Writer's Block

by cinnamonbuns

Rating: teen
Tags: Trixie, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Octavia, Rarity, Romance, Slice of Life
Length: 9991

Three artists from around Equestria are having creative struggles.

Rarity, Octavia and Trixie are each artists. And they are all having a bit of trouble lately finding motivation for their work. They each must go on their own seperate journeys to find out what their art means to them.

Rarity is frustrated by a lack of originality in her designs, and longs for something to set her apart from the rest. Octavia is struggling to be heard in a large and loud musical community, and thinks she may have finally found her big break--that is, if she can put her best hoof forward when the pressure is on. Trixie, now a professional storyteller, has found moderate success, but is faltering now that she's struggling generating new material. With nopony to fall back on for help, she decides to pack up her belongings and go on a journey without a destination to find a story of her own.

This is an idea I came up with while I was struggling to find a place where I could give something of my own to the massive and amazing brony community. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I have to give, and whether it would even be worth it, given all the talent so much greater than mine that is already out there. I hope to use this story to explore what art means to me, and what it means to different people. It is really three seperate stories being told at the same time. If everything comes together the way that it's working in my head, all the stories will progress together simultaneously, but seperately. They start in about the same place, but they will branch off in different directions and end up in three different places.

This is my first story, and it's awfully ambitious, so if anypony finds this interesting enough to read and comment on, please tell me what I'm doing right and/or wrong, because I'm sure that there's plenty of both. Thanks for reading.

Published 2012-11-20 05:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-11-28 02:48:16 UTC

Rarity-Chapter 1

It started as it always starts, with a blank sheet of paper.

A pencil hovered above, quivering in anticipation.

Rarity frowned.

It started as it always starts, but something was wrong. Rarity stared into the paper, desperately searching for inspiration. But she saw nothing. Only white.

Rarity frowned.

Clack. The pencil was placed down onto the table.

It started as it always starts, but this time, when Rarity walked away, the paper was still blank. There were no sketches, no shapes, no frantically written ideas. No crumpled sheets of paper sat in the empty trash bin, no fabric littered the floors. Needle and thread were still cleanly put away in their drawers. Mannequins stood dull and lifeless against the walls. The inspiration room was rather sadly uninspired at the moment. It was blank. The only sign of distress was the faint wrinkle that stained the forehead of the white pony that stood in the doorway.

Rarity finally let out a sigh, ending the hypnotic silence. “Well, I’m most certainly not going to find any ideas if I just sit here feeling frustrated at myself for the rest of the afternoon.” She looked up at the clock with a grimace. “Good grief, so late already.” How long have I been working? One...two...three...four.... She snorted. Perhaps the term “working” was slightly generous. She let out another sigh. Never before had her work seemed this difficult.

Four hours ago, an eternity though it seemed, she went up into that room with confidence oozing from her pores. She was a pony on a mission. She had an entire afternoon free, and gosh darn, was she going to use it. It was time to make a dress. But she didn’t want any old dress. No, she was sick of the same-old, same-old requests she always got from her clients—ponies with less inspired tastes. She finally had a chance to unleash her full creative juices, and was she ever going to take it. She wanted something brash, bold and new. She was ready to take on any dress, any challenge, no matter how daring. She was inspired. At that time, fantastic ideas flowed through her mind like Neighagara Falls.

Now Rarity looked on this memory, and the pony there seemed like a stranger. In four hours, she had crumpled into a shell of the pony in her memory. How could she fall so far? What had happened? When she sat down and magically lifted her pencil, she tried to pick out an idea from her excited brain. Nothing came. Colors and shapes dashed frantically, creating an illusion of form, but a design was elusive. As time slowly passed, Rarity realized what was happening. She had nothing. For all her desires to create something brilliant, brilliance refused to present itself. Slowly her mind calmed, and then ideas seemed to cease entirely. She drew an endless blank, to her maddening frustration. She paced nervously for what seemed like minutes but must have truly been hours. In retrospect, maybe it was naive to expect to create something truly inspired by sheer force of will, but surely she could have made something, no? However, something never came. The hours rolled on maddeningly. The blank page mocked her. She fell into a trance....

