Twilight had been pacing across her bedroom for so long that her legs felt like they were going to break under her. She chewed on her lip like hay as she wandered around the room, eyes set to the floor. With every small creak, every small bump, her ears would shoot up. Her wings twitched.
“You’re a mess,” Spike said, glancing at her from across the room. He settled back into his chair and pulled up his Power Ponies comic. “Didn’t your mom say she didn’t want you pacing anymore?”
“I know,” Twilight groaned, forcing her legs to go rigid. “But I just can’t help it. It’s past noon! Muffins should be here with the mail by now!”
“Aw, she probably just got stuck in a tree. Again.” Spike put his comic down and crossed his arms. “But what’s the problem? How come you can’t just start writing now?”
“That’s against the rules. I can’t start writing anything until I get the letter saying what the prompt is!” Twilight fell back onto her haunches and grabbed at her mane with both hooves. “I’m already going to embarrass myself in front of Equestria’s greatest writers—do I really want to be disqualified, too?”
Spike hopped out of his chair and waddled over to where Twilight sat. “Don’t worry,” he said, laying a claw on her shoulder. “You’re a great writer! I’m sure that no matter what you have to write about, you’ll make it great.”
Twilight smiled and pulled him into a hug. “Thanks, Spike. You always know just what to say.” She took a deep breath and rolled her neck, wincing at the tense cracks that shot through her bones. “I just hope it’s a good one. Nothing about seaponies, or anything weird like that—“
The doorbell rang, and Twilight’s wings shot to attention. Twilight sprinted out of the room, with Spike following close behind. The two raced down the hall, down the stairs, all the way to the front door. With a giggle, Twilight opened the door.
Decked out in her finest postmare hat and sash, Muffins stood just outside the door, a bundle of thick letters resting on an outstretched wing. She barely had time to muster a greeting before Twilight leaped forward, hugged her, snatched the letters, and slammed the door.
A tingling nausea floated through Twilight’s stomach as she sifted through the pile of envelopes. “Princess stuff, princess stuff, princess stuff…” She paused for a moment to throw Spike his copy of Mustache Monthly, which he took with glee.
At the bottom of the pile sat a plain yellow envelope, addressed directly to her. Big red letters across the bottom read, “Important Info Enclosed.” With the smallest of prayers, she ripped it open and removed a small white card.
On it was printed: “Home, Sweet Home.”
Twilight spent a silent moment staring at the words, as if expecting them to move, to change shape in front of her eyes. And yet, no matter how many seconds passed, they stayed static, returning her glance with a silent defiance.
It took an elbow in the side from Spike to jolt her out of her stupor. “So, what do you think?” he asked. “Is it a good prompt?”
“Uh.” Twilight swallowed. “Yes? I mean, yeah, sure. It’s open-ended, leaves room for some emotions… yeah. I can make this work!”
“Why can’t I make this work?” Twilight moaned to herself, slamming her face into her notebook.
Across from her, mouths full of food, Rainbow Dash and Applejack stared. Rainbow gulped down her daisy sandwich and crossed her forelegs. “What the heck is up with you?” she asked. “We’ve been here for, like, half-an-hour and you’ve been ignoring us the entire time!”
“Are you working on something?” Applejack asked, leaning over the table to peek at Twilight’s notes. “What is—“
“Don’t look!” Twilight yipped, snatching her papers off the table. “It’s not ready!”
Applejack backed off and held her hooves up defensively. “Oh, sorry, Sugarcube. Didn’t mean to impose. Just wanted to know what’s stressing you out so much.”
“She’s probably writing a love letter to Celestia,” Rainbow remarked, throwing Twilight a snide glance. “Freaking out ‘cuz she can’t decide whether to mention how big her butt is.”
“I am not writing a love letter!” Twilight sputtered, cheeks exploding red. She paused, taking a sharp breath. “And if I was, I certainly wouldn’t be talking about her flanks. That’s… weird. It’s weird.”
“Then what?” Applejack asked.
Twilight dragged a hoof down her face, as if trying to snap the feeling back into her skull. “A few weeks ago I was invited to a very prestigious writing competition. I’ve been spending the past day or so trying to write my entry for it.”
Applejack let out a low whistle and grinned. “Hoo-wee. Must be a real honor to get invited to one of these things, especially for a filly like yourself!”
“Yeah,” Twilight said, managing a smile. “All the best writers in Equestria compete in it. Trochee, Full Stop—hay, even A.K. Yearling submits something every once in a while. It’s a who’s who of the greatest writers of the modern age.” Her ears went flat. “And me.”
