of paper that had been stuck to his head a moment before it peeled off and drifted back to the table top. He straightened the page on top of a stack of others and re-read the last sentence written on it.

“She stepped out, waving goodbye. ‘Au revoir!’ she called back…”

Happily? Excitedly? Gingerly? I know there is a word for this. He laid his head back on the table’s edge and filled the groove the corner had already made on his brow. There’s always a word.

Tick.

Tick.

A word you can never find.

Tick.

Tick.

Go to bed, you’re too tired to write, a disheartened voice in his head mumbled.

If you opted out of writing every time you were too tired, you'd never get anything done, another voice protested.

But how can you be expected to write feeling like this? It’s unbearable. You’ve wanted to write before at odd times in the day, just wait until then. Maybe you’ll be up to it tomorrow. He shrugged.

No, you can't. You need this peace of mind or it'll bug you every waking moment for not doing it. He glanced at his notebook of unfinished stories nearby on the table.

You ought to be happy with what you can already do. Things aren't so bad now. You're a very good cleaner, you'll do fine as a good dishwasher.

But you're not happy with what you have, and you can't help that. If you'd listen to your heart, you'd know for sure that writing was destined for you.

You're not even listening to yourself.

He wrapped his forelegs around his head and blocked direct light from his lap as he did before and plunged the space between his haunches into advanced darkness. He watched the obscure void and wondered of the unlikely and uncanny. Horror first came to mind, as it always did with any pony as paranoid and imaginative as he is.

He wondered of the horrific possibilities that could occur in the uncertain darkness between his legs and the chair, a veiny eye opening and looking up at him, or a thousand black, lanky spiders crawling out, or a cold hoof reaching out and digging into his thigh. But what both terrified and fascinated him the most was the idea of nothing -a portal to a universe of nothing; dark, infinite, just a constant cold breeze. He imagined how very easy it would be for him to fall into the hole in his chair, into this universe, and he'd perhaps fall forever -Alive for how long, he couldn’t tell nor wouldn’t be able to tell in the pitch black of the universe. Perhaps, he trembled, he’d live forever.

Come on, there is no time to pretend.

He sat back up, looking towards the clock, a modest white disk on the wall with a black, plastic frame. 11:20. He sighed. It had been twenty minutes since he erased one word, and thirty since he wrote it. He leaned on his elbow and tapped the knob of his neck, looking around into the dark and observing the shadowy surroundings outside of the radius of the candle’s light before looking back to his page. He read the last sentence one more time.

“She stepped out, waving goodbye. ‘Au revoir,’ She called back.”

Does it even need an adjective for how she called back? Or even a sentence to say she did? He groaned at how trivial and tedious the ethics of a single sentence were, then sighed with an added exasperated groan as he wondered how much he’d have to debate internally for every other sentence. He needed a voice, he knew, that’d write with certainty and wouldn't let small things bog him down. All great authors have developed a writing voice, I just need to find mine.

He made a cursory attempt at finding what he could only vaguely describe as 'a voice' -a sort of pre-made rulebook that had everything he should and shouldn’t do to create a good story. But for whatever reason that was beyond him, it was missing. A scent of obliviousness wafted around his head, stifling every emotion to numb his mind into an intense apathy.

It must be the exhaustion.

It is.

No, It’s just your imagination.

He rubbed his forehead, then trailed his hooves down the side of his face. All he could think of was how much better he would feel in the warm and soft embrace of his blanket, and how easy it would be to let his eyes close. He looked back to the clock. 11:25.

Just write a paragraph and you can sleep in peace.

He straightened himself again. Just a paragraph. Just a paragraph. The pencil in his mouth flickered vertically. Skip the nitpicking. What comes next? The pencil flicked to the edges of his mouth, then into zig-zags and figure-eight’s. He then pulled the pencil into his mouth with his tongue and gnawed on the soft wooden shaft, rolling it in his mouth to be sure there would be no absence of teeth marks on each side of the hexagon.

Twiddle, pay attention.

He spat out the pencil onto the table with drool speckling the paper. He grabbed the newly textured writing utensil, some of its paint chipped, and dried the saliva with the underside of his fore-legs, then wiped the droplets from the paper with the same fore-leg, leaving dark spots speckled across the sheet and yellow shavings on the underside of the fore-leg.

