I was having a very nice day. It was great! I had no pressing assignments, I finished another manuscript, I didn’t have to foalsit Coral Wave’s stubborn little kid, and I had a couple hours to relax, have some snacks, and see if I can write anything else. Of course, I wasn’t completely isolated from the rest of the world, as evidenced by the hard clacking of the mail slot.
I wasn’t expecting anything, but if I had to guess, then the letter was from family or a friend, or, dare I say it, a fan. I did just have my second published story be printed out in the Write Side gazette yesterday. Somepony might be captivated by my words and how I spun the tale of the mundane yet enjoyable life of a florist, and now they’re sending me fanmail!
Or maybe that’s just my ego talking. That’s a completely valid possibility.
Fidgeting from the sheer anticipation, I lift the letter in my magic and carefully open the envelope. If it is fanmail, then I have to preserve it as much as possible as one of my first accomplishments as a published writer; I’ll have fond memories of this moment when I look at the letter, and a slit envelope looks better than a torn one!
Inside the envelope is a page of yesterday’s Write Side issue, and specifically, the critics’ page. My eyes are drawn to the peer reviews section, which is circled in red. Several lines are underlined, and I lean my head in to read it.
Dreamy Plume shows promise, but her talent is better used elsewhere that isn’t the nuances in life. Needs severe guidance.
I read that line over and over again, and what it says doesn’t change. My mind is starting to go blank as I return to the living room. So much for fanmail.
I glance at a notebook resting innocently on the couch’s armrest, one that contained a day in the life of a mare who just wanted to share the beauty she finds in her daily tasks. Showing promise? That’s just the sugar coating of an insult.
Sitting down on the couch, I lift the notebook over to my face. Just a week ago, I thought it was good. But, it’s not, is it?
What’s wrong with writing about life? Didn’t the Prench make art history with their realism movement, a style where they bring to light the nitty, gritty details of daily life? I didn’t even do that! I talked about the beauty in the simple things! But apparently people don’t like simple. The very first letter I received as an author, and it’s highlighting my failure.
“Better suited elsewhere.” Ha, what do you want me to do? Work as an ad-maker? I’d be writing words that weren’t mine and telling a story that was fabricated from the depths of a desperation for customers. That’s not the story I want to write.
The story I want to write is beautiful. It’s painstakingly crafted over many long nights, spurred on by bursts of inspiration when I play out what happens myself, acting - or rather, living - as the characters. I’m an action writer, I want to get to the good bits, but I’m learning to slow down and put as much heart into the spaces in-between. The story I want to write is filled with the mystery of how the world works, of one culture learning to co-exist with another, of two ponies bridging the gap with their curiosity for the other.
But that’s not the story the public wants.
The notebook trembles in my grasp, and I idly note how easy it would be to just tug with my magic and watch the pages rip. I’d be tearing this florist’s story apart. I’d provide myself with a grim sense of satisfaction.
I want to cry. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. It’s coming, sometime, but not right now. Maybe not even today, or tomorrow, or next week. Maybe it’ll build up and wash over me like an ocean erasing markings made in the sand. That’s all I am, really; I’m just a foal, making patterns in the sand, only to watch them disappear with the current.
I’m not crying, but I feel like it’d be appropriate if I cry. At least I’d be showing how I felt about this, but I’m just apathetic right now. I’m just a pony, sitting in her living room, staring at a notebook, with little else to do that day than continue sitting there.
The room flashes with magic, and I’m brought out of my thoughts by the sound of the notebook hitting the wall. Even when the story is bad, I can’t bring myself to destroy it. It’s still mine, just... bad.
What does this critic expect me to do? What am I supposed to write about? Severe guidance, yeah, I guess I do need that. What was I thinking, getting fanmail in the first letter? When I was a filly, I’d walk past the bookstore and just stare at the names that decorated the shelves. James Trotterson. Mary-Pony Osborne. Jonathan Stride. Authors that I love, that I wanted to be like. Imagine that! My name, out on the shelves, a bestseller on the Manehattan list.
Did I dream too big? Was that why I’m falling so far now? Stars, I must be insane, thinking that the stories that echo in my head are good. Whoever that critic is right, I need help, but I hate it. I hate re-writing, I hate being told otherwise, I hate it! It feels like I failed, that I didn’t get it right on the first try, that it doesn’t deserve being thought of again. Maybe I’m a perfectionist, maybe my ego was inflated too much by those who told me that I’m good at writing, that I have a gift for literature. Why else would I be called Dreamy Plume if I wasn’t destined to write?
What am I supposed to do now? I’m not good enough, never was, never will be. And I was having such a good day before, and I had a new short story bouncing in my head, but on second thought, it’s a terrible idea. What’s a writer without tales to write about? I have no idea. I guess I’m about to find out.
I stare glumly at the table, where a few loose sheets and a quill lay innocently. A sigh escapes as I lift the quill. What can I do? I can write, and writing has always been my outlet, be it for stories or for myself.
Author's Note
Wanted to try setting a story in the present, rather than in past tense as I normally like to do. Not sure if I succeeded at making it any good, but that’s not for me to decide 
I hope you enjoyed! Onwards to the next story!