As Twilight sighed and buried her head in her hooves, Applejack and Rainbow exchanged a look. Applejack rested a hoof on Twilight’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, Twi? Don’t tell me you’re nervous!”
“You’re the eggheadiest egghead in the world!” Rainbow cried. “You, like, read dictionaries for fun. How could you not be the best writer ever?”
“Being well-read isn’t the same as being a good writer,” Twilight said, lidding her eyes. “Especially not creative writing. I write research papers, essays, dissertations—not stories.” She growled and held up her notebook. “I’ve got less than a week to finish this, and I can’t think of anything good! I have ideas, but all of them are awful! They’re gonna get me a black ribbon for sure!”
Applejack tilted her head. “Black ribbon?”
“It’s the ‘prize’ for last place,” Twilight explained. “It’s like a mark of shame. And once you get it, you can’t ever get rid of it. Everyone in the competition knows that you got last place. They know you’re not good enough…”
“You are completely good enough,” Applejack said, stamping a hoof. She scooted her chair a few paces closer to where Twilight sat. “Here, why don’t we help? I’m sure RD and I can help you get some ideas flowing.”
“Totally!” Rainbow said, joining Applejack at Twilight’s side. “We’re gonna rock this competition!”
As the her two friends closed in, Twilight instinctively covered her writing with a hoof, hiding it from their view—but as she took in their earnest smiles, she could feel a grin of her own flittering across her face. She nodded and dropped her notebook on the table, letting both of them have free rein.
Luckily enough, they didn’t immediately burst into laughter. “’Home, Sweet Home?’” Rainbow asked, looking at the title of the page. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s the prompt,” Twilight explained. “It’s what I have to be writing about—kinda. It’s open-ended, so you can interpret it however you want. But you have to be clear about how the story relates to the prompt, or judges will get mad. But you can’t be too blatant about it, or they’ll get mad about that, too. And some of the judges don’t really care.”
Rainbow narrowed her eyes. “This sounds stupid.”
Applejack whacked Rainbow on the shoulder before turning back to Twilight. “Don’t worry about it, Twi. We’re ready to help. What do you need?”
“I’m… not sure, honestly.” Twilight sat back in her seat, face blank. “I’m looking for good ideas now, mostly. What do you girls think of when I say ‘Home, Sweet Home?’”
“It makes me happy,” Applejack said, looking to the sky. “It reminds me of apple orchards, and hard work, and family. Makes me think about how much I love Sweet Apple Acres, and how much I love Ponyville. I wouldn’t give it up for that world.”
Twilight beamed. “Aww. That’s so—“
“Weird,” Rainbow finished, frowning. “Who in Equestria actually likes where they were born?”
Applejack glowered. “Oh, I don’t know, Little Miss ‘Cloudsdale-Is-The-Best-City-Ever.’”
“That’s not what I mean.” Rainbow turned to Twilight. “Yeah, I like Cloudsdale and all, but I hated my home. As soon as I left school, I got out of there, and I never looked back.”
“Just what are you saying, Sugarcube?”
“I’m saying that ‘Home, Sweet Home’ is totally meant to be sarcastic! It’s like”—Rainbow rolled her eyes exaggeratedly—“oh, ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Great. I love it here.” She jabbed a hoof at Twilight’s notebook. “You gotta write something about someone who hates their home. It’s drama!”
Twilight paused for a moment before nodding and putting her quill to the paper—
“Don’t listen to her,” Applejack said, pulling Twilight closer to her chair. “Trust me, sarcasm is the worst thing to happen to Equestria since pear trees. Sincerity beats out sarcasm any day.” She grabbed the notebook and pushed it into Twilight’s chest. “Write about a filly who loves her family, and loves her home. Write something happy. That’s sure to impress all your writer friends.”
Twilight grinned and wrote down Applejack’s idea. As the words spilled onto the page, Twilight could feel the cobwebs in her brain burning away; she could see the characters forming her head, images swirling around—
“’Happy?’ More like sappy,” Rainbow said. “You said all these ponies competing were amazing writers, right? What amazing writer ever wrote about someone who was happy? It’s always dead puppies and rain clouds.” She puffed out her chest. “At least, in all the books I read.”
Applejack scowled. “Oh, yeah? And just what books do you read?”
Rainbow turned up her nose. “All of them.”
Twilight pouted. “This isn’t really helping.”
