You type. You type and you type, the words flowing onto the page one after another, building into what is commonly referred to as sentences, and, before you know it, you even have a paragraph on your claws—you have no idea what it's about, but at least it's written.
You sit back in your seat, sighing up into the air. You've been at this for too long, and your eyes begin to close, resting from staring at the same page. You're given respite from your work, but you feel still just as caged: you may have made some progress, but the story is still not finished.
The other world—the one you've been peering into—is beginning to fade, and when it does, so does your flow of words. Breaking into the other world is hard at first, be it laziness or resistance, but you think it easier to break into a bank some days.
That thought causes you guilt: surely writing shouldn't be this hard for you.
But it is. You wish it wasn't; you wish to write as easily and as well as those whom you admire, but it's simply not a match met to be. You can't be them just as much as they can't be you—much to your dismay. You've asked them for help before, and every time, you get the same response.
Just keep writing.
It's the process that makes you better, or so they tell you. Writing is where you face the problems of the craft; writing is where you answer those questions. You're supposed to improve with each new work you make, but the only way to make that new work is to keep writing.
So you open your eyes, roll your neck till you hear a pop, and return your gaze to the paper. The other world hasn't faded yet, so the words can still flow out your fingers, but something stops you from typing.
It's the words you've already written: they're awful.
You can't believe it. Just a few moments ago, they were fine. Nothing great yet nothing terrible, but now that you're feasting your gaze upon them a second time, you can't help but see everything wrong with them. How could you have screwed up this bad? Surely no one else makes such errors.
You clench your claws, tight then tighter, till their contours prod the scales of your palm. You hadn't even finished this piece, and you've already failed—you see little point in completing the piece of shit. The other world is fading faster now, like it's becoming aware of just how terrible its existence is, and annihilating itself out of shame.
You grab the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, crushing the potential with your claw, it clumping into a small ball, before you toss it over your shoulder. You look up the clock, sighing at the time: you still had another few hours of writing time.
You didn't feel like writing, but you know that you should, regardless of whatever quality your produce. It's what all great writers have told you: keep writing, and you'll get better. Since hearing that advice, you've promised yourself to start writing daily, but you're starting to see it as punishment rather than discipline.
If someone asked you to describe writing to them, you, quite ironically, would be at a loss for words. You would speak of the wonders of being lost in the flow, of writing a story you've always wanting to reach, and feelings of accomplishment (as well as joyful exhaustion) once the task was done.
But, upon reflection, you would say more. You would speak of the shame of rereading your work, if seeing all that is wrong with it, and berating yourself for mistakes you didn't mean to make. You would talk of pouring yourself into your work just for it to be torn apart, everything wrong with it scathingly made apparent, without mention of the positives of your work—that is, if there are any.
You would then speak of the question that plagues you now: why do you continue to write? There doesn't seem to be much of a point to it: the joy you feel could be replaced with some other medium, one that doesn't punish you too harshly and actually rewards you for your efforts.
But now, you just feel like a racehorse, whipped to run faster, yet never getting a carrot at the end of any of your races. You sigh, something becoming a common trait to you now, as you do the most rational thing a creature like you could do at this moment.
You put a new paper into your type-writer and begin writing. Once again, you see only paper, but you start typing, anything, and somehow, from that first sentence, a possible world is born, one that you see more of the more you type. It makes itself more apparent to you the more that you type, and before you know it, you're peering into the other world.
It's strange for you to think, that, despite how hard it is for you to get started, you forget the pains in under thirty seconds.
The story is unfolding, the clicks of your keys like music to your ears, and you enjoy every moment of the sensation. It's a sick pleasure because you know how it ends, but you know that you'll be back at it again—you always do and you always will.
A knock at the door interrupts your flow. You jitter at the broken connection, and in the span of a few seconds, you remember that you are you, that you are inside your room, and that someone is knocking at your door. Now that you're back in the present, you call out. "It's open. Come in!"
The door squeaks open. The clip-clop of hooves resound from the wooden floor, and a few moments later, they stop before your chair. You look over your shoulder, doing your best to smile at the lavender mare. "Hey, Twilight. Did ya need something?"
"Nothing in particular," she says, coming to your desk. "You've been in here for quite a while so I figured I'd check on you." She looks to the page, and you hope she's just pretending to read the words. "How goes the writing?" she says as she looks back at you, wearing hopeful expression.
You want to tell her that it's alright. That you'll be done soon enough, and afterward, you can help her clean the library. You've always kept her distant from your work as you saw nothing you could gain from the exchange. Your writing stinks, always has and always will, but you keep coming back to it.
Twilight has the illusion that your writing may not stink, and you don't intend on breaking it anytime soon. If she knew just how bad your writing was, much less how much time you poured into it, you doubt you two would have any pleasant conversations on the subject.
You quickly realize that you've been asked a question, and you answer. "Not good."
You blink. That's not the answer you should have given.
"Oh?" Twilight says, her face lighting up with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "What's troubling you, Spike? Anything I can do to help?"
