THE FOLLOW-UP
1
“Write what you know.”
That had been the advice from Keen Scribe’s publisher before everything seemed to blow up in his face. Sadly, that was the exact same advice he was being presented with now. Only now did his publisher sound—and look—a whole lot happier from doling out his simplistic recommendation.
And Scribe thought he knew precisely why that fat Earth pony that could barely fit behind his desk was smirking the way he was. He had a goldmine on his hooves. He thought he had one.
“What do you mean you don’t got nothing?”
His publisher’s face hurriedly lost most of its luster.
“I mean I haven’t written a single good word,” Scribe answered evenly. “Not a single good one since the last book.”
“You mean your only book.”
“Yes, that one.” Scribe leaned back in his swivel chair, averting his publisher’s narrowing gaze.
“You mean the book that practically everyone in Equestria read? The one that is still selling out in bookstores?”
His publisher was correct about the first part, but not the second. Sales of Red Lights—Keen Scribe’s 332-page magnum opus tale of death and debauchery—had been steadily slipping since the two years that had passed since its publication. But Scribe wasn’t about to fill him in on such disparaging details at the present time.
“It did well,” Scribe muttered.
“You trying to make me laugh, Scribe? I’m not quite in the laughing mood to tell the truth. Over a year overdo and not a chapter or a word or a title from you. Ponies are expecting things from you! I’m expecting things from you!”
Scribe rubbed a hoof anxiously along his armrest. “When I wrote that first book I was no one. Now ponies look at me differently—they notice me, every day—and I don’t like it. I spent a solid year researching for my first book, and I was able to do that because no one cared about what I was doing. But now that they all want more… it’s…”
“You spent a year just on research?” His publisher raised both brows.
Scribe nodded.
“Then you’ve had two years to research for this one. Now where’s my book!”
When his publisher noted the author’s instant trepidation he uncorked a stomach full of lower-register laughter. Still with batches of giggles in tow, he trotted around his desk to wrap a meaty leg around his potential money-making machine.
“You thought of doing a sequel to Red Lights?” he asked jovially.
He’s doing the father-son bonding thing again, Scribe thought distantly. It was what originally won his attention to publish his book out of their company. Only months later did he realize just what an act certain ponies could put on to get what they wanted. But everyone has secrets they keep hidden…
Scribe couldn’t face that beaming grin. “Most of my characters died by the end.”
“Prequel then? I’m sure ponies everywhere would love to know just how it all started.”
The leg wrapped around his shoulder pulled him in even closer.
Scribe said thickly, “Prequels never work.”
His publisher sighed. “Got anything at all then?”
Scribe honestly thought about it before answering.
“No,” he nearly moaned.
The leg pulling him in released its hold and faster than a well-worked magic trick, his publisher was back behind his desk. Any detail of some potential father figure had been wiped clean from his face.
His publisher propped his many chins with two touching hooves. “Then we’ve got ourselves a problem, I’m afraid. Your book did well, it did extremely well, but ponies are only interested in what’s new. Two years is a long time to cough out some fresh material, and you’ve given me nothing. And now you say you can’t even write at all anymore? How am I supposed to react to that, Scribe?”
Scribe didn’t answer.
As though he had, his publisher nodded regardless. “I thought so. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna give you two weeks to give me something—anything. Go to your big house in the middle of nowhere, do whatever research it was you did the first time to get the juices flowing, but come back with something. Otherwise we’re going to drop you like a cold potato. A stalled writer is nothing but blank pages, Scribe. Even you must understand that.”
Scribe slowly opened his mouth to speak, but his publisher already had a hoof in the air.
“And don’t tell me that you can’t write because you’re somewhat famous now. That purple Princess whatever-her-name-is from Ponyville still gives this publishing house a new study text every two months. And you know how famous she is? Answer: very.” He paused to take a breath and lower his voice. “Go home. Relax. And try and pretend this is just your first book all over again—no pressure, no peers, no insurmountable odds, no nothing. And always remember my advice, Scribe:
“Write what you know.”
2
Keen Scribe’s problems all began from a small picture in the paper. To clarify, the picture itself might have been small, yet the ramifications it caused were anything but.
Red Lights the novel had a soft release in a few book stores around Ponyville and at other smaller locations. The seldom reviewers that actually gave it a once-over were positive but hardly glowing. Those early opinions would soon be crushed under the weight of its sheer popularity.
Given to her from a former student as an “interesting read”, Princess Celestia—the single largest pony in all of Equestria—stopped for a photo while taking in some light reading in the Canterlot gardens. What book had it happened to be? Red Lights. What cover image was directly facing the camera and not blurred or covered or unclear or hidden at all? Red Lights.
And just how fast everything changed from that point on.