“Then just listen to me!” Rainbow said. “The only thing 'sincerity' is gonna get you is an ugly black ribbon.”
“That isn’t true!” Applejack said. She tried to smile at Twilight, but it came out as more of a mangled glare. “Here, I’ll even give you a plot! Write about a stallion named, uh… Blue Delicious, who runs a water mill. He’s the friendliest guy around, and nothing makes him happier than to come home to his family and eat lots of apple fritters.”
Twilight raised a brow. “Don’t you have a cousin named Red Delicious who runs a water mill?”
“Yeah, what about it? I’m writing what I know!”
“Jeez, AJ. Isn’t this supposed to be creative writing?” Rainbow said through a chuckle. She smirked at Twilight. “Here’s what you’re gonna write about. There’s this filly, right? And all she’s ever wanted to do is become an adventurer, but her parents won’t let her, so she runs away from home—“
“This is the prologue to the first Daring Do book,” Twilight muttered.
Rainbow’s mouth hung for a moment. Nostrils flaring, she growled, “Okay, fine, it is! But it’s not like I see you coming up with any ideas.”
Her words slammed into Twilight like a leaden carriage. Wings drooping, she sighed. “You’re right.” She stood up and stuffed her notebook into a saddlebag. “Thanks for the help, but—maybe I just need some fresh air. Some time to think.”
“Twi,” Applejack said, standing up, “are you gonna be okay?”
Twilight built up a tiny smile and nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
With that, Twilight headed out of the café.
Twilight kept her head low as she drudged through Ponyville Park. Every few moments she would whisper a single word to herself: “Okay.”
For most of her life, “Okay” had been one of her favorite words. It was a little signal to herself that it was time to start brainstorming, time to start thinking like the royally-trained researcher she was.
But this wasn’t research. This was fiction. This was creativity. This was, for all intents and purposes, art. And if there was anything that Twilight wasn’t, it was an artist.
Her brain felt like it had become the site of a five-way train crash. Her thoughts were raging masses of twisted steel and wires, scraping against the side of her skull. A dull ache pounded in the back of her head.
So she gritted her teeth and tried again. “Okay.” She tried to picture an idea, any idea, anything she could come up with—but there was an itch on her leg, and her eyes flitted to a worm crawling around next to her. She tried to shake the distractions away, but her mind had become fuzz, and she barely had time to see the pony coming right at her—
Twilight yelped as she crashed headfirst into a soft white mass and staggered backwards, tumbling into a puddle of mud on the side of the road. Massaging her horn, she glanced upwards.
Rarity was standing just a few paces away, rubbing a patch of mussed up fur on her side. She snorted. “Really, Twilight, you must watch where you’re going! Your horn is rather sharp and—oh my goodness!” She hurried over to where Twilight lay, coat splattered with thick mud. Eyes flitting from splotch to splotch, she said, “I’m so sorry! I swear I didn’t mean to push you like that!”
“It’s not your fault,” Twilight said, lifting herself up. “I’m the one who wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Oh, but look at your beautiful coat! Your luxurious mane!” Rarity said. She took a hard breath and raised her chin high. “There’s only one thing to be done. Twilight, come with me. We’re getting you to a shower.”
“Uh, I could just go home—“
“I’m not letting you walk around like this, darling. Your castle is all the way across town. My home—and my high-pressure showerhead—is just a few blocks away.”
A glob of mud fell from Twilight’s horn and splattered across her snout. “I guess you have a point.”
“Come,” Rarity said, walking away. “I’ll have you looking fabulous again faster than you can say ‘très magnifique!’” Twilight scrambled to catch up.
“It really is lovely to see you,” Rarity said, smiling. “Especially on today of all days…”
Those were the last words Twilight heard. As Rarity babbled, Twilight put her body on auto-pilot, walking forward and occasionally nodding at whatever it was Rarity said. She hated to do this to a friend, but as she glanced down at the mud covering her chest, she couldn’t help but ask herself: Could I write a story about this?
She furrowed her brows. Could it work? Maybe a story about a mare who gets covered in mud, and… and there’s a race of little Earth Pixies living in the mud! Yeah, that’s it. There are Earth Pixies in the mud, and once they land on her coat, they don’t want to leave, because she’s their new home. Their new home! It even related to the prompt!
A giggle escaped her lips. She could see herself writing it; she could see other ponies reading it! Reading it and maybe actually enjoying it! But what would she call it? Maybe—
“Twilight!”