Just one, single paragraph. He went to read the last line again, but then thought better of it and diverted his eyes to the top of the page, going over the scene in its entirety to find what might be inspiration or just simply an idea to finish the story with. But as he read, his stomach soured, going over each individual word like a speed bump. He grew despaired as he reached a particularly atrocious series of sentences.

He laid his elbow on the table and pressed a hoof against his temple. How can it sound so good in my head and read so badly on paper? There was no sense of pacing, the language wasn’t engaging, the style was lackluster, much of it was simply being told, and the overall plot was barely held together; but Twiddle was only aware that it was a cacophony of words -something anypony reading it would ascertain. Perhaps in the morning after a good night’s sleep, when his mind was its freshest and unburdened, he would grasp the finer and more complex points of writing, but tonight he would be a foal's equal.

He wondered when the inspiration to write what seemed to surely become a beautiful romance novel, degraded to a dread to even face it. He was afraid of seeing what he worked excruciatingly hard on fall apart, he knew, but he avoided this truth to his fear and searched for something more obscure and less pathetic and ultimately easier to solve. More accurately, he hounded for these excuses, frantic to find some other explanation, frequently substituting the obvious for the uncanny only so he wouldn’t have to face the real problem. "It is my mood" or "I should have fleshed out the idea more before I started", and even "It's just my natural writing style that seems bad, it isn't my fault"

But in this desperation he aroused one answer -one above and behind the others in the dark corner of his mind. It glared at him through cold eyes, straight into his heart and into his soul. He didn’t dare make direct eye contact, but even then he could feel it's gaze upon him any time he lifted a pencil. He wouldn't dare say it, so he spelled it out to himself to have it out of his mouth and out of his mind: I.C.A.N.N.O.T.B.E.C.O.M.E.A.W.R.I.T.E.R. He immediately then jumbled the words in his head, perhaps even eating a few so that it couldn’t be pieced together in the way he feared it could. But part of him knew exactly what those letters had spelled, and that part of him was dead-set on weeding out that grim truth.

Stuck on one story and itching to start something new -a recurring theme with you.

He ground his teeth as he thought about the perpetual cycle: Inspiration and a new idea, a period of literary prolificness, -then after some time- apathy for the story, lackluster writing drive, and the story's carcass tumbling to a stop until a new story bursts into life from the ashes of the previous. He thought about starting over again and puckered his face, shaking his head violently as if he drank a bottle of cough syrup. It seemed an almost unbearable concept to give up all he had managed to accomplish, yet he’d done it before, and could do it again.

Who are you kidding? It will happen again. You should just trash this and go to bed, it’ll save you the trouble. You’re gonna do it, I know you too well.

A fresh idea bristled over the fence, far greener and lush than the brown and dead concept that he sat on. He laid his face in his hooves with his elbows on the table.

But you’d only get stuck in the same position! What would starting over achieve besides a delayed inevitable? But the hopeful idea already rooted itself into his mind. Anything, Just write anything at all. Just whatever you do, do not give up on this story.

Okay, alright. Anything, anything. He snatched up the pencil into his teeth and immediately and haphazardly scribbled the first thought that happened to be wandering aimlessly in his mind.

“He smiled back.”

His stomach sloshed with acid. What even is this? What’s the point of this entire scene? He glared at the wood grains in the table top with frustration. He gathered that it was supposed to be something, but the word evaded his grasp. He read back for an idea, but his mind persisted its blankness through each word. He dropped his head on the table with a thump and groaned. He hated everything about the scene, but he didn’t know why, or even how to fix it.

He recognized this feeling -It was a regular visitor. Damn this frustration. He sneered at the grooves in the tables surface and lightly battered the wood-planked floor with a quick, rhythmic, succession of hoof taps with his lower legs.

Sit up

He sat up, holding a breath in his chest, and looked back to the beginning of the paragraph.

“She stepped out, waving goodbye. ‘Au revoir!’ she called back. He smiled back.”

He instinctively flipped the pencil around in his mouth and erased the repeated adverb. There’s the most effective work I’ve done tonight. The sarcastic thought curled into a subtle furrow in his brow. Perhaps he was over thinking things? Who am I kidding, of course I am. The day I’m not over-thinking something is the day I know happiness. He saw something inside him -for just a split second, and though in that split second what he saw was only a blur, there was no doubt in his mind that it was hope.