Rarity pulled herself back to the present. “Dinner.”

Equipped with a goal, Rarity set off down the stairs. She whistled a tune to take her mind off of her troubles. “All I need is a good night’s sleep, and I’ll be fine tomorrow morning,” she reassured herself. There is such a thing, after all, as spending too much time thinking about fashion. Perish at the thought.

She opened the refrigerator. Oh, shit. I was supposed to go to the supermarket this afternoon. Ugh, if I hadn’t wasted so much time up there in that stupid room.... She snorted to herself as she perused what little food she had left to work with. Oh, well. Just a daisy sandwich tonight. Not so bad. I could go out. No, definitely not in the mood. I’d probably indulge myself too, and that’s just what I need after spending four hours sitting on my flank. She shut the refrigerator slightly harder than she’d intended to and jumped at the noise. Dear Celestia, I’m tense.

She tossed together a sandwich haphazardly and sat down at the table alone. Her thoughts drifted. I wish Sweetie Belle were here tonight. She sighed again. As much as she would never admit it to another living soul, she adored those occasional weekends Sweetie would stay at the Boutique. Sweetie always had a way of livening her up. She could use that right now. She felt positively drained. Her mind dawdled, and wandered back through her memories. She thought of times shared with her sister. She remembered the time when she finally caved and attempted to teach Sweetie Belle to cook. It took time, patience, and multiple fire extinguishers, but all Rarity could remember now was the beaming face of her sister when she finally cooked an edible batch of scrambled eggs. Rarity had never been fond of such a plain dish, but that morning was the sweetest breakfast she could ever remember eating.

She eventually found herself thinking about the time they’d participated in the Sisterhooves Social. That week was rough. She shuddered as she remembered the argument they’d had. “Maybe I’ll try the rest of my life without a sister!” She could hear the words as plain as if they were just spoken and still echoing in the air. She shook her head. Surely the most foalish thing I’ve ever done. What was I thinking? What could have possessed me to say what I did? I know I can sometimes get frustrated with her, and likewise her with me. But still... She remembered the day of the race, hiding in the mud, donning Applejack’s hat, running the race blind with the goop dripping into her eyes, desperately leaping for the finish line, and coming up short. She remembered the way Sweetie Belle hugged her after the race. She remembered the way her heart swelled. She could never give that up.

Sure, those occasional weekends were often filled with unnecessary bickering, drama and—ugh—noise, but that didn’t matter. They were sisters. They loved each other’s faults as much as they loved their gifts. They shared worries, fears, and hopes. They were in it for the long haul. They were constants in an unpredictable life. They were there for each other when they each needed somepony and they felt alone. Like tonight. Every night they were together they each went to bed with a smile on their face, because each of them brought a little bit of liveliness and joy to the other’s life during those weekends. Neither one would willingly give that time up for something as silly as a little bit of peace and quiet.

As she sat there quietly eating her sandwich, Rarity wondered lazily if Sweetie Belle ever missed her too. Her gaze wandered to a window and met Luna’s moon. It really was late. How did she let the time slip away in that room? She shook her head, trying again to stop herself dwelling on it. She thought about her sister again. Perhaps right now Sweetie Belle was singing herself a lullaby. It was a nightly habit Sweetie had picked up about a year ago, and one she probably thought nopony knew about. She would stand by her window and stare out at the stars, and just let her voice go, softly for nopony but her to hear. Sometimes she sang songs she heard on the radio, or in the schoolyard. Sometimes she sang songs that she wrote herself. Sometimes she didn’t even sing words; she’d just hum a pleasant tune off the top of her head. Rarity didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps she had trouble getting to sleep; perhaps it was just a little exercise for voice practice; perhaps it gave her the same joy that listening to it gave Rarity. Rarity often liked to stand outside Sweetie’s door, on nights when she was at the Boutique, and listen to her quietly serenade herself to sleep. Rarity knew that her sister would be mortified and furious if she knew what she did, but she couldn’t help it. She’d shed a few tears standing outside that door. That foal had a gift. Nothing else in Equestria compared; nothing Rarity nor anypony else could ever create could be so beautiful. Nothing so beautiful as that voice.