“Huh? What?” Twilight snapped her head to the side, only to find Rarity frowning at her. She spent a moment searching for words before stammering, “Uh, I mean, of course I am!”
“I asked why you were in the park, darling.”
“Oh.”
“Twilight, you seem rather distracted today.” Rarity leaned into her. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s… nothing.” Twilight looked away. “Really. I don’t want to bother you. Besides, it has to do with writing, and contests, and… yeah. I don’t think you would care too much.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Rarity said with a smirk. “Writing is an art, no? And so is dressmaking. We are both artistes, my good friend. Here, let’s talk; perhaps I can help.”
Wrapped in a fluffy blue bathrobe, Twilight sat on a long couch in Rarity’s inspiration room. The floors were cluttered with long bolts of fabric, half-completed dresses, and the occasional empty bucket of strawberry ice cream. After her shower, Rarity had told her to wait there, before leaving to go to… somewhere. She hadn’t said.
On their way home, Twilight had told Rarity everything. About the contest, about the prompt, about Applejack and Rainbow’s advice—and even about the anxiety whipping through her brain. It felt great to let somepony in like that. And yet, Twilight could still feel a weight crushing down on her bones, wrapping around her like a snake.
Rarity had promised her that she would help somehow; that she would help Twilight push through her creative block. Twilight could only pray that she was right.
Twilight’s ears pricked up when she heard a soft set of hoofsteps heading for the room. A moment later, Rarity stepped inside and closed the door.
“Hey,” Twilight said, waving. “Are you ready to start?”
Rarity’s only response was to walk up to Twilight and scan her, as if she were a piece of fine art. Under Rarity’s forceful gaze, Twilight had to resist the urge to move away—for the briefest of moments, she felt like she was at the doctor’s office, waiting for a shot.
Just as she was about to ask what was going on, Rarity smiled. She lit her horn, and a pair of thick red glasses descended onto her face. She cleared her throat.
“Sit up straight!” Rarity cried, making Twilight flinch. “Lounging around like that encourages laziness, which encourages procrastination!”
Twilight shot up, sitting straight as a board. “Rarity, what are you—“
“No, no, no Twilight!” Rarity said, shaking her head. She took off her glasses. “This is Rarity.” She put the glasses back on, and her entire body went rigid. “This is Rarity Belle, world-renowned artist and fashionista supreme! While we work, you will address me as Miss Belle. Do you understand?”
Twilight gulped. “Uh, yeah, I think so.”
Rarity jumped at her. “’I think so’ what?!”
“I think so, Miss Belle!” Twilight repeated, cowering.
Rarity stepped back and nodded. “Very good. If you keep this up, you’ll be through this funk of yours, and on track to a gold medal in no time!” She paced in front of the couch. “Now: in your castle, is there a special place you usually write at?”
“My desk, I suppose,” Twilight said. “We can head over there, if you want.”
“Teleport your desk here.”
“What?” Twilight said, taken aback. “I can’t just—“
“Teleport your desk!”
Twilight lit her horn. A second later, a massive wooden desk appeared near the ceiling before tumbling down and crushing Rarity’s designer coffee table.
The room was silent as the dust cleared. Rarity stared at the wreckage, jaw hanging, one eye twitching. It took about five long, deep breaths before she brushed the hair from her eyes and nodded. “Alright,” she said through clenched teeth. “Take your position.”
Throwing a few broken pieces of wood out of the way, Twilight took a seat in front of her desk. At once, Rarity levitated a full library’s-worth of paper and quills onto the space in front of her.
“You said that you had a few different ideas, no?” Rarity asked.
“Yeah,” Twilight said, grabbing a quill. “But I’m not sure that any of them are actually any good.”
“That’s why we’re here. We will make them good,” Rarity said. “Take a few minutes to write them all down. Just a sentence or two summary for each.”
Twilight followed the order. Some of her ideas were no more than a few errant words, while others were whole sentences. As she wrote, she felt a familiar tingle wriggling through her stomach—a sort of dissatisfied nausea. Everything she wrote was so clichéd, so boring—well, most of it, at least. There was one idea, jammed in the middle of the page, that brought a smile to her face whenever she looked it over.
“What’s so funny?” Rarity asked, looking over her shoulder.
“It’s nothing, Rar—Miss Belle,” Twilight said. She leaned back and pointed to the story concept. “Just something I thought of on the way over here. It’s about a mare who gets splattered with mud, and it turns out that a bunch of little creatures live in the mud, and she ends up becoming their new home.”