What now? They’re supposed to meet up at the cafe later, but what until then? His mind exhibited more blankness. He blinked away his drowsiness and laid the side of his head on the table, looking over the wood grains of its surface that then blurred, as it was too much effort to keep his eyes focussed. He thought about his other works in progress and looked to his nearby notebook that contained them, wondering if he could transfer to another that he felt more inspired to do. But as he thought about it, -“Forever”, “Downpour”, “Fiendish Friends and Foolish Fillies”- he realised he was stuck in the same position in each: either written into a corner or a lack of inspiration.

Dropping “Forever” for a so-called ‘better’ idea was how you started on this.

He sat up and inhaled, then blew out a constant, choked stream of air through his nostrils that made a faint hiss so he could feel the pressure in his chest dissipate gradually. His eyes wandered the dark kitchen across from him, looking at the shadowy shapes and distinguishing what they were. Cabinets, containers, the long mane of some ghost mare? No. It’s the rags for washing my hooves. He stopped his eyes at the modestly sized monolith that he recognized as the fridge and realised the low rumble in his belly.

He slid off his chair and stepped into the kitchen to open the fridge door to a blinding light. Many things looked appetizing to him -yogurt, celery, apples- but carrots were the snack food he always had an appetite for. He grabbed two long dull-orange carrots from the low compartment, but realised he would still be hungry and would be back for more, and so grabbed four more. He bit into one and turned to go back to his chair at the dining table. But as his mind began to wander, he passed it.

If I make it big as a writer, one piece of advice I’ll save for the newbies would be to assure them that writing is hard for everyone. It isn’t easy for anypony no matter how professional or ametuer. If I of all ponies could become a writer, then anypony can; that’s what I’ll tell Kenny Read. Yeah, I’d be famous enough for my writing that I’d interviewed by ponies like Kenny Read, like all the great best selling authors. He reached the dining room wall at the fringes of the candle light, his eyes looking far beyond the uneven, plaster surface, and turned back around towards the kitchen.

I wonder if he would come to my place to interview me, or would I go to his? Where would my home even be by then? I know for sure I won’t be staying in this trash can of a house. And what does his house even look like? I like to think that he lives fairly modestly despite his wealth, but hey, I wouldn’t judge if he’s a little extravagant. I might embellish just a tad myself. But I think it’d be the least intrusive if we met for the interview at a restaurant or cafe. I’m thinking outside -sometime before noon- when there’s still a bit of a chill in the air from the early morning and nowhere near the city and its smog. A shiver pulsed through him as he thought of sitting in the early cold, birds singing in the trees, the sun on his face, and fresh air running through his lungs.

I’d tell him that I wasn’t born to write in the least bit. Firstly, I have Attention Deficit Disorder, so I don’t go one sentence without cleaning the house or contemplating the meaning of life -Kenny Read would laugh at that-, I’ve got a small vocabulary, and I don’t even like reading that much. Wouldn’t Kenny be shocked hearing me say that I don’t like reading that much! He chuckled to himself with a mouth full of carrot, reaching the fridge and about-facing back in the other direction. Every pro I know recommends reading, but that really just isn’t my thing. I’d be known as the author who never liked reading very much! Like an artist that hates painting or a CEO who hates money. Wouldn’t that make some ripples in the creative world!

I’d get invited to one of the author get-togethers because of my literary fame, and get to meet all the famous pony writers. I wonder what prank we’ll do that year? They only do one every other year, but I’m sure I can convince them to do one for my first year if I fall on a skipped year. Last year’s prank was the most daring yet, I’m not sure my year could top it. They ran a fancy restaurant in Canterlot with disguises and botched everything from the cleaning to the meals and customer service. A.K.Yearling spilled an entire bowl of soup on one rich couple, another -I forgot his name- intentionally wrote down all the wrong orders and there were tables trading food -I couldn’t believe the article when it said that!-, but it was definitely Stallion King who stole the night when he took a particularly snooty mare’s order. He got yelled at for getting it mixed up as if he were “trying to get on her nerves”, so he apologized, came back with her order, and did it without his disguise on -and the mare was so red! He reached the wall and turned around, smiling and shaking his head for the poor embarrassed mare.