Rarity exhaled gently, with a hint of pride. She finished off the last bite of her sandwich, and she felt much calmer than she had mere minutes ago. Yes, she would feel better in the morning.

She trotted calmly up the stairs, pretending to hear Sweetie’s voice wafting up gently from the end of the hallway. It calmed her, even if it wasn’t really there. She slipped quietly into bed. Evening seamlessly drifted into night, and the day ended without splendor.

* * *

Fashion wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination easy. It required intimate knowledge of technique and form, as well as a healthy dose of creativity and freedom. Rarity had spent her whole life developing this intimate knowledge, and although a lady must always be modest, she considered herself quite keen on the intimacies of her particular art. She knew how to stitch, how to sew, how to mend. She knew what colors blend well, and what designs come off too blocky or obtrusive. She had made nearly every mistake there was to make as a designer, and as such knew the intimacies of design better than most.

Yes, Rarity was confident that she knew how to make a dress. So why could she never remember it being this hard?

For the second time the pencil fell lifelessly back to the paper without so much as a line being drawn across the paper on which it sat. A gruff Rarity exited the room, visibly frustrated at her own inhibitions.

With nowhere else to go, she stormed off to her room and sat down with a glass of tap water. Think, Rarity. How does this usually work? I’ll go off to that cursed room, and leave with something, a sketch, an idea. Anything. Where do I get it? It just comes to me. Why isn’t anything coming to me now?

She walked up to her closet, hoping to find something to spur her memory. Her eyes fell on her gala dress first. She smiled at the memory of that night. Memories of frustration of a different kind. Blueblood. At the time, she supposed, she would never have expected herself to one day look back and smile at this particular incident. She kept that dress as a reminder of her own naivety. It represented an impossible future, where she’d married the prince that existed only in her dreams. Where she designed for goddesses by day and threw garden parties by night, and every evening came home to her loving husband, who loved and cherished and protected her. Bah, she thought at the stubbornness of her old dream. The dress burned crimson, at the time meant to exude her passion to all ponies who laid eyes on it. Now the color was still fitting, but ironic: the same one that burned in her cheeks at the memory of her foalishness.

Her eyes drifted down the row. There were dresses for every event. She had dresses to wear for breakfast, lunch and dinner; dresses to wear to parties, events, and nightclubs; dresses for sport and dresses for relaxing; dresses for friends and lovers; dresses for first dates and dresses to be worn when looking for a date. She had dresses inspired by her friends, inspired by her dreams, inspired by books she’d read and songs she’d heard. Extravagant and simple, colorful and muted, frilly and plain. Surely there were beyond infinite possibilities. All she had to do was put pencil to paper, needle to thread. She closed her eyes, and she saw nothing.

What could be in a dress that hadn’t been worn before? Did the world even need more? Surely there must be something left of value in that ceaseless void of untapped possibility.

She closed the closet and took a relaxed sip of her water. Think. I could make a dress for anything; it doesn’t have to be world shattering. She looked in front of her nose. A dress inspired by a glass of water. Simple, smooth, clean, refreshing, relaxing. Dull, uninspired, boring. Ugh. This was getting worse. That was the worst idea she’d had yet. She stamped the glass back down onto the table and left her bedroom. There was no inspiration there.

* * *

Opening her refrigerator again, Rarity was reminded of her lament from the previous night. “Food,” she said to nopony in particular, “I need food.” Groaning, she raised her head to look at the clock. She wouldn’t open her shop for another hour. “Well, I suppose if nothing of value is going to be done here today, then I may as well go out to get something done, no matter how menial.” She lazily put together a shopping list and gathered some bits in her saddlebags. She took a look in the mirror. She gave a false smile at her reflection and gave her finely tuned hair a small pat to make sure it stayed in place. Reliable as always. She took a deep breath and stepped out.

She walked with purpose, as always. A lady never dawdles. She gazed up at the sky. It was quite a fine day. The fresh air filling her lungs was alone enough to lift her spirits a small amount. Yes, it felt nice to have something easy to do for just a little while. Maybe a dress about nature.