Twilight waited for Rarity’s face to scrunch up in disgust… but it never did. Rarity’s expression stayed blank, static. She read Twilight’s words over a few times. “It’s rather strange.”
“I like strange stories,” Twilight said, shrugging. “They make me laugh. Is that bad?”
“Not at all,” Rarity said with a smile. She nodded. “It’s a fine concept. Do you have any more ideas for it?”
“A few, I think.”
“Lovely. Start writing them all down.” Rarity walked away. “I’ll go make us some tea.”
“All of them?” Twilight called after her. “But some of them don’t even make sense—“
“All of them. We’ll sort them out later.” Rarity closed the door behind her.
Twilight sat there for a moment, bathing in the silence and staring down at her papers. Then, with a weak flourish of her quill, she began.
The first few words of her outline came out easily; she just wrote down what she had told Rarity. A few smaller, stranger ideas came next: maybe the Earth Pixies living in the mud could worship the mare like a god. Maybe they had their own little culture down in the mud puddle, with art and sports and an economy and everything.
As she finished up her last few notes, Twilight pictured the creatures in her head. They were small, rounded clumps of dirt with roots for limbs. Their eyes were pebbles. She giggled as she imagined them walking across some poor mare’s back, chanting her name as if she were royalty. And what did the mare look like?
Of course, the mare would have to have a best friend to play off of. Maybe it could be a stallion? Maybe they could fall in love? Twilight grimaced and crossed that out. No romance. Just mud.
So she had her idea, and she had a few characters, and she had a few scenes—but what then? Maybe the mare would go to a doctor, only for a bunch of scientists to find her and put her into a museum. That was funny…
But did Twilight really want the entire story to be comedy? Rainbow Dash had been right when she said that most every great writer made their fame by writing about serious, mature topics. Maybe a touch of grittiness would help her out…?
But wouldn’t that ruin the tone? It would be so jarring, so strange. Twilight didn’t want that. She wanted people to like her writing, not hate it! But they would hate it. Everypony was going to hate it and she was going to be a laughing-stock and—
“Why did you stop writing?”
Twilight jumped as Rarity’s voice floated over her shoulder. “Oh, uh,” Twilight sputtered as Rarity set a cup of tea down near her. She resisted the urge to set the paper on fire. “I’m just not sure where to go from here. I had a funny idea, but I’m not sure that I want to write it, or do something else.”
“It’s a good thing we’re not writing the story then,” Rarity said, sipping at her own tea. “We’re outlining. Pick one option and move on.”
“But how do I know which one to pick?” Twilight asked, eyes narrowing.
“Pick one and move on,” Rarity repeated, a bit more forceful. “If we need to, we’ll come back and explore the other option.”
Twilight frowned and turned back to her papers. Resting her head on a hoof, she kept writing. “Okay.”
Rarity spent a moment staring, brows furrowed, before sighing. “I just need you to keep writing, Twilight. Don’t let anything get in your way.”
“That’s not as easy as it sounds,” Twilight snapped over her shoulder. “I’m not a machine!”
“I know you’re not!” Rarity shot back, stamping a hoof. “I’m not saying that it’s easy! But you keep letting your anxieties, your insecurities take over! You’re letting your fear win, and whatever you do, you cannot let that happen. Fear will do nothing but ruin you.”
Twilight shook her head. “So what do I do?”
Rarity touched her shoulder.
“Just create.”
And so, taking a long breath, that was what Twilight did.
Two hours later, Twilight threw down her third quill, right next to the two other broken ones. An outline, about ten pages long, sat in front of her. Within those scribbled-up pages sat every plot point, every character, every minor development. The air was thick with the smell of wet ink.
Twilight slumped back in her chair. Never before had she imagined writing could be such hard work. Her sides were caked with sweat. Her horn ached.
She had never been prouder.
Rarity picked up the papers in her magic and levitated them over to where she sat. Twilight watched as she went picked through them, eyes running from side-to-side, her mouth leveled into a steady line. Seconds passed as minutes. Minutes were hours. By the time five minutes had gone by, Twilight felt like she was about to chew off her hooftips.
Rarity nodded and returned the papers to her. “It’s good.”
Twilight nearly dropped the packet. “It’s… good?”
“Yes, very good!” Rarity took off her glasses. “You should be proud—Twilight?”
The life had been sucked from Twilight’s bones. She stared off into the distance, eyes shaking. “It’s good. Good.”
“Twilight, what’s wrong? Aren’t you happy?”