Sales of the book doubled and then tripled overnight. Stores sold out in mere hours and back-stock became non-existent. Scribe’s publisher re-issued a more expensive hardcover edition with a short message on the back as well as the author’s black and white photo eating up most of the back page. It was even one taken without his consent or knowledge, making him look—in his opinion—like some pony that had no idea why he was sitting on some bench in the middle of some picturesque garden.
“It makes you appear mysterious!” his publisher had informed him.
“It makes me look like some lost idiot,” Scribe had said, a good several meters away from his fat employer’s building of work.
Next came the reviews, most notably a giant two-page spread literally hoofwritten by Princess Twilight Sparkle herself (the one that had solely started the entire mess). She had stated she read the book frontwards and back and could quote whole scenes verbatim. She said the level of violence might have seemed off-putting at first, but absolutely necessary to the overall plot and themes. In two immense pages she had practically summed up more than Keen Scribe could ever say about his own work (and possibly more). Twilight’s largest message throughout her lengthy review was just how real each character felt—how much meticulous detail went into each and every one of them. “Tears were a constant friend of mine while reading,” she had stated in breathtaking script. “Characters with true souls were created only to be taken away with just as much accuracy and veracity as if they had lived and breathed a full life. As much as it was a pleasure to read, it was also a disparaging experience to continue until the end. But I did, because inside my head these characters had found a home, and I had to discover for myself the harrowing end to their collective journeys.”
At the tail end of her review she awarded the book five out of five golden hooves and deemed it a “must purchase.” And the populace did.
And how they ate it up.
Two months following Scribe’s explosion of notoriety and celebrity, he was invited to Canterlot castle for a lavish banquet complete with book signing and a late night read. The meal had been the best and richest of his life. The never-ending sea of questions from Princess Twilight that followed only made him wish he’d decline the invitation altogether. But how many times in one’s life is one invited to read for both the Princess of the Sun and the Moon?
Scribe had never considered himself a prolific public speaker. His peers from school could attest as such. So with his nose promptly buried in the pages of his own tired novel, he plowed through the first two chapters with relative ease and then said his thanks to the listening crowd. Quickly following that, a guard to his right whispered a short blurb into his ear. Princess Celestia wanted him to read the whole book to the crowd. She had told the guard she had enjoyed it that much.
Dolling out a few choice words of frustration well away from the live microphone, Scribe did as he was bid.
Several hours later his performance came to a close with thunderous applause. Even those that had nodded off during his long-winded exposition were roughly shaken awake from the roar of the crowd.
Scribe’s second performance of the night came only minutes later, when a little-more-than liquored up red-headed mare hurriedly grabbed his tie and nearly dragged him to a secluded section of the Canterlot gardens. While she awkwardly fumbled with what few clothes he had rented for the occasion, she had expressed to him that she “liked his book.” Scribe got in a quick, “Thanks,” before the next item filling his mouth was a tongue that seemed as though its quest was to purely choke him to death.
His second performance of the night ended a lot sooner than the first. About that he was glad.
When all was concluded, the red-headed mare pushed away from him and tipped him a wink. “Can’t wait to read your next book!”
“Th…thanks,” he stuttered, more than winded.
Sadly the lady in question had already disappeared in a thick of trees in search of the rest of the guests.
As Scribe was busying himself with just how hooves and ties could possibly co-exist together, another figure entered his little area of solitude.
“Were you the unicorn just reading up there to everyone?”
Another mare—even more slender than the first—took a few hesitant steps from the brush. Two star-stuck eyes viewed him over with widening regard.
Scribe slowly peered to both sides of him, before saying, “Yes.”
Tired to the bone, he would have awarded his third performance of the night two golden hooves out of five.
3
In the first six-months of his book becoming the talking point of every corner store in Equestria, Scribe would have honestly said he’d been happy… even as his privacy became less and less his own to control.
Just on the streets he was being noticed. In cafes. In bars. In restaurants and restrooms. Even his home in the middle of his bustling birthplace lost what little reclusive charm it once held. The last straw had been when even his dreams were no longer his.
A few weeks following his sermon at Canterlot castle, Princess Luna paid him a visit in a place he truly thought was his own. Out of the sky she appeared, almost disappearing into the vast night with its millions of stars. But that had been normal. That had been the beginning of dozens of dreams in his past—ones that ended on far more intimate notes.
She had him fooled until she started talking.
“I wish to converse with you about your story of woe.”
Oh damn.
Two hours of introspective discussion later and Scribe’s original notion of a more close-knit encounter flew away in the never-ending cool night air. But at least something came from it. Now he had learned what he must do to survive.
Get away from it all.
4
With a single bestseller under his imaginary belt, Scribe purchased an old and abandoned property several miles away from anyone. After a month spent working on the inside and another spent working on the outside (he left the sprawling basement unfinished), he loaded it up with furniture and supplies and abruptly sealed himself off from the horrifically nosy population. And good riddance, too.
Now he could start on his next book.
Yep. Now he could start.
Now he could…
Once again alone in his large home, Scribe found himself staring at the most horrible of images: an endlessly blank page.