Rarity frowned in thought. Green like the Everfree. Blue like the sky. Brown as the dirt under her hooves. Thoughts scattered in and out of her mind out of control. Her frustration redoubled as she realized that her troubles persisted. She had ideas, but frustratingly couldn’t materialize them. How does one put the sky into a dress? Sure, it’s blue, but what about the feeling? Rarity realized she’d never really thought of that before. Design and emotion went hand in hand, inseparable. What was the inexplicable bond that bridged the cloth on her coat and the intangibles that it inspired? What of the sky? Sleek, airy, light. A dress slowly coalesced in her mind’s eye. But it was nothing. It might as well already be hanging in her closet back in her home. It was the same as a million other dresses made before. It lacked the emotion that she got when she looked at the sky: joy, calm, awe. How does one make that into a dress? It was then that she realized that she wouldn’t settle for just another dress. No, that’s not what this was about. She could, if she wanted to, go home and make that dress. It was fine. It would take a couple of hours, and she would begrudgingly put it on a mannequin and somepony who didn’t know what they wanted would buy it and it would be mediocre and she would live to make another dress. No, she didn’t want that. It was time to make something worth making. Oh. It. Is. O—

“Hey Rare’!”

She was snapped out of her whimsy abruptly by the voice of Applejack.

“Fancy seein’ you ‘ere.”

“Oh, yes!” she took a second to process what had just pulled her out of her train of thought. “Applejack, darling, it’s been too long. I daresay I haven’t seen you here out in Ponyville since our last group pet playdate in the park.”

“Ah, yeh, ya’ know how it is. Been busy at the farm, same’s always.”

“Yes, yes indeed. My, my. I need to get you out here more often. We need to catch up!”

“Yeh, ah know. It’s just almost gettin’ ‘round ta zap-apple season, and you know how crazy that all can get. Ah just came out to get a few satchels o’ flour an’ whatnot for the pies.”

“Oh, yes, I understand completely. You do what you must, Applejack, don’t let me keep you. Oh! But I just so happen to be on the way to the supermarket myself! What a fantastic coincidence. Come now, let’s walk and talk.”

Rarity donned a genuine smile as they began to trot. Her mind was already a million miles away where it had been moments earlier. A nice chat was just what she needed to get her spirits up a bit. And it really had been far too long since she’d had a good chance to chat with Applejack, just the two of them. She gathered herself, taking a nice deep breath of fresh air and putting to the back of her mind the thoughts that had been troubling her moments earlier.

“Zap-apple season already, is it? My, the time flies.”

“Ah know what ya mean. It seems jus’ yesterday I was finishin’ off the last one.”

Rarity sighed, “Doesn’t it just feel like yesterday?”

“Yeh, I guess workin’ jus’ makes the time pass quicker.”

“Yes but not only that.”

Applejack looked on quizzically, “Whaddya mean?”

“Oh, you know. Everything. Before we met. Before Twilight showed up with her awful hairdo. Before the awful Grand Galloping Gala. I can even remember opening the Carousel Boutique for the first time, just like it were yesterday.”

“Uh, yeh...ah guess so.”

“Isn’t it remarkable how quickly things can change? But then again everything somehow stays the same. For example, as far back as I remember, I’ve always made dresses, even way back when I was a filly, and I wasn’t very good at it. Isn’t it remarkable to think that there was once a time when I didn’t?”

“Mhm.”

“I can remember so many different things changing in my life, but that never has. How quickly things can change...remarkable, isn’t it?”

Applejack looked concerned. “Um, Rare’? Is everythin’ alright? Yer’ gettin’ all nostalgic on me here.”

Rarity let out another sigh. “Oh, yes. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Dandy, I assure you.”

“Ya sure?”

Rarity sighed. “It’s nothing. It’s fine. It’s just—I’ve just been having a bit of trouble lately with my own work.”

Applejack’s face hadn’t changed. “Okay,” she said slowly, “Do ya wanna talk about it?”

“Oh, Applejack, I don’t want to trouble you with my petty issues—“

“C’mon now, Rarity. Yer problems ain’t petty. B’sides, what’re friends for?”

