"Spike?"
I heard the distant hoof-steps creeping up the stairs, growing closer and louder until they were no longer distant. "You are awake! What are you doing up so late?"
Relief, somehow accompanied by irritation, flooded my system as my claws hovered away from the typewriter. I look up from it, to the open window just before my table, where the moon shined dimly with its blue hue. It was funny: I didn't remember the sun setting.
"So are you going to sit there in silence," the voice behind me started up again, causing me to turn around in my chair, "or are you going to tell me what you're doing up so late?"
"I'm...I'm sorry Twilight," I said, genuinely meaning it for some strange reason. "Guess I lost track of time. Say, is it past my bedtime?"
"Bedtime?" Her face scrunched. "Spike, you're not a baby anymore. I don't set your bedtime."
"Oh." I blinked. "That's right." I just sat there after that, not quite sure what to say, not quite sure what to do. Writing, that was it! I was supposed to be writing, but I couldn't, because Twilight was in the room with me. She seemed...concerned that I'd forgetting my age, and for a moment, I wondered if I should have felt the same as well.
Then I remembered I was a writer, and writers needed to write. The strangeness of forgetting your age is a decent concept to be explored with words, but when it comes to reality, there's no purpose in pondering it. Wondering about such things was just an excuse not to write.
But writers write alone. Having someone else in the room was a legitimate concern to pull me away from the typewriter. In fact, this could be made for an ethical conflict for later, so I could chalk up the time getting her out as inspiration.
"Soooooo," Twilight began again, drawing my attention out from my own head. She stood before my chair, looking up at me with her head tilted, and her body bathed in the moonlight. Never before had I been so aware that I was cloaked in shadows. "Are you gonna tell me what you're up too or should I assume you're sitting on a dirty magazine."
I chuckled awkwardly. Damn it. That's not what I wanted to do. I briefly transcribed this interaction to paper in my head, imaging what the perfect response the protagonist could give. If only life were like that, always granted the time to revise the perfect reaction, but then again, living is far easier than writing.
"Writing," I said, feeling guilty as if I were lying. Quickly, I realized that was, and strived to rectify. "Or, at least, trying to. I've all these perfect ideas waiting to be put to paper, but..." I sighed, looking away. "...that's where things tend to go wrong. And you can save the speech, I already know."
I turned back in time to see her mouth suspended. She promptly closed it once we made eye-contact.
"That I need to allow myself to write bad. To just let words flow out and silence that pesky little voice that you and I have." I followed all that with a chuckle, but Twilight just kept standing there, silently, eyes almost pleading. Damn it. When I re-write this scene, I have to give a response that in sync with the mood of the scene. "But I just can't do it. Either it's a lack of will or I just can't cut the voice, but the words aren't going anywhere Twilight. And, above all, they're utter trash."
Finally, a response, movement. Twilight turned away only to hop on my bed, plopping herself down atop my comforter, and gave me all signs needed to know I had her full attention. Abstractions, both in prose and my goal, they always seem to hold me back from good writing. I wanted Twilight to leave so I could get back to the task at claw, but instead, I've gotta ramble about my inability to write.
Talk about irony.
"My stuff is trash," I said, and it wasn't a ploy to hear otherwise, "and we both know it." I looked downward, clenching and shaking my claw as I spoke those cold-harsh words. "But you told me practice makes progress. Keep writing, keep reading, and someday I'll be better." I sighed, and at the same time, all the tensions leaves my body. "But I'm not sure that's true. I'm not sure a guys like me stands a chance no matter how hard he tries."
Damn it. Was I fishing for validation? It hadn't start out the way. No no no no. This is all wrong. A writer should begin with the goal of the story in mind, what his characters are about and the overall themes. The same should be true of real life, of now. But I've got no clue what I want now, what I want to hear from Twilight, or what I should really be doing right now.
Writing. That's always the definite answer—the right thing to be doing. I didn't need Twilight, nor validation, or self-pity: all those were needless things that got in the way of the task in claw.
"Actually, that's unfair of me to say," I said, looking back up at her. Once again, her mouth was open, and the only words that escaped into the room were from me. "Anyone can get better with practice. I just...I just need get back into writing, push through that wall, and when I'm done, let that little voice have it's fun." I smiled at her as she rose from the bed, her face telling me she expected to stay there longer. "Then, once I'm done the fortieth draft, I'll hand if off for you to destroy. As long as I can out-write your scrutiny, I will get better."