“No!” Twilight shrieked, throwing up her hooves. “I’m not! It’s good? Good isn’t good enough! Good is bad!” She leapt from her seat and walked around the room. “I’m competing with the best of the best, Rarity! These writers aren’t good, they’re great! They don’t have blocks like this. They don’t make mistakes. They know what they’re doing!”
Rarity shook her head. “That’s not—“
“I’m not good enough,” Twilight spat, stopping in the middle of the room. “I’m nothing compared to them. I’m gonna make a fool of myself.”
Silence. Twilight fell to her knees, gaze stuck to the floor. Her lungs felt like they had been tied together. She tried to swallow, but her throat was hard, eternally dry. Everything ached. She closed her eyes and waited for Rarity to say something, anything to cheer her up—
“Mhm.” Rarity nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you aren’t good enough to beat these writers.”
Twilight choked on her own frantic spit. She stared at Rarity. “What… what?”
“I said that you’re not good enough to beat them.” Rarity stood up and walked over to her friend. “You’re just not. I’m sorry.”
Everything was cracking. Everything was falling. Twilight had been stabbed. She looked away, eyes stinging. “Oh.”
“But that’s okay.”
“Huh?”
Rarity touched a hoof to Twilight’s chin, lifting her head up to meet her gaze. “I said that’s okay. It’s okay to not be as good as them. It’s okay to not be perfect, Twilight!” She smiled. “I love you dearly, but this was your first time competing, darling. Did you really expect to beat all of these experienced authors and win?”
“I… I don’t know,” Twilight growled, tears spilling down her face. “You said you’d get me a gold medal.”
“I said I would get you on the track to a gold medal,” Rarity corrected. She helped Twilight up off the floor and led her over to the couch, where they both laid side-by-side. “Twilight, I’ve been in quite a few competitions in my life, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: not even the greatest artists win the first time. Sometimes they never win!”
“But that doesn’t make sense!” Twilight said with a scowl. “If you’re good, you win! That’s how contests work!”
“You can’t always judge art like that!” Rarity said. “These competitions? They’re about improving! Art is a constant struggle. Not against the world, not against other ponies—against yourself. Being an artist means fighting your own demons, fighting your own insecurities.
“No one can stop you from creating, Twilight. No one except for yourself. And every time you win that fight, every time you create something new, you’re improving.”
Twilight sniffled. “Really?”
“Really.” Rarity grinned. “This was your first time ever writing fiction, no? So maybe you won’t win. Maybe you’re not the best. But I think that’s a good thing. It means that you have room to improve.”
Twilight nodded and looked away. “Maybe… but what about the other authors? They invited me to this, expecting me to be a fantastic author, just like them! What if I submit something terrible, and they all hate me, or taunt me, or anything else?”
“They're ponies just like you, darling. I'm sure they have these same fears,” Rarity said. “They’ll understand. And if they don’t? If they really do hate you, or taunt you, and all of that? Then perhaps they aren’t the sort of ponies you want to be looking up to.”
Twilight chuckled through a muted sob. Rubbing her eyes, she pressed her head into Rarity’s mane. “Thanks, Rarity. You’re the best.”
“I try,” Rarity said. She levitated Twilight’s outline over to the couch and placed it in front of her. “You have a week. Do you think you can make it?”
Twilight picked up her packet and scanned the front page. It still made her giggle.
“I think so.”
A month later, Twilight sat in her bedroom, writing on her desk. In front of her sat a long scroll: the entrance form for the next writing competition. She had received it in the mail that morning, and wanted to send it in as soon as possible. With a quick flourish of her quill, Twilight signed her name at the bottom and rolled up the scroll before tucking it away in her nearby saddlebag.
She stood up and stretched. She had been sitting in that hard wooden seat for, what, two hours now? Writing. Just writing. She had gotten some good feedback on that Earth Pixies story of her—A.K. Yearling had sent her a special note, thanking her for writing it. She had never thought a simple thank you could bring her near tears.
Rolling her neck, she snuffed out her desk lamp and walked over to her bed. It had been a long day, and her ‘creative juices’—Celestia had taught her that one—needed refilling. With a contented sigh, she climbed under the covers, wriggling around until she was buried in a mountain of silk.
She cast one last smile at the black ribbon sitting on her nightstand before turning over and drifting to a peaceful sleep. She dreamt of mud.
Author's Note
This story is dedicated to Manaphy, Monokeras, and anyone else who finds themselves ever facing the demon that is self-doubt.
