A Writer's Lament

by AbsoluteAnonymous

Rating: everyone
Tags: Sad, Slice of Life
Length: 4947

Rainbow Dash meets the author of the Daring Do books.

Bitter over the unexpected direction her success has taken, Ink Well, famed author of the Daring Do books, decides to take a holiday in the small rural community of Ponyville in the hopes of escaping the pressures of fame; but sometimes it just takes one fan to make all the difference.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-05-12 05:44:02 UTC

A Writer's Lament

Dear Miss Well,

I used to be a big fan of your Daring Do books, but not any more. There's really been a big decrease in quality ever since you sold out. It looks to me like you started caring more about making money from plays and spin-offs and stopped caring about actually writing good books.

Ink Well -

Maybe try listening to your fans and their ideas sometimes? We know what we're talking about, you know, and what's the point of writing something nopony wants to read? You need to think about your audience when you write. Remember who you're writing for.

Dear Ink,

You used to have integrity, until you started doing nothing but pander to your fanbase. That's not what the true fans of the series want to read. We want the old Daring Do back. That's what we first fell in love with, after all. I'm tired of reading a series of gimmicks andwatching you sell out over and over again just to make a quick bit.

Hey Ink Well:

What happened?

What happened indeed? Ink Well thought to herself, crumpling the latest in a long series of hate mail into a ball and tossing it onto the fire. There was a dark satisfaction to be had in watching it burn black and crumble away into nothing, as though destroying the letter would destroy all memory of the words it had contained; but no magic was strong enough to do that for her.

There was always a point when that success reached its inevitable peak, and suddenly, it was all downhill from there. The mountain didn't change, but your perspective did - and sometimes, the perspective made all the difference. She had known this would happen and had told herself that it wouldn't matter. It was the curse of every successful writer out there, after all; surely she'd understood, even when she was young and first starting out, that it would eventually befall her as well. She couldn't possibly have been so naive as to think that she'd escape it. The judgements. The expectations. The disappointments.

Maybe it wouldn't have mattered so much if Ink had been like any other hack author on the market these days. Churning out a couple of best-sellers a year, watching them be featured in all the major book reviews, pouring no real heart or soul into her words, even as the crowds flocked to read them.

She'd been doing this long enough to know exactly what buttons one needed to press to provoke the desired responses in an audience. No matter how shallow or flat the stories and characters themselves may be, no matter how insipid or void of passion and feeling, it would've been a simple matter for her to get and stay popular if that had been what she'd truly wanted.

But she hadn't wanted that. Popularity and success were two very different things, and even though she'd craved success from the very beginning, she'd been mostly indifferent to the intoxicating allure of popularity. Mostly.

To feel comfortable calling herself successful, Ink Well had wanted to be able to take pride in her work - to know that others would read it and come away somehow richer for the experience, whether because she'd been able to make them think or feel or even just brighten up their days a little bit.

Even if all she ever did was make somepony smile, that would be enough. She wanted to know that she was capable of sharing a little of the joy that writing brought her with those who read her work. That she was skilful enough to transfer a little of the feeling she felt while writing to those who would later see her books; to truly communicate ideas, and not just trigger responses.

She wouldn't have been able to feel that sense of pride if she'd given in to the temptation to write mindless trash just because it would sell. It would've been like admitting that she couldn't do better, that Ink wasn't talented enough to share genuine happiness, and she knew that she could. That she was. She was above that nothingness and emptiness. That hollowness.

The Daring Do books had been a fluke. Not masterpieces of fiction by any means, nor works of art or literature.They had been simple, fun adventure stories, written to try and bring a smile to those who read them, and they'd instantly become hits. That was what she'd wanted. After all, she'd loved writing them in the beginning. The research was fun, and coming up with the wildly twisting storylines was always enjoyable. To know that others loved them as she did was the greatest feeling in the world.

Success and popularity, both achieved in a single master stroke. Was success on that level ever intentional, or was it always purely by chance? Always purely accidental?

It was a funny thing, success, but not one she was going to be picky about. After all, it was a fairly fickle thing as well.

But then it had escalated and escalated, and suddenly, it had stopped being about others reading her books and finding them something to delight over. It had become obsession. Suddenly, her words were no longer her own. They were no longer a gift that she benevolently or not-so-benevolently chose to share with the public of her own free will. They were the property of others long before she even had a chance to get them down on paper, open for the public to judge and criticize and rip to shreds before demanding that she replace them.

Ink Well sighed.

The letters ... they wasn't hate mail, exactly. More like disapproval mail. Letters from fans, obsessive, needy, with an over-developed sense of entitlement and who had lost perspective. Who seemed irrationally concerned with the fate of her novels and were insistent that she was ruining them. The champion elites of her fanbase, guarding and preserving what apparently made her stories special from those who threatened it, even the author herself. Those who were constantly judging and prying, comparing everything new she produced against her earlier works and demanding to know why they didn't satisfy in the same way as the first book had.

Every new decision she made came across as a mistake in somepony's eyes. There was no good way of pleasing them all, and every time somepony was dissatisfied, they'd whip out a complaint letter in a frenzy of self-righteousness, convinced that they'd be the one to make her see reason and "fix" whatever it was that she'd done wrong.

Sometimes, it was that the quality of her writing was slipping. Sometimes it was that she was a sell-out for agreeing to the licensing or merchandising, as though she weren't just another pony attempting to make a living off a career that didn't pay very well without the licensing. And whenever she changed her way of doing things to try and please somepony, somepony else would be upset.

This was exactly why she hadn't wanted popularity.

Ink Well had wanted respect. She'd wanted to share her work with others and know that it could reach them, touch them somehow. She hadn't wanted swarms of sycophants or faceless masses who looked at her and saw only failure and disappointment; but their expectations had grown along with the popularity of the books, and there was no longer any way to fulfil them all.

Ink lived quietly for a mare of her means. Considering the success of the Daring Do books, she could've easily found a mansion somewhere in Canterlot to flaunt her wealth from; instead, she'd found a loft in Manehatten. A humble little abode with just enough room for herself and her furniture, as well as a room for Paper Pusher, the beleaguered young assistant that she'd hired to take care of the majority of her mail and paperwork. It was there that Ink Well hid herself away, living in isolation like a hermit.

Foalish, scatterbrained, bitter. Nothing like the bold, adventurous heroine that she wrote about and so often imagined herself as. So often wished she could be.

Her assistant may have handled the mail for the most part - there was a form letter and everything that she would carefully copy out in reply to every message Ink received - but on occasion, Ink Well liked to take care of them personally. She almost always regretted it. Most of the letters were exactly the same, bland flattery coupled with those who were dissatisfied, and there was never anything especially deep or heartfelt said to capture her interest and make her care about the sender.

What she wanted, more than anything, was the heart. Not shallow compliments, and certainly not the bitter complaints about how everything used to be better. What she wanted was to know that somepony out there, somewhere, actually cared. That they'd read her little stories - certainly not masterpieces, but stories that she'd put a lot of work into all the same - and had found something in them to appreciate, no matter how small.

She wanted to be appreciated.

The letters. The complaints. The accusations.

Ink Well was getting so sick of it all.

What she needed was to get away. From it. From everything.

Her assistant had been the one to suggest it. Her next deadline was looming over the horizon, and Ink Well had nothing new to show her publisher, no matter how many sleepless nights she spent feverishly scrawling at her writing desk, desperate to produce something of value.

According to all those letters she'd been getting, nothing she wrote was of any value any more. It really didn't take much for inspiration to dry up. Just one too many negative reviews and a writer could be left feeling too dead on the inside to ever pick up a quill again.

Ink Well had dried up.

"You need a vacation," Paper Pusher had said when Ink had first brought it up. "You need to go somewhere far, far away, where nopony knows who you are and you don't have to hide. Where you can just relax and let everything go for a while and find your inspiration again."

It had come up at breakfast, which was always around noon for Ink. Her sleep schedule was pretty erratic; some days, she'd sleep for nearly fourteen hours straight. Others, she'd get by with only the occasional nap. She was fairly certain that she'd once spent three days without doing so much as blinking, so focused was she on meeting her next deadline. That day, she'd just pulled an all-nighter, but was yet to properly crash; and so she'd insisted that they have breakfast all the same.

"A vacation, huh?"

"Yeah. Just somewhere were you can go rest for a while and pull yourself together again."

"I don't really know where I'd go, though."

"I have an idea."

Ponyville, the village that Paper Pusher had apparently grown up in. A quiet, rural community where Ink Well could easily go and spend a week or so incognito. No deadlines. No pressure. No fanmail. The idea was appealing, she had to admit. Not so much so because she was thrilled at the prospect of visiting a town in the middle of nowhere, but because nopony would know her there.

Being a writer wasn't exactly like being any other kind of celebrity. As a famous athlete or fashion model, everypony knew you based on your appearance and would recognize you anywhere you went. As a writer, Ink was rarely spotted in crowds and only ever seemed to be noticed because of her name. In a place like Ponyville, it would be unlikely that anypony she ran into would even recognize that much. She was practically guaranteed to be an unknown there.

And that was how Ink Well found herself in Ponyville. The promise of a holiday, free from the constraints of unwanted popularity and her desire for true success, free from the burdens of fame, instead given an opportunity to just forget herself as the writer she'd become and rediscover herself as the mare she wanted to be.

At least, that's how a writer might have phrased it.

Everything about Ponyville was quiet and comfortable, just as Paper Pusher had promised. So different from the busy city streets of Manehatten. The streets had a humble air about them, lined as they were with classical-type shops such as bakeries and taffy stores, with brightly colored awnings and cafe tables sitting outside. It was like something straight out of a painting or picture book.

In the countless signings and public appearances she'd done in the past, Ink Well had always been careful to never let her mask slip for even a moment. Always projecting cool confidence and easy sincerity, when in the privacy of her loft, she easily slipped back into her old, literary-minded self.

The part of Ink Well that adored books couldn't resist stopping by the library when she arrived, silly as it was. It wasn't as though Ponyville had any particular sights to be seen after all, and it wasn't as though she were truly on vacation; it was purely escape, and what better form of escapism was there than reading?

The library was just as quaint and peaceful as everywhere else in the village, and the librarian had smiled and greeted Ink Well like she would've greeted anypony else. No special treatment, no lectures. A nice change of pace.

It may have been pure narcissism that drove Ink to the shelf carrying her own novels, but Ink Well chose to believe it was simple curiosity. It was always strange to find her books for sale in a shop or stocked in a library, but it was also oddly satisfying. It was like confirmation that yes, they really existed, and yes, somepony else had at some point thought they might be enjoyed by others. She wasn't completely delusional.

Daring Do and the Spear of the Windigos. The newest in the series.

"I'm sorry," the librarian told her when Ink brought it to the desk. "I don't know if I should let you sign that out ... my assistant only shelved it by mistake. It was supposed to be set aside for a friend of mine."

Set aside? "That's fine, then," Ink Well was quick to reply. "I hope they enjoy it."

"But she was supposed to come get it almost an hour ago," the purple unicorn mused, no longer listening to Ink. "And since she's late, it is kind of her fault - right?"

In the end, after much arguing and back-and-forth with herself, the librarian just let her take it, and Ink Well found herself wandering down the Ponyville main street, book in tow, feeling foalish. She had no reason to check out one of her own books, especially not when somepony else apparently wanted it - but the librarian simply wouldn't take no for an answer once she'd made up her mind.

There was an empty bench in the town square, and that was where she decided to sit, alone in a sea of ponies. Beautifully, wonderfully, amazingly alone.

Daring Do and the Spear of the Windigos.

Ink Well's words had left her a long time ago, and now they belonged to those who'd gathered them up again. This story, though hers, was no longer hers. It had drifted away from her. But if she read this book as a stranger, would she find them again? Would the change in perspective offer her a new way of seeing things?

Would it make any difference? If she pretended to be a stranger who'd never seen these sentences before, never read this prose, would they somehow regain their power over her? Would she regain her power?

Or did it no longer matter?

Before Ink Well could even crack open the spine to see, she was assaulted by a streak of rainbow color barrelling into her side.

It said a lot about how normal Ponyville really was that nopony seemed to notice or glance up in surprise when Ink Well was violently thrown off the bench as her attacker started to shout, "So you're the one who took my book, huh?! I told Twilight I was gonna be late picking it up - she seriously couldn't hold it for five more measly minutes?! ... hey, you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Ink spluttered, struggling to get back on her hooves. "What was that for?"

"Sorry. I told you to look out - didn't you hear me? Well, whatever." Her attacker extended a hoof to help her up, and, still somewhat dazed, Ink Well accepted it. "That's the newest book in the series, right? Can I get it from you as soon as your done? I've been waiting to read it, for, like, ever."

"This? Oh, yeah ... yeah, you can get it. I mean, you can have it now, if you want. I'm not really that interested in reading it. I was just curious and wanted to see ... "

She trailed off. Most ponies in this situation might have tactfully declined such an offer, insisting that Ink Well keep it, but this one only grinned and yanked the novel from Ink Well's hooves.

"Really? Sweet, thanks!" the pegasus cried, already cracking it open to chapter one.

So. A fan. Not one who recognized her, though. Huh.

Ink Well sighed and ran a hoof through her mane as her eyes fell on the painting of Daring Do on the cover. The character of Daring Do had been based on her old foalhood fantasies of an adventurous future, like the cheesiest kind of wish-fulfilment, but such adventures had only ever happened in her imagination. The physical appearance of the eponymous heroine, though, had been lifted straight from her youth. Not that she was especially old, of course - just not as young as she'd once been. Same sandy coat, dark grey mane. The only difference was the eyes.

The eyes. Weird.

The pegasus standing before Ink Well had the strangest eyes - bright and shining and almost magenta, just like Daring's.

Ink Well wasn't one to believe in fate or coincidence, choosing instead to believe in hard work. But this? This had to be fate, of some kind. She'd come out to Ponyville to escape her writing, only to find herself tackled by a pegasus with eyes just like Daring Do's who was apparently a fan of her work.

That had to be some kind of sign. Right?

"You're a fan of Daring Do, I guess?" Ink Well ended up asking. The pegasus glanced up, startled, as though she hadn't expected Ink to still be standing there. She'd been utterly absorbed in reading, having plopped down on the bench with the book, lips moving slightly as she read along.

"Oh, yeah!" she answered brightly, wings flapping slightly. "I totally love them. I just got into the books a couple of months ago, but I'm still a huge fan."

To Ink Well, the word fan tended to be synonymous with sycophant. That, or one of those champion elitist types who was never satisfied with anything new, always comparing it to what was old and therefore superior.

"A few months ago?" she asked. "What made you start reading?"The pegasus before her was young. She couldn't have said how young, but it was obvious in the way she acted and moved. She was brimming with energy, even while doing something as passive as reading. Those eyes practically devoured the words on the page, so focused were they.

There was passion there.

"Um, I was in the hospital before," the pegasus replied, distracted as she read. "And I was really bored, so one of my friends brought me the first book in the series to try. I'd never really liked reading before, but it was so awesome. I got totally hooked. Daring Do is, like, the most awesome pony ever!"

"You really think so?"

"Yeah! She's so cool."

"She's not real, though." Without being invited, Ink Well sat down on the bench beside the pegasus with the rainbow mane. The rainbow pegasus didn't seem to object, though, instead frowning up at her. "She might be cool, but she's just a character in the end, and they're just books. They're not really that important."

The rainbow-maned pegasus was now giving Ink Well a strange look. A cross between irritation and confusion.

"So?" she asked. "They're still fun to read, right? I know she's just a character. That doesn't stop her from being awesome."

"A lot of ponies think that ... " Ink Well stopped and swallowed, but the pegasus didn't seem to notice her hesitation. "I've heard a lot of ponies complaining lately about how the books just aren't that good anymore, apparently."

"That's stupid," the pegasus instantly replied.

"Stupid?"

"Well, I mean, not as good compared to what?"

"The earlier books in the series, I guess."

"Different doesn't mean worse! The author's just trying something new. Just because I don't always like everything, it doesn't make it bad." Her feathers were bristling, and Ink Well could see the pegasus across from her growing defensive as the books she loved were challenged.

A sycophant would've just declared everything impeccable before attacking her for implying the books were less than perfect. One of the champion elitists would've agreed with her and gone on a rant about how they could be better.

"I agree," Ink Well said, surprising herself. "I don't think they've changed that much. Not for the worse, at least. They're just different, and a lot of readers can't really accept that. And the ponies who really liked the books in the beginning - they're expectations are getting higher and higher, and it's probably pretty hard to meet them now. It must be hard for the author to  be accused of messing up again and again just because she's trying to branch out."

"She'd be dumb to listen. Anypony who'd say that is an idiot," said the pegasus. Her tone was fierce. "They should be happy the  author even puts these books out there for them to read."

Passionate. Ink Well felt herself smile. "So you really like these books?"

"Of course I do! I just said so, didn't I? They're awesome! And if the author stopped writing books just because a couple of ponies were being stupid, I'd be so mad, I don't even know what I'd do."

"It's not really just a couple of ponies, though. It's a lot. Too many to ignore sometimes." Ink Well paused. "I mean, probably. She's a popular writer, right? So she probably gets tons of mail from ponies who think they know everything."

"Well, they're stupid. She's the one who wrote the books, after all. Anything she says goes. They might not like it very much, and it might kind of suck sometimes, but she's the one who decides how it goes in the end. If they don't like it, they just shouldn't read it."

"Still," Ink replied, reclining back as far as she could in the bench and running another hoof through her dark grey mane. It was so dark as to appear almost black, really. "It's gotta be stressful. How would you like getting hundreds of letters from strangers about how you're just not as good as you used to be? Especially when you don't even know what you're doing wrong or how to fix it? The worst is probably those letters that aren't even specific enough to tell you. They just complain about how everything's ruined, and they expect you to know what they mean and fix it accordingly. Imagine knowing that hundreds of strangers disliked you, and you didn't even know why because they just won't tell you."

The rainbow-maned pegasus was giving her an even stranger look now. It was no longer a look of irritation or defensiveness, yet the curiosity was more obvious than ever before.

"Well, yeah, that's gotta suck," she agreed. "But no matter how much anypony else tells you something, it doesn't mean they're right or that everypony else agrees with them. It just means that they're the ones being the loudest. So who cares what they think?"

"A writer has to care what readers think."

"Well, I mean ... if somepony thinks a writer can do better than they already have, that's kind of cool in a way. It means they think really highly of them," the other mare answered slowly. "But still, something's only worth reading if the writer wanted to write it. If they only wrote it cuz they felt like they were supposed to or cuz they wanted to make somepony happy, they won't try as hard, since they won't care enough, and then it won't turn out as good. And even if they wanted everypony else to like it, nopony would like it for real unless the writer liked it too. So it's probably more important for the author to like it than anypony else."

Ink Well didn't say anything. Instead, she listened. She heard, letting the words find a place inside her and settle in.

"Besides," the pegasus continued, glancing back up from the open book that she held before her. "Even if nopony likes it later, whatever a writer writes is probably the best they could do to say whatever they wanted to say at the time. Somepony that really likes writing wouldn't settle for less. That's pointless. So even if everypony else thinks they could do better, that's kind of dumb."

Their eyes met; dark brown, almost black, meeting magenta. The color of Daring Do. The color of everything Ink Well had once fantasized about being. Brave. Determined. Daring.

"You look familiar," the pegasus suddenly said.

"I don't think we've ever met before," Ink Well answered easily, making a point of not meeting pegasus' magenta eyes. "I'm only here on vacation, and I leave in a few days."

"Why're you even talking to me, anyway?" the pegasus demanded bluntly.

"No reason. I was just wondering what you thought of the book. That's all."

"Didn't you say you weren't even interested in reading it?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm still interested in knowing your thoughts."

"That's weird."

Ink Well shrugged. "So, the books," she finally said. "You'd recommend them?"

"Yeah, definitely!" the pegasus said, nodding eagerly. "They're seriously really good! I totally love them - I used to think that reading was, like, this dumb, boring, egghead activity, but these books are fun!"

Ink looked away. "I might check them out sometime, then."

For some reason, she suddenly felt lighter. It was odd, what a little reassurance or confirmation could do for one's ego. Before, she'd felt bitter and unfulfilled. One strange, lopsided conversation later, Ink couldn't help but grin.

In Ponyville, the little rural village in the middle of nowhere, where she'd gone for vacation because nopony there could possibly know her, there was a fan of the Daring Do books. A fan who didn't worship them, yet didn't judge them, either. A fan who read them purely because she enjoyed them. Who read them for pleasure, and was able to feel a little of that enjoyment, a little of that thrill, that Ink Well had felt while writing them. After all, Ink Well wrote only to give others pleasure. She wrote for her personal satisfaction, and not for the fame or popularity. Her definition of success meant sharing the happiness writing brought her with others, and the pegasus was clearly happy with what she was reading.

What a difference one conversation could make.

She rose, getting up off the bench.

The pegasus stayed where she was, not even looking up as Ink Well strolled away. She was too busy reading.

Ink's definition of success meant sharing the happiness writing brought her with others, and that pegasus was clearly happy with what she was reading.

In the corner of her mind, Ink Well couldn't help but consider turning back and introducing herself to the pegasus properly. Shaking her hoof, saying her name, watching the flash of recognition go through those magenta eyes. Daring's eyes. Maybe finding out her name, asking her if she wanted to talk about the books.

But that would just change things, wouldn't it? Because suddenly, that honesty would be gone. That bluntness would fade, and the rainbow-maned pegasus would be too awestruck by being in the presence of Ink Well herself to even form so much as a coherent sentence. It may have been narcissistic to think so, but it was true as well. The honesty the pegasus had spoken with had been too refreshing for Ink to want to tamper with.

So she let it go, walking away as the pegasus became absorbed in the latest adventures of the brilliant archaeologist and explorer Daring Do. In her mind, Ink Well was already thinking.

About Daring, the adventurous, courageous pony that she'd always wished she could be. Instead of the overly-sensitive, occasionally egotistical mare she actually was.

About a pegasus with eyes like Daring - not only in the shared color, but in the passion and vigor that Ink had so often imagined in Daring's. The passion she longed to feel and share with others.

And she thought of ideas. Stories. The twisting, weaving plots and wild adventures that she'd once taken such joy in writing. The joy that she'd somehow lost, replacing instead with bitterness and dissatisfaction.

For the first time in a long, long while, Ink Well wanted to write.

And it made her smile.