I’d suggest we go run a library and see how long it’d take for ponies to recognize us. George Horsewell and Ernie Canterway could pretend to be obnoxious visitors. I think Mart Twang’s style would be more of an “incompetent librarian”. I’d personally go find someone reading one of my books and comment under my breath how much I disliked it as I sorted books or something. The mare would make the most offended face and look up, ready to retort, and she’d immediately recognize me and get all red trying to quickly apologize. I’d insist it was fine no matter, maybe even sign her book if she asked. He grinned as he thought of some pony getting flustered in front of him. Maybe she’d be cute. I’d take the time to listen to everything she liked about my book; I like it when authors take the time to listen to their fans. I think she’d like the main character, he-

And just like that, his train of thought ended in an instant derailment. It was as he tried to recall a character that didn’t quite exist entirely in his own head, that snapped him out of his imaginative stupor. He realised he’d been fantasizing again -painfully, as he also realised he was trying to think up compliments about his book to put into the mouth of an imaginary fan. He grimaced at his own immaturity. He looked to the clock. 12:23.

“Damn.” The vulgar remark pierced the silence more effectively than he had wanted and the word reverberated in his ears. He filled the chair with himself, wrapped in dread, and laid his eyes on the sentence that was the plight of his existence.

“She stepped out, waving goodbye. ‘Au revoir!’ she called back. He smiled.”

He hung the sorrowful frustration in his hooves with his face. This is painful -both writing this and reading it. He hated every sentence of it. Nothing was conveyed; no feeling, no tone, no mood, no emotion. It read like a plank of wood. And ever-so-suddenly, starting something new didn’t seem so bad of an idea. He had a great idea for a horror novel built around a maze-

But you’ve already gotten so far. Just tough this one out. Do you really want all this time to go to waste like it did the other seven?

He brought his hooves from his face and reluctantly tucked his new idea into his pocket. But instead of going for the pencil, he elected to laying his forehead on the table edge, looking back into the shadows of his lap. But the view had already been seen and the thought already thought of and the shadow around his groin lost its ominous luster to him. He turned his head on its side and fluttered his eyes as they tried to shut.

There is no sparkle of inspiration tonight, just go to sleep; It'll come eventually.

He let his guard down during that moment. His eyes dropped closed and he finally embraced the comfort and peace that rest and relaxation offered to him on a velvet pillow. It was deadly quiet to his ear. He could hear the flame flicker and fizzle, or at least could swear he did. Perhaps it was just his imagination.

The darkness shimmered before his closed eyes, the candle light pulsing through unintrusively as a faint, red glow on the underside of his eye lid. Sleep approached like an old friend whose company he hadn’t had the pleasure of having for what seemed like a very long time.

That candle is a fire hazard.

He sat up abruptly, jarring himself from drowsiness, his eyelids dragging against his cornea. He looked into the flame of the candle as It flickered and danced, burning a dark spot in the middle of his vision. If he extinguished the candle now, that’d be it for the session. Finished. He didn’t have any matches on him, so if he smothered it now, he knew he wouldn’t have the energy or drive to go through the trouble of trying to find a match in the pitch darkness. It would be horribly easy to quit now.

He returned his attention to the piece of paper, wrinkled from his fidgeting and laying on it. Just one more paragraph. Just one more paragraph. He returned to the beginning of the page, hoping to grab the feeling of the story by reflecting on what was already written.

“She saw his face and was instantly intrigued.”

He fell on the paper with the flat of his forehead, but immediately caught himself and sat back up. He skimmed the page and noticed a recurring pattern of story ‘telling’ instead of story ‘showing’, a major flaw with most amatuer writers that he, himself, fell into frequently despite his prowess of spotting it. He felt a compelling need to be rid of it, not just for the sake of removing the errors, but to remove what burned him like the lit end of a cigar to his brain. Perhaps this is what was hindering his creative flow, he thought. The rock in the gear, the rod in the spokes. He felt no compelling reason to keep it, non sentimental or logical otherwise, and the scene wasn't fully fleshed out anyway. All roads seemed to lead to a place without those particular paragraphs, so without another thought, he pulled out a large eraser, and with several horizontal swipes across the paper, expunged three quarters of a page from written words. Confident that he just demolished a brick wall in his path to creating a story, he set his pencil on the first blank line that was smudged grey with the remains of its former occupants.