His first sentence he had started and then re-started; approached it from different ways and with varying tactics. Yet that space of overwhelming white remained.
“Oh no,” he whispered to his unhelpful quill, floating uselessly over his parchment. “Oh no, no, no. Come on, come on now.”
The story had been laid bare and outlined in his head. The characters he had selected he had thought about for days on end. But something still felt different… something still felt missing.
“I haven’t done my research,” he told his quill.
He trotted to the large window in his office, took in the acres of woods he had so blindly purchased to get away from them all.
“I can’t do any research,” he answered the reflection on the glass. “There’s no time. Too many are waiting for this book already. I just need to write something… I just need to think of something else!”
Desperation is a funny thing.
5
“What do you do about writer’s block?”
Scribe watched as the bookstore owner’s face went from wild excitement to something bordering on fearful. It was as if a third eye had suddenly sprouted from the author’s head.
“You… have writer’s block?” the owner asked, slack-jawed.
“Yes.”
“You. Author of Red Lights. Keen Scribe. Writer’s block?”
“Yes. And I know who I am and what I’ve done. So can you help?” Scribe hadn’t liked the edge cutting into his voice, but never before had so much ridden on him putting quill to parchment… and having it all make sense to boot. “Please?” he finished with a feigned grin.
The owner scratched his chin. “I think I might have a book around here somewhere.”
The book in question was titled “101 WAYS TO CURE WRITER’S BLOCK”, and if the size of the book was any indication, it meant that the author of such text had little to no trouble in the spewing of words. If the words were of any use, was left to be discovered.
The first dozen or so ideas were of normal variety.
Brainstorming, word association, writing a list of potentially terrible ideas to get the flow going, taking a walk, discussing ideas with friends, halting going back and fixing mistakes, starting from the middle of the story, and a whole other array of tiresome notions.
When none worked, Scribe flipped on to the less known techniques.
Ice water baths, isolation with just a quill and parchment, talking to an imaginary friend, yelling at the top of your lungs, taking up smoking, stealing ideas (but change them just enough to not get caught), trying caffeine or something similar to propel oneself in the right direction.
“…something similar…” Scribe pondered, tapping a hoof along the edge of his book. “…to propel oneself in the right direction…”
He had little left to lose from another botched idea.
For the third time since buying them, Scribe glared at the bag of roots he had procured from some hermit zebra living alone in the forest. They had all cost him more than he was willing to admit, but if it did the trick in jump starting his creative-mojo, he’d be willing to pay for it again ten times over.
The first bite of root made him grimace until his jaw hurt. The tenth tasted close to the same.
“All right,” he said, as he sat in the grass with parchment and quill in hoof, quietly staring at the many acres of his land. “Now things will flow right out onto the paper.”
Two minutes later the greenery surrounding him turned blurry. Ten minutes later he accidentally stepped on his quill before breaking his bottle of ink on the stack of parchments nearby. It was evident he’d made a bad decision.
Sixteen hours later the roots had left Scribe’s system and all that it had given him was the worst stomach sickness he could remember; the only “flow” it delivered to him was during his many fights with the toilet upstairs; and any ideas created during his trip he could easily compare with what remained floating in his bowl.
Heavily wrapped under a hill of blankets, a shivering and sweat-soaked Scribe flipped through the last few pages of his writer’s block book. What he found didn’t surprise him all that much.
“Write what you know,” read its last page.
And just like that, Scribe knew he’d need to begin his meticulous research all over again.
6
“How are you feeling?” Scribe asked his muse.
“What?” it answered. “I don’t… why are you—”
“No. No. This isn’t about me. This is about you. I want to know about you—what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. It’s very important that I know.”
Scribe readjusted himself on his little crate and lightly tapped his quill on the parchment. He had some answers already, but not nearly enough. There was still time, though. All the time he’d need to finish his research.
Each word and each breath echoed minutely in his unfinished basement.
With his horn he hovered another red brick towards the unfinished wall near the corner of the room. With a mild thud it slid perfectly into place. The wall of red bricks was now up to its chest.
His muse started to tremble again. “Please stop! Please don’t!”
Scribe wrote a new note. “I take it that you’re scared. That’s good. That’s believable. Now let’s try out a few more questions. Say I let you go. What’s the first thing you’d do?”
His tightly bound muse thought behind the confines of its slowly rising wall. It said honestly, “I’d hug my parents and tell them I love them.”
Scribe nodded. “That’s swell. But my character doesn’t have parents. Say you wanted revenge on whoever buried you alive. What’s the first thing you’d do? Who’s the first person you’d talk to? How would you feel about it all?”
“I’m not some character in some damn book!” his muse screamed at him.
Scribe wrote down a few more lines. “I know. Not yet. We have a lot more research to conduct before we get there, but we will. Just like last time.”
While pondering about his second book’s potential cover art, he set another brick into place.