She laughed. Twilight Sparkle laughed. The room didn't feel oppressive. I no longer felt like a jerk. All my mismatched responses suddenly did not matter. Everything was on the right path again. Twilight hopped down from the bed, resting her hoof on my knee. "I think this counts as our shortest therapy session ever," she said, giggling. "But it sounds like once you get those words you've kept pent up out into the air, you seem you already know what you need to do afterward. Maybe you should start talking out loud more, even if I'm not here?"
"Yeah...yeah!" I said and nodded and some other third thing. "I think you're right, Twilight. I think I can save myself some strife from doing just that."
She smiled. She took away her hoof. She went across the room. She stopped at my door.
"Anything I can get you?"
I smiled and shook my head. "No, I'm good."
"Alright." I heard the door squeak close. "Try not to stay up too late."
"I promise," I said as I heard the door click. Turning back around, I was finally alone with my work, well, the work that needed to be done. A white page sat in the typewriter; it's many failed brothers and sisters in the garbage bin next to my feet.
Now I just needed to began the story in an interesting way. A question or a conversation are terrific ways to start because action usually follows, and, in during that action, the plot and the characters slowly start to reveal themselves. Not only that, but because action is occurring, you can bet that the reader is already hooked into the pacing of the story, so you're granted a bit more leeway to explore.
But enough talking about writing, and let us actually begin. A word. Then another. A couple more and now we have a sentence. Is it a good opening sentence? Probably not, but that doesn't matter, because all I have to do is write and get that momentum going.
A page now. Nice nice. I'm getting a feeling, a heat derived from passions, making my digits clicked the keys like never before. I can see it now, that other world, where the character live and talk, more-so there than I am here. It's temporary, I know, but I've made the connection, and writing keeps up the illusion.
A thought? Something about Rarity. The sun is shining. Why is the sun shinning? Wasn't the moon just up? Crap, I promised Twilight that I'd try to get some sleep, but I guess this is another declared all-nighter. I looked down at my written pages, and I'm awash in dismay as I've lost to that other word, its only remnant these horribly written pages.
They're bad. Seriously bad. I'd been so excited at showing Twilight these, the conquest of my battle through the block, yet this was all I had to show for it? Twilight's probably expecting the best from me after that meaningful moment, and I'm doubtful she'll be able to hide her disappointment while reading through these pages.
I've gotta scrap em. Ain't no use in editing or revising—they're core is bad and that's something that can't be fixed. I've just gotta write more, write better, write something that she can glance at without being annoyed. But how? How's a drake like me to write something up to her taste? My expectations of my work are rising, a cardinal sin that creates writer's block, but do I have any choice? If I continue to produce crap then I'll just stagnate in mediocrity.
"Spike? Are you in here?" I didn't even hear knocking at my door, but there it was, accompanied by the voice that had once captured my heart. "I'm coming in if that's quite alright with you."
Rarity? Damn it. I didn't have time to entertain her at the moment. I was already behind in my writing with Twilight and scrapping those abysmal papers. I needed to write more, to write better, but I didn't have a choice in the matter when the door flew open, and a pretty pony in a pretty dress walked in.
"Oh dear. I do hope I'm not interrupting anything?" She asked, pausing at the door.
I shook my head. "Not at all, let yourself in."
She did just that. Looking around at all my stuff as she crossed my stuff, before promptly stopping by my chair. Something was different about her. Rarity was clothed up, a lavender dress around her alabaster coat, along with a scent I couldn't hope to describe, but there was nothing about it her that wasn't normal.
I glanced down at my body. My scales were cleaned, and I even had a few muscles to show for my latest growth spurt, but besides that, there wasn't all to mush different about me either. So why was I overcome with such an odd feeling?
Me looking to her and her looking to me, it was then and there I realized, something had changed between us.
Oh. Ohmy. It felt like years had passed and the fruits of waiting were suddenly bestowed upon my lap. Rarity was here, in my room, looking perfect like always, and at the moment, I gave the illusion of being just as perfect. The air had changed because I suddenly stood a chance.
"I was curios to how you were doing, Spike," Rarity said at last, drawing my attention away from myself and to her. For a moment, with the sunrise still captured in my window with its light bathing her form, I almost confused her an angel. Maybe even a...muse. "Twilight said a month ago you were having writer's block and rarely left this room."
"A...a month ago?" I said to myself, blinking quite wildly, before looking out to the sunrise. It began to rise faster. "That's...impossible! She...we...that conversation happened just last night!?"