Rarity paused her stride and looked at her hooves. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “Honestly, I just came out here to distract myself.”

“We don’ have to talk if ya don’ want to. I can talk about somethin’ else.”

“No, you are right. Perhaps it is just what I need to talk to somepony else about it. I’ve been holed up in my little shop for days now. It’s positively unhealthy.” She looked up and began walking again. She realized with a start that they were already at the supermarket. How did I miss that? I really have been lost in thought, haven’t I?

She turned back to Applejack, “I just have been struggling creatively lately. I have no commissions from anypony at the moment, so I thought the other day that I may indulge myself. I wanted to make a dress just for me. Just to—say—explore a little bit with my creativity. And...I can’t explain it. I sat down yesterday and I was quite simply at a complete and utter loss. I couldn’t find it within me to create a new dress. I know it sounds—well, for lack of a better word, stupid. But I’ve never had this particular problem before. It’s not like I ran into an obstacle I’m having difficulty with, like a complex design, or an order for a rare gem; it’s rather as if I simply don’t have anything to make at all. Like I don’t have anything left to contribute to the world. It’s silly—”

“It ain’t stupid Rarity,” Applejack cut her off. “And of course ya have stuff to contribute to the world. Don’t be hooin’ off baloney like that. Now, ah ain’t no dress-makin’ pony-person, so ah can’t help ya there, but ah can understand how ya can jus’ be a bit off yer game. It happens to everypony. Heck, ah’ve had days when it takes me five whole bucks to get all the apples out of a tree. Some days ah’ve wondered to mahself if I done simply wasn’t meant to be an apple farmer. Ah’m still ‘ere, Rare’. There ain’t nothing wrong with havin’ a bit o’ trouble. It’ll come, Rarity. Don’ worry yer pretty lil face off ‘bout it.”

Rarity looked down. “You’re right. I’m overreacting.”

Applejack gave her a smile. “See? You’ll be back to yerself in no time flat. Don’t worry ‘bout it all.”

“Thank you. It—it means a lot.” She gave a genuine smile. It did mean a lot. It was nice to be around her friend. She’d spent too much time over the past couple of days wallowing in her own frustrations. Applejack’s positive attitude was starting to cheer her up. They walked around for a few moments silently, gathering what items they needed.

Applejack broke the silence. “Here, Ah have an idea. Why don’t ya jus’ start off simple, nothin’ too big’n fancy. Somethin’ like ah’d wear.”

Rarity grimaced at the thought. She paused, though, giving the idea some thought. “See, that’s just it though. I don’t want to make ‘just another dress.’ I want to make something worth making. Something new. Something bold. Art, Applejack, not simply another Friday afternoon dress.”

Applejack sighed, “Listen, sugarcube, ah know, but maybe ya jus’ can’t force that kind of thing.”

“Then what’s the point of even making another dress?” Applejack had no answer. “I know my dresses are nice. I know ponies like them. But I want to create something that really means something.”

“Yer dresses do mean somethin’ to us, Rarity. Me and all our friends.”

“Maybe,” was all she could reply.

Applejack grimaced and looked away. “Listen. Ah really wish I could stay an’ help ya, ah really, truly do, honest. But...y’know. Zap-apples.”

Rarity noticed suddenly that Applejack had the flour she’d come for. “My, time flies.” She mused, mostly to herself.

“If yer still havin’ trouble, remember that ya can come over to Sweet Apple Acres anytime. Ya can even help with the pies an’ such. Ah know yer a might good cook.”

“Thank you. I may just take you up on that.”

“Feel free. ‘Twas nice seein’ ya, sugarcube. Really.” Applejack started to head out with an apologetic smile on her face.

“Likewise, surely, darling.”

Applejack was gone, to more important things. Rarity was alone again. She sighed.

* * *

Clack. The pencil was placed down onto the table.

Rarity stared at what she’d drawn. It was the dress she’d thought of earlier that day, inspired by the colors of the sky. She furled her brow in thought. It was simple and elegant. One piece, a solid sky blue, it stretched thinly and delicately from neck to hoof, modestly draping the wearer’s form, with delicate white highlighting the neckline, waistline, and hemline. She stared at it.