Be careful not to get distracted. Now, think this through, what is this scene’s role in the plot?

It’s the introduction of the female character. The mare has just caught him staring at her.

Alright, now what’s the scenery and mood?

A diner. A diner? Is it weird that they’re going to a cafe later almost immediately after the diner?

Ignore that, you can write around it later. For now you gotta simply keep up the pace. What else?

It’s morning. It’s crowded with regulars. I remember going to a diner once, it sounded like...

“The clinking of dishes and the chatter of ponies faded into a louder level of silence as he gazed at her, one beam of sunlight filtering through a pane directly onto her. She took refuge from the light beneath her sunhat like a pony bashful of the attention driven from her beauty. The exceptional mare’s sun hat sat like a landmark declaring the head of beauty and innocence.”

He read the short paragraph and lifted upwards, a sense of excitement pinching his gut. That’s not bad at all, especially the world building. The last sentence is a little out of place, but it’s not so bad for a dish-washer, he boasted.

That’s it! now go on.

Okay, then maybe some more obsessing from Lint to really convince the reader that he has fallen in love at first sight.

“She looked…”

He sat with his lips pursed, his eyes jumping about their range of motion. -magnificent? -like an angel? -perfect? Eh, either too obvious or too cliche. A dastardly familiar lump formed in his throat.

Don’t panic, just write what seems right.

He brought up the eraser and expunged the last sentence, then brought down the pencil tip onto the remnants.

“It was beauty he was not deserving of, he knew.”

It’s… nice, but what does he mean by saying that? Foreshadowing? He groaned disparagingly and wrapped his hooves over his head while sitting his jaw on the table. Why is this so difficult? Should writing be this painful? He knew immediately otherwise. He felt joy and excitement while writing every now and then, and especially when he first started. Before, he could write anything his imagination was capable of conjuring. It was around the time he first decided to throw out every other possible future to become a writer, that he truly enjoyed writing. Admittedly, he was no good at all, but he at least enjoyed writing then. It was something he looked forward to every waking moment and he could, to the very least, interpret his thoughts and feelings abstractly to paper. He could fill four pages top to bottom in a single session, and maybe have two sessions in one day. He awed at the thought of writing four pages a day.

He sighed disheartedly. He loved writing back then, and if anything, writing became even more important to him now. But even when his interest was vague at best, he at least put an incredible effort into writing. And what of himself now? He wanted to write more badly than ever, but his actions told a different story reminiscent of apathy and disinterest.

He felt warm rereading his older stories. They had a life of their own that blossomed from out beneath the mistakes and errors, through cracks of occasional genius. It was something that his newer stories lacked. His recent attempts of writing sat like lead blocks that were metal inside and out. They didn’t have that seed of wonder his early ones did. They were devoid of such life; marionettes with wooden smiles and sawdust tears. He rolled his eyes at his melodrama. The phrase didn’t mean very much to anything in the situation, and it killed the innate poeticness of the phrase. He flinched with embarrassment at himself. If this isn’t metaphor for how my stories go… He gazed off into nowhere, his mind spacing away.

He became aware of the passage of time and looked towards the clock. 1:45. He leaned back in his chair and drug his hooves down his face. He usually preferred wooden chairs, like the one he sat in for their stiffness, in an odd way, but back pains slowly encroached on him. If this were me 2 years ago, I’d have already finished another page and a half. A warmth filled his belly as he thought. Hell, if I kept it up since then till now, I'd have already finished a book and would have been on my way with the next. He stood up and walked into the kitchen. I’d be a pro by now if I kept up the practice at that pace. It is after all, just me who is in the way of me becoming a great author. I could have been good enough to have a book in every library in Equestria. Ponies would awe at my ability to convert feelings into tangible words. I would have even been famous enough to be invited to the Grand Galloping Gala.

I can see it now. I’d be on my way from an apartment I rented in Canterlot -I always wanted an apartment in Canterlot- and It would be a beautiful evening to walk -I heard you can still see the stars even in the heart of the city. It would be a bit chilly, but I wouldn’t mind, I like a little nibble of cold. A passerby in their carriage on their way to the Gala would perhaps recognize me from a picture in a magazine or newspaper and offer me a ride, but I’d have to graciously decline. I might make him self-conscious for walking while he road in his carriage, though I wouldn’t mean it. I would really just want to walk that night. I hope there wouldn’t be too many ponies out about Canterlot that night. It would be fantastic if I could have that evening walk to myself. He turned around and headed out the kitchen.