"Spike? Are you feeling quite alright?" Rarity came dangerously close between my legs, looking up at me with eyes sparkling with concern. "I know your passion requires long stretches of stillness, but if you don't get up every so often and get the blood flowing at it t'were, your mind will just stagnate."
I clench my claw as a sudden pain courses through my body. Stagnation? You only stagnate if you're not writing, if you're not creating or improving, or just even doing! The only reason why I'm stagnating right now is because she is in the room distracting me!
"You can't give your life to your work," she continued, rather cautiously at seeing how my expression must have changed."Life serves art and art serves life. It's a balancing act that can't tip in either or favor. Locking yourself away in your room isn't doing you nor your work any good."
I opened my mouth for a response, but no words came out. We stayed like that for a little bit, silent and still, until she pulled my chair closer towards her, and for the first time in a long while, I felt the warmth of light on my scales. Just...just how long had I been in the shadows?
"You should leave your room, darling," she said, drawing my attention again, earning my heart again. "Preferably...with me," she slurred. She slurred! Oh dear Celestia, no words can ever capture the emotion I felt at hearing her said that. Never never never! Could I have imagined on my own the beautiful sounds this mare was capable of.
With the sunlight's light, I was filled with energy. With this mare standing before me, I felt the ideas come alive in my head. I had all that I needed to create perfection—all I had to do was write. Write, and the words will come alive, the character and feelings derived from something that was real.
"I wish I could, Rarity," I said in a giddy voice, "but I finally know what I must write! I've gotten my muse back, and it's thanks to you!" I lean forward to capture her in my arms, giving a squeeze as I enjoy her embrace, and the blush on her cheeks tells me the feeling's mutual. "Thank you, Rarity!"
I pull back, abruptly by the disappointed expression on her face. "I've got my mojo back, but I've got to start writing now before it fades. Just a few words, maybe a couple of papers, so I have the course of the novel ready to be filled later."
I push myself back into the shadow of the typewriter and don't hesitate to hit the first key. The story has begun, the journey embarked, the adventure to be had, and all the terrific cliches I could think of at the top of my head.
"I promise this won't take long," I said to her in a dismissive voice, one that made her lower her head. "Just enough to get me on the right course and then I swear I'll join you downstairs for whatever you desire, okay?"
She simply nodded her head, a smile on her lips yet tears in her eyes as she sees me type. Then, I no longer see her, her hooves clip-clopping across the wooden floor of my room. After a few moments, I hear a voice, soft and not meant for me, just as the door closes.
"Happy birthday to me."
What a fantastic idea for a tragedy.
That's it! That's the catch! The point to all these words and papers and characters. It will be of a writer trying to pass through his block, unsure of how he'll do so, with the overall theme of tragedy to aim for. There's not enough there for a solid outline, but there's enough of a seed to be explored.
I'm writing. Once again I'm in bliss. The other world, both mine and not, so distant and safe, where my friends play and lessons are to be had. This world can be everything I want it to be or quite the vice versa if I'm working some things out. But this idea is slowly forming. Slowly becoming. The words are getting better, maybe not quite what they need to be, but slowly and surely they'll be the words worthy to Twilight's eyes.
A snap. No, wait, knocking yet again. The other word begins to fades, my digits slow across the keys, and I notice I'm running low on ink. I sighed, the door already opened by the time I turned around.
My next story should be about cowboys.
"Just what in the hay do ya think you're doing up here?" Applejack said, walking across the room with her head held height up. "Everyone's already out at the church and here you still are!"
"Church?" I said, tilting my head. Then I remembered the dress Rarity was wearing. "Oh, right, Rarity! I was supposed to dance with her."
"Dance with her? Dance with her!?" Applejack stopped half-way across the room, looking to me almost like I'd become a predator. "Sugarcube, you had your chance. A claw on her and that stallion's hindlegs are going into your jaw, ya hear?"
"Another stallion?" I said, knowing it cheap to repeat, but my confusion warranted it. "Why would another stallion get that upset over me touching Rarity?"
"Because any nitwit knows that a stallion would get upset over anyone touching his bride!" Applejack said, taking a step away from me. The reveal jolted my system, and yet, my first reaction was to look down at myself for anything about me keeping the mare away. I spotted a few facial scales and not much else. "I swear that typewriter ain't no hobby but an obsession. You do away with that fad just once during the many time Rarity asked you to and it'd be you up there with her."
Shaking her head, Applejack turned around. "C'mon now, don't matter how much it hurts you to sit in the stands. It's the least you owe for breaking that poor mare's heart, and will do you a lot of good to be surrounded by friends and family instead of those dang pieces of paper."