It was crap. The paper ended up lonely in the trash bin. If it had ears, the last sounds of its life would have been alabaster hooves noisily shuffling across the floor, punctuated by the firm closing of the door behind them.

Octavia-Chapter 1

The Royal Canterlot Philharmonic
Young Writer’s Competition

Are you a composer between the ages of 18-30 still looking for that big break?
Look no further: this is your chance to have your music performed on the most public stage in all of Equestria.

The Royal Canterlot Philharmonic is hosting their 55th biennial composer’s competition this fall. Every two years, hundreds of eager musicians send in their best work for review by Equestria’s finest musicians themselves. Ten finalists are chosen, and each is commissioned to write a symphony. All ten finalists receive cash, and the overall winner has the honor of having their symphony performed by the Royal Canterlot Philharmonic themselves, as the highlight of their Summer Performance Program. Past winners have gone on to have their work featured in performance halls across Equestria, become official court composer for Princess Celestia, be appointed conductor of the Cloudsdale Metropolitan Opera, or even play in our very own Royal Canterlot Philharmonic. All these musicians and more have counted this very competition as a key stepping stone to their success and fame.

Any interested writers should send their work to the address listed on this flyer before December 1. Expect a response from our judges and musicians less than a month after this deadline.

* * *

“This could be what I’ve been waiting for, Vinny.”

Vinyl smiled. “That’s great, Octavia. I know how long you’ve been waiting for your ‘big break.’”

The gray earth pony tried to return the smile, but couldn’t hide her doubt. It was true. It did seem like she had been waiting a long time. “Thanks.”

There was a slow pause as Vinyl tried to read her friend’s face. “You look nervous. You shouldn’t be. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

She looked away. “I don’t know. I—I just don’t know. There are a lot of people that do this thing. I’m sure some of them must be really good. W—what if I can’t?”

“Come on, now. You’re better than you give yourself credit for. Your music is beautiful.”

“Well, of course you say that. You have to,” Octavia snorted, “but your opinion doesn’t matter. I have to make something that is good. Really good.”

“I’m not lying, if that’s what you’re implying. You really are very good, Octavia.”

There was another pause. Octavia considered what she said. Just how good was she? Ever since she graduated from Luna’s Academy of the Arts almost half a decade ago, she’d had such high hopes for herself. It turns out that finding success in the music world isn’t as easy as she’d once thought. She’d graduated top of her class. All of her professors praised her abilities, told her that she had “A bright future,” or was “Going places.” Unfortunately, these qualifications don’t mean much in the real world. In the real world, there were lots of ponies all “Going places.” Especially musicians. Everypony has a dream, and everypony has talent. Without a reputation, it’s hard for a pony to find work. So Octavia found work where she could. She found most of her money playing gigs; she was a top-class cellist. But that wasn’t where her passion lied. This pony was born to write. Right?

“Really, what if I can’t, though? What if I never can? Maybe I’m good, but just not that good. There are a lot of musicians out there, Vinny, and the world doesn’t need that many composers. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be one. Maybe I’m just fooling myself, and all of this is really leading nowhere.”

Vinyl shook her head, “Don’t say that, ‘Tavy. You are good. Really. And you’re not fooling yourself, except when you say that.”

Octavia still wasn’t convinced. “I suppose so.”

Vinyl sighed. “C’mon, ‘Tavy. Don’t get yourself down.” She smiled, “It doesn’t matter what these ponies think of you anyway. There will always be another opportunity, even if you don’t win. You’ve just got to put your best hoof forward.”

“You’re right. I just don’t know how much longer I can keep waiting.”

“Well, I’ll be here waiting with you.”

Octavia finally let out a smile. She looked up at her marefriend. Vinyl could never fail to cheer her up. Her positive attitude was one of the things that she loved about that mare. “Thanks,” she said softly.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, staring at the flyer on the table in front of them, pondering it. What would it mean if she did win? Could she get a job? A steady income? Could they finally move out of the apartment they’d been living in since Octavia’s graduation? Sure, Vinyl did have her weekend job as a DJ at the nightclub down the street, and both of them did gigs at weddings and school dances, but as it was they barely made it through the year. What if she didn’t win? Neither wanted to say it out loud, but the thought was on both of their minds. What if she never found that ‘Big break?’ Was this the life of a musician? Was this their life?