But when I reach the lawn, the gala building- gala building? What do they call that building? Regardless, the building would be lit up, the colors contrasting starkly to the dark night sky. The Canterlot spires would rise up in the distance with big and menacing silhouettes. I’d make my way down the path towards entrance with several elegantly dressed ponies exiting their carriages, standing out perhaps because of my bland cloths. I’d imagine I would look mysterious because of my practicality: a brown suit jacket and fedora to keep things simple. I always wanted a suit jacket and fedora. I bet there’d be an excited murmur among them for the party, despite their attempts to appear sophisticated and above the sort of thing. I don't know why, but I always beam a little on the inside when ponies break from their stereotypes into the base emotions we all share.

I’d reach the large entrance and feel the warmth coming in from the inside, it glowing orange and yellow from the tall windows and front. I’d be sure to give the guards an acknowledging nod. I always had a great respect for the guard. Maybe It’s because I dreamt of being apart of it when I was young. I think they would appreciate being recognized even if they don’t show it, especially since they have to stand in the cold all night. I wonder if I could offer them something from inside to eat? He reached the edge of the light, his head poking blissfully ignorant into the darkness, and turned around.

But what would define the entire night for me would definitely be meeting the princess. I’ve only ever seen pictures of her. I can only imagine what it would be like to actually meet her. I don’t deny it, I think she’s beautiful. But who in the kingdom doesn’t think the same? I can only imagine now, waiting in line with classed-up ponies ahead and behind me. And step by step, I grow closer to her at the top of a grand staircase. I’d probably be extremely nervous, even despite my fame I’d have by then. I’d be rehearsing what to say -what would I say? First and foremost I’d have to compliment, I wouldn’t be able to keep it to myself, and that I am sure of. I might even get a charmed reaction. I hope I wouldn’t appear too upfront. Maybe she’d even congratulate me on my book. Imagine if she were a fan!

Just listen to yourself

The dim kitchen warped into clarity around him.

There's no more doubt about it, you are delusional -dangerously so. You haven’t even finished a chapter on your book and you’re already fantasizing about success and fame. And all you're doing is setting yourself up for a fantastic disappointment. He shook his head solemnly

B-but, when it does get finished-

When? By next year? -like your first story should've this year? Twiddle, can you look into a mirror and swear to yourself it'll be done by then? Could you swear it on everything you care about?

...Yes.

Of course you can say that, but when have you ever backed up your promises? Remember your history, Twiddle.

Yes, I'll finish it by next year! It'll be done, I promise. It has to be done by then, I have no other choice anyhow.

Don't do this to yourself, Twiddle. You've been here enough times to recognize what is happening, you can't feign ignorance anymore.

I want to work, and work hard. I want to do whatever it takes to bring this story together. There is no reason in the world for it not to be written if I want to so badly, it would make no sense. It will be- it has to get done!

No, you want to want to write. You're forcing your mind, that was never meant for originality or critical thinking, to do something that requires both and it is killing you emotionally every time you fail.

No, no, no. This is not something I should even be considering. Anyone can do anything with enough practice, why would I be any different? I know I can write if I try.

This isn't about ability, it's about you wanting to do it. Is it writing that you love doing or the prospect of fame and attention that drives you? If you were the last pony on earth, would you still write just for yourself?

...I have more things in my life than just writing, you know.

Yes, things that you do more often than writing and enjoy more too.

No- I've already invested so much of my life already. I don't want to give up.

You're good at doing things you don't like, Twiddle -too good. This isn't giving up, it's freeing you from yourself and your impossible expectations.

...

How many papers have you filled for your next story?

...six.

Not a tower of papers, not a pile, hardly even a stack. It’s six papers on top of each other.

But they're covered front to back!

But how long did that take you? -to write fourteen whole pages?

…

Seven months.

That’s- that’s not fair...

It is perfectly fair. You didn't put the time in to do the work and you didn't receive the pleasure of success. This happens all the time to everyone. You can't be good at everything, and that's okay, but you have got to stop measuring yourself up by things that don't matter to you.

No, no, no! You're not supposed to agree with him! You two's sole purpose is and has always been to contradict each other to keep me lucid!

I am truly sorry, but for once, I am too tired. I'm tired of playing this charade that is getting you nowhere, the exact opposite of what my purpose is. I'm supposed to push you along and make the right decisions, but you never let me give you my greatest piece of advice I could offer you. If you are ever going to start living your life, you've got to stop pretending, and that starts with us.

"No, please no!" Twiddle cried aloud. "I need you!"

Will you quit it with the the imaginary friends, you’re a grown stallion who’s trying to separate himself from responsibility with your stupid made-up voices, but you forget it’s you who’s talking to yourself this entire time, not some separate entities in your head with what you pretend to be intelligence and wisdom. It’s you trying to validate yourself because you’re too scared to talk to real ponies. If you really wanted to be a writer, you’d take charge for once in your damn life and talk to somepony not manipulated by your narcissistic need to be right.

"W-w-wait a second, please"

No more waiting, Twiddle

"I-I can't do this without y-you!" Tears built up at his eyes.

You- I am talking to myself. "I am talking to myself"

He remembered. He wasn't at the grand galloping gala, nor a famous author, nor even a noteworthy individual. But deeper than that, he remembered they were just apart of his imagination. But the deepest and most horrible still, he'd been through this before. He knew he lived in alternating states of fantasy joy and empty sadness, bridged with painful realization that ushered him to both emotional states back and forth. And no matter how hard he'd cry or threaten himself, trying to dunk his head into a cold bucket of reality to try and imprint the moment of desperation into his memory, he'd forget the very next day, brushing it off as another one of his 'episodes' and going on to find himself back where he warned himself he'd be.

It would all happen again.

He stood still, trembling on top of the linoleum tiles, a sudden hopelessness grabbing him by the heart with a cold, taloned claw, as guilt pierced into his guts with a pitchfork and twisted his entrails. He glanced around with glazed eyes into the darkness outside of the radius of the candle’s light, looking for evidence to whether he deserved the pain he felt -and finding it in the patheticness of his home and in his negatively-biased memories.

He looked solemnly to the clock. 2:47. With profound reluctance, he inched to the edge of the table to see what painful reality that existed for him on the paper. He looked past the ghostly remains of undone work to the last sentence at very top of the page.

“It was beauty he was not deserving of, he knew” His diaphragm spasmed as he bit his lip to try and contain himself, a sudden dumbbell of incredible weariness weighing on him.

He gazed at the page as a singular truth came into sharp clarity in his mind. He stayed like this for several minutes, staring at this truth and listening to the clock’s ticking like a heartbeat accompanied with the everlasting ringing in his ears that stopped him from listening too closely.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

At last, with slightly damp cheeks and empty eyes, he reached a hoof to slide the papers on the table to the edge to be grabbed with his teeth, then flipped open his writing notebook and placed them inside and lifted the notebook. He gazed at the flame for another moment, basking in its stolid glow to reassure himself that what truth he saw was indeed real, before he would do what would be irreversible.

I have to break the cycle

At last, he carefully craned his neck and hovered the corner of the notebook above the flame. It lit quickly. He turned around and placed the cardboard, with the fire quickly encroaching on his muzzle, into a pan on the stove and watched the flames grow.

He extinguished the candle, leaving the slowly growing glow in the pan to provide light as he turned away, until he turned a corner and felt his way into the pitch black hallway, through, and into his bedroom. The blankets and sheets were cool, but as he crawled into the bed and wrapped himself in the thicket, it warmed. He reached for a pillow and clutched it to his body and reveled in the initial cool feel against his belly.

He vaguely wished for the fire to get out of hoof and burn his house down with him in it. He knew he would be furious with himself in the morning, and he could only imagine how he could live with himself if he didn't parish in a blaze. He thought about his book for a moment-

Sleep.

-only a moment. His mind blanked of all feeling and thoughts, leaving only a residue of disappointment that trailed behind him into his dreams. The second hand of his bedroom's heavy grandfather clock was the last sound he heard.

Tock.

Tock.

Tock.

Author's Note

Thanks to DaveTheBrony and Ungrateful Potato for their feedback on its early renditions.

Extra special thanks to 8542Madness for his skillful editing and thoughtfulness.

All of my editing assistance came from Editors-R-Us.