Before I could get out a word, the door slammed, and I was once again alone. What was happening to me? What was happening to my friends and the world around me? The writing felt slow and seconds like minutes, yet whenever I snap away, it's like months have passed.
Wait...if so much time has passed while working on my master piece, then that must mean I've finally created a first draft that is worth enough to enter a second draft. To my surprise, a blank sheet of paper greets me once more, and a mountain of crumpled ones have filled most of the room. I don't dare get out of my seat, only to roll over and crumple a paper, finding words I didn't not remembered.
They seemed decent. Nothing great but nothing horrible either. A few teaks, passages removed, a little re-writing and maybe there could be gold. But then, it dawns on me, that all these pages in the room had to be written by me, and just like that, they've become all so terrible.
I can tell that I've gotten better. I couldn't have made that mistake if the words themselves were not getting better. Twilight's theory of practice is true, that I am sure, I'm so close and yet so far, but not for much longer.
The ringing of church bells were faint over the keys of the typewriter.
The future. That's what I was writing about now. A time both scary and interesting, better explored in prose to get my fill, before retreating to the safe haven that is the present. Tragedy, a birthday avoid and a wedding that wasn't my own—how to convert these pains into decent fiction?
The other world, was becoming more clear! I can see vividly, the ponies talking and the world around me, something so special to me because I was both did and didn't have control over them. Of course, the same would become true if I left my room and met the girls outside for a picnic, but I'd have nothing to show for that time spent away from the typewriter other than a useless memory.
Wouldn't that be an interesting tragedy indeed? A protagonist only doing that which he believes matters in his only mind, something he sticks with which exudes a noble air, though he soon comes to realize that all those little things mattered just as well, but now it's too late to enjoy them. Yes, yes. The words are flowing. This is very nice indeed.
Not the idea. It's been done to death. The outline is the same just with different characters and wording, but the core is still the same. If I can just put a spin, make something poignant on top of it, then maybe the idea will stand a chance of being fresh.
Oh! How about the character is forced to indulge in the think he avoided the world for? It's the only thing he's known, the only thing he's decent at, the one thing that can allow him to go anywhere in the other world, to the future and the past, to explore all those little moments that never were. He'd sink slowly more into that which took his life away just try to claim some of it back.
Yes yes. That'd make a fitting ending. The words are building themselves. They have purpose, direction, and I just have to keep the momentum going, and I shall be there. I'm close, I can feel it now, through both the words and the air around me.
Then, a cough. Someone coughing. Someone was coughing near me. Strange, I don't recall anything opening the door and entering the room, but to my right, there's a frail little Rainbow Dash. The other world fades yet again, but I don't quite mind. It's derelict in here, dark outside without no moon; just what have I missed this time around?
"That's the first time you've stopped today!" Rainbow exclaimed, followed by a harsh cough. A hoof, covered by wrinkles, went to cover her mouth. "Say, are you actually here here, or is your mind stuck in that other world of yours?"
"N-No...I'm h-here..." I sensed something terrible coming. Like I'd just committed the last mistake I was allowed before being thrown into the deep end. I didn't like where this was going. "R-Really here, I mean."
"Ha! How's that for timing?" she said, so alive and old, and me so scared and young.
"Where's...the others, Rainbow?"
"The others?" Rainbow slapped her knee, producing this awful sound. For a moment, we were both afraid she had broken something. "Come on, Spike, they've been long gone! It's a miracle I was the one to outlive them all, exuding Twilight of course."
Twilight! That's right. She was an alicorn and the key to reducing the effect of a tragedy. My breath stopped at the thought, my eyes blinking, as it all suddenly began to make sense. Everything around me was clearer that I'd ever seen it before, despair the easiest thing to see and to cling to.
"Most of the girls had something to say about your passion before they passed," Rainbow said, earning my attention yet again. Heh. "But telling you them won't exactly change anything except make you feel bad, so let's leave that in peace with them." Dash sat up in my bed, every breath she drew becoming progressively strained. "I think you've got guts to stick with it this far. I don't think there's anyone else who's practiced as hard as you, and as a former wonderbolt, that's the type of thing I admire."
I kept my silence. Her tone was honest, and yet, I felt like shit. I didn't know what to say, what to do, what to feel. The call of the typewriter still burned in my mind, my digits trembling as the absence of keys, yet I did not pull my attention away from Dash.