Octavia rested her head on the white shoulder beside her. “Thanks.”

“That’s what I’m here for, ‘Tavi,” returning her gesture with a light hug. “Now, what do you want to do today?”

“What? Don’t you think I should get started on this?”

“There’s plenty of time for that, Octavia. You have over a month.”

“These things take time, Vinny.”

“I know, but you seem a bit stressed. Maybe you should just think on it for a bit and try later.”

“I don’t think so. I want to go to sleep tonight knowing that I at least have some ideas down on paper.”

Vinyl shook her head. One thing that could always be said about Octavia was that she was dedicated. It takes that to be a musician. When she set her mind to something, Vinyl knew better than most that there was no stopping her. Such was the case when they’d first started dating, ages ago though it seemed. Before their first date, Octavia had practically performed a full-scale background check on her. She’d gone around interrogating all of Vinyl’s friends, digging up her favorite type of music, flowers, chocolate, etc. She showed up the evening of the date with her saddlebags filled to the brim with everything she knew that Vinyl loved, eager to please her date. Vinyl had been so put off by the gestures that she panicked on the spot and slammed the door in her face. Their relationship might have ended that night, had Vinyl not by chance walked by her window a minute later and heard the quiet sobbing of the gray pony on her doorstep. Vinyl relented, against her better judgment; thank goodness she didn’t listen to that too often. They each apologized to each other for their actions and agreed to start over. Vinyl refused to take so many gifts, but agreed to accept a box of chocolates, as a gesture of goodwill. She invited her inside for a quiet dinner, abandoning what plans they had earlier set in place. It was certainly the most interesting date she’d ever been on. But hay, you can’t argue with results. In retrospect, Octavia’s naivety was kind of endearing. And at least she meant well, if she did come off a tad strong. She chuckled aloud at the memory.

“I’m being serious, Vinyl.”

“I know.” The white unicorn sighed wearily. “I know better than to argue when you get like this.”

“Get like what?” she frowned accusingly.

“When you’re on a mission, dear. Go to it. Just don’t work too hard. Save some energy for this evening.”

Octavia relented, “Fine.”

“I’m going out, ‘Tavi. I have a client, and...geez, I’m gonna be late. Gotta go.”

“Bye—“

She was gone, jarringly quickly. It was in her nature. She was naturally restless. She never really stayed in one place or on one thought for too long. In her own words, she liked multitasking. In Octavia’s words, she had attention problems. But may Celestia have mercy on your soul if you ever accused that unicorn of being noncommittal. She was nothing if not loyal and patient. However, this was how she was: here one minute, gone the next.

Octavia shook her head. How could a pony whose head is in so many different places at once be so consistently forgetful? There were some things the world may never know. “Bye Vinny,” she finished, although nopony was there to hear her.

It was time to think about other things, though, than her scatterbrained marefriend. Music. Writing. She went to pull out her cello. She always liked to play some before she started writing, to get her in the mood. She played a few scales, slowly and carefully, thinking on each note. Then she relaxed and quickened, yielding her practiced technique to her subconscious. She’d been through this drill thousands of times before, but it never failed to invigorate her. The scales broke down, loosened their form. She switched seamlessly into a simple piece she’d written years ago. Her hooves flitted left and right, nearly beyond her control. She broke down further, improvising between phrases. A music teacher at this point would be on the verge of tears if he was watching. The noises coming from her cello were cacophonous and random at points, with only a brief pretense of any sort of form or destination. However, she was in a state of nearly pure creativity. She stopped abruptly. She was ready.

Octavia started with a brisk pace for her bedroom, to fetch some blank music paper and a quill. She stopped as she passed the table, though. She looked down at the flier again, to remind herself of what she was doing. The words were printed overtop a stock template picture of a unicorn playing the violin. The bow glowed a soft violet hue as it was tugged gently across the strings. A hoof daintily maneuvered strings above. The generic unicorn’s eyes were closed, apparently engrossed with emotion and passion for whatever music was emanating from her instrument.

Octavia pondered the picture for a moment. What sounds could exist that provoke that devotion? Octavia closed her eyes and imagined. Melodies and motifs and movements and masterpieces. Thoughts and themes and thrills. Crescendos and cadences and codas and cadenzas. Pieces to a puzzle, fitting together seamlessly, telling a story, painting a picture. Meaning in the nonsense, order in the chaos. What was that pony playing? Octavia listened...

* * *

“I’m home!”

“Hey.”

“Sorry I was gone for so long. That pink pony can be quite a handful. She spent the first hour—I swear—talking about an alligator she claimed was her pet” she chuckled.

“Mhm.”

“You can’t do that, can you? That must be against some sort of safety regulation, right? I mean, that’s what I told her. I mean, come on; I don’t care whether it has teeth or not. It’s an alligator for Luna’s sake!”

“Yeah.” She tried to look interested. She really did.

Vinyl’s smile dipped. “And how has your day been?”

“It was fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Yeah, nothing big.”

“Did you write anything?”

“Eh, just got some ideas and some melodies written down. I didn’t really quite dig into the good stuff yet.”

“Mhm.” Vinyl stared at her curiously. She’d expected her to be a little more excited. “Well, it’s getting kinda late, ‘Tavi. Are you ready to go?”

Octavia perked up. “Oh, my.” She panicked. “Yes! I forgot, for a second there. Yes! Oh, no. I need to get dressed. It’s not too late, is it? I’m so sorry, Vinny. We were talking about it this morning, and I got distracted—“

“’Tavi...”

“Agh! I’ve got to shower!”

“’Tavi—“

“Where are we going for dinner, anyway?”

“Octavia, calm down. You’ll see. It’s a surprise. But I can say this: don’t be afraid to dress up.”

“Oh, really?”

“Only the best for our five year anniversary, my sweet.”

“Oh, save it, you flatterer.”

“And what’s wrong with flattery?”

“Nothing in my book.” She gave the unicorn a quick peck on the cheek. She seemed to have brushed off whatever was bothering her before. “I said save it for tonight.” She smiled and turned away, “Now, I’ve got to get cleaned up. Ack, so little time!”

Vinyl blushed. She couldn’t help it, what with her light coat. Even after five full years, she couldn’t help but blush when her own marefriend kissed her. She scolded herself inwardly for being embarrassed. Now certainly wasn’t the time for reservations. Well, she didn’t have reservations, really, about their relationship. She was just nervous, she supposed. It was a big night, to be sure. She decided to feed her paranoia again and go make sure it was still there, in her saddlebag....

She was distracted in her journey by a sheet of paper on the table. It was the backside of the flyer, from the music competition. She was reminded of why her marefriend seemed so off before. She sighed audibly. “Oh, Octavia,” she muttered to herself. She knew from the moment she’d first seen it that it could mean trouble. She flipped it over to look at it again.

One of Octavia’s defining virtues was her dedication, but Vinyl knew that it was also her greatest vice, in times of trouble. When Vinyl had found Octavia, back when they’d started dating, she was practically in shambles, though she’d scant admit it, even to her. She literally tore herself up with dedication to her musical studies. Whenever she had a project or an idea, she would lock herself up in her dorm and deprive herself of sleep for sometimes days, thinking of nothing but her work. She was undeniably talented, but she could also be so naive. In the beginning, Vinyl had wanted to help her out of pity. That pony, the one from five years ago, needed help. Vinyl was doing her a service, to teach her to relax and enjoy life some of the time, to help her remember that music isn’t the only thing in life: that a pony could mean something, too. In the beginning, she didn’t do it out of love, but out of pity. She couldn’t remember the day when everything changed. Maybe it wasn’t as clear cut as one particular day. Nothing ever is clear cut, is it? But it did change. One day, against her better judgment, Vinyl Scratch fell in love; thank goodness she didn’t listen to that too often.

At any rate, Vinyl saw the signs. Octavia, when she’d come home, had tunnel