You debate lying. Of just telling her it's a just a writer thing you'll get over, and that she should concern herself with more important issues. You open your mouth, intent of setting her heart to peace, but the thing is, your heart isn't having any of it. The whirlwind of the past hour still has you chained down, and, more than any words you could type, you need the words of a friend.
"I'm fearing that I'm never going to get better, Twilight," you say, slowly and carefully, as you haven't spoken of your fears to another for quite some time. "Everything I create just seems to come out as awful, and it makes me feel bad about myself."
You cringe. You write stories, yet you couldn't come better dialogue for yourself, much less during a critical time?
"I see. I guess that fear would do anypony in for a few days." She sits down next to your chair, letting you know she is here to stay. "Can you tell me why your words make you feel bad?"
"Because they're bad," you say, like it's the simplest truth that's ever been known. "Because I wrote 'em."
"Wow," Twilight says, leaning back slightly. "That's certifiably a harsh view to hold about yourself."
"It's harsh," you reply, "but it's true."
"Right." She clears her throat. "So, why are the words bad?"
You blink, not quite sure why you were so taken aback. "Huh?"
"The words," she says again, "how come they're bad?"
You rack your mind for an answer only for none to come. You want to explain how obvious it is to her, to have her glance at your work and be awash in the same feeling of terribleness, which she could describe far better than you ever could. But Twilight wants an answer from you, and you find difficulty in responding.
"They're just...bad, Twilight," you say, pathetically. "All it takes is just one glance for me to throw them away. No real point in wasting any more time on it, y'know?"
She shakes her head. "I don't. You still haven't answered my question."
"It just...it just feels bad, Twilight," you say, hoping your mind will find some train of thought that will save your argument. It finds nothing, and you've never before felt so in the wrong. "Wish I could tell you why, but I just end up burning the paper the moment I realize it's bad."
Twilight tilts her head and her eyes narrow. She's figured something out, and you're not sure if you should be happy or afraid. "Have you tried not immediately hating your work once it's finished?"
"Huuuuuh?"
"When you come back to something, have you tried suppressingthe feeling that it might be bad?" she asks, but surprisingly not in a way that makes you feel like an idiot. "Artist hate their work all the time—it's the whole reason they go back to fix it."
"Huuuuuh?" You can't help but feel like an idiot, and when Twilight recoils, you worry you may have bad breath.
"Listen, Spike. I'm not going to pretend to know what you should do with your art." She looks to your typewriter, not the paper, but how your claws still hover over the keys. "All I can do is assess what you're doing and offer my best opinion. Lots of artists have a great time first creating their work, but come to despise it once they return, and that's a beneficial feeling to have."
Never before did you think self-contempt had positive attributes. "How so?"
"Few ponies get it right the first time, Spike." She looks back up at you. "If you know whatever you're going to create is just going to be bad, you would have stopped long ago. But your claws are ready to start typing again, why do you think that is?"
"Because..." you say, and this time, not searching your mind for the answer, but your heart. "...because it's a lot of fun."
Twilight nods. "Exactly. If it weren't, then you wouldn't keep doing it again and again, especially if it keeps making you feel bad afterward."
She then looks at the floor, her face scrunching up upon notching the crumpled paper. "But you can't keep feeling good when it's time to look over your work again. It just doesn't make sense."
You gulp. "H-How so?"
"If you felt as great as when you first wrote the thing, then you wouldn't change a thing!" Twilight says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You would just ignore everything wrong with it and proclaim it as good, but that's not the way to make it good."
"T-Then how do you make it good?"
"By fixing all that's wrong with it, of course!" she says once more, her tail flicking with excitement. "Anypony would feel bad about finding everything wrong with their work, but you should be grateful for the sensation—you're now aware of everything that needs fixing!"
You tilt your head slightly, as if that would help you better process her words.
"You know why your work is bad; you have that little voice whispering everything that's wrong with it—so use it." Twilight stands up, walking towards the paper. "Since you're aware of everything that is bad, tell yourself why it is bad, then try to fix it, and when you do, you've made your work better."
She picked up the crumpled paper with a hoof, holding it up in the air. "And better leads to good, believe it or not."
You sit in silence for a while, just digesting her words and reviewing your writing life, wondering why you didn't consider such a possibility for yourself. You realize, then, that you had been comparing yourself to those writers, and keeping too zealous to their exact wording. You didn't trust yourself to take your own path, and you wonder why your writing is terrible.
"Either way, none of what I said matters unless you do two things," Twilight says.
"What?" you reply.
"Keep writing," she says, unfurling the paper in her magic. "and keep writing. Don't give up, and you'll improve. Writing isn't a race against those other writers: it's a race against yourself. To view it any other way will just make you want to give up again."
The paper floats before her eyes, but she's too busy looking back at you. "Other ponies may write better than you, Spike, but nopony can write like you. Please keep that in mind, alright?'
You want to thank Twilight. To tell her that you needed this, to have someone break you out of your funk with some wisdom, and to show some faith in the potential of your abilities. You're not quite sure how to express your gratitude, no words summing up just what you felt towards this mare.
So you write.