"It's okay that you gave up on your friends," Dash said, hacking. "That...that your rejected the love of your life." Her eyelids began to slide close. "...and...and wasted...your days away...inside of your room..." A few more breaths, harder and harder to make. "...but as long as you...as you loved your passion...and had fun with your obsession...then...then that makes everything else....o...okay..."
Rainbow offered me a smile from behind half-lidded eyes. "...did...you...love...your...work...?" She drew a breath, closed her eyes, exhaled, and that was the last I heard from Rainbow Dash. She laid still on my bed, strangely at peace, her wings not trembling like my fingers were.
My friend was dead, and yet, all I could think of how I could have made her goodbye speech better. On how the comparison to my writing to her flying was weak. The world around me was bleak and the story was soon reaching it's end, but there was one final thing I needed to do. Looking at the papers that now filled my room, I looked a the words years in the making, only to hate what I was supposed to love.
I'm sorry, Rainbow Dash, but the years were in vain indeed.
There's still one more thing I can do. I'm better now, without any more distractions, and just a typewriter and finger itching to return to work. I fulfill their desire, and the words come alive again. They no longer have any meaning, but at least I'm no longer blocked.
It's like I'm forgetting what the story is even about. The other world has been with me for quite some time, but it's hard to discern it from the view from my window. I've lost almost everything to my work, and it's become better, I can feel it, but it hasn't become enough—I haven't become enough.
Twilight. The mare I'm doing this all for. I've got the momentum to survive her gaze now, to hear of her criticism and fix all that is needed to become better. But she's also my best friend, the saving grace to all my past mistakes, and I'm unsure if I can even include her in the story.
A tragedy needs to evoke both pity and fear. To give a character everything, have them make a mistake that anybody else could make, but pay a price that take everything they hold dear. Twilight is the only thing that can pull me out of this tragedy, my first and greatest friend, but then the ending wouldn't have remained thematically consistent with the story.
Just a few more pages...
"So, this is where you wound up?" a voice echoed. I take my fist conscious breath and feel the dampness of my surrounding. "Figured the Dark Presence would've taken you along with the land, but it seems like you were clever enough to go to the highest cave. Not so much to bring that with you."
I looked up from the typewriter. Just before the entrance of the cave, I saw her silhouette. "Twilight..."
"Was it worth it, Spike?" she said, not daring to enter the cave. "Everything lost so that you could practice? Even if you had become one of the greats and earned my praise, I have to ask, what then?"
I kept silent.
"You would have written the story as best as it could be told, all for the satisfaction of having critics applaud," she said as lighting struck, illuminating her larger alicorn figure. "But what of your own feelings? The memories that inspired the scenes and the emotions you pour forth. Beyond the prose there lies a meaning soles for you, or does that not mean anything?"
"I...I just wanted to get better."
"At the expense of your life," Twilight said, "but now you have a choice, to show that you've learned from your mistake. There's still a chance, a hope for you. Write them all back, your friends and those times you've missed, and enjoy yourself."
I looked down at the typewriter.
"It's magical, y'know?" her voice came again but I didn't look up. "Not even Celestia was aware of its curse when she gave it to you. The ability to make words into worlds and bring the author there, the only catch it you have to write to the muse inside the box." My claw began to shake, and in turning it over, I saw black ink covering every inch of my digit...where it slowly climbed along my wrist. "By the time I figured it out, it was already too late. But not now, Spike," she said, "but not now."
I looked back up to Twilight. She'd entered the cave. A certain warmth came along with her. However, it stood no chance of pertaining the cold wall that surrounded the typewriter and me.
"You can write yourself back, back to before you made those horrible mistakes," Twilight pleased, drawing closer despite the resistance. "Everything you've learned, all those hours you spent practicing will be gone, but you'll have your life back! Your life back with us!"
I tried to smile and failed.
"But, of course, you've been under it's temptation all these years," Twilight said, just before the desk, unable to go any further. "All these years, all that building up to, you don't want a cop-out ending, do you?" her voice echoed off the cave more than it should. "To have an ending that's thematically consistent, right?!"
I swallowed.
Then, Twilight looked directly at me, with such intensity that I have never felt before.
"No matter what happens next, Spike, you will always be a writer," she said, dropping onto her rear end. "Not matter what choice you make, you'll still be condemned to write. But I swear, that if I exist in the next world, that I'll help you edit."
I couldn't help but ask. "But why help a writer like me?"
She replied with a smile. "Because your writing isn't as bad as you think."
I giggled. I chuckled. I laughed. I howled. I guess I was in it for the validation after all.
Raising my claws to the typewriter, I finished the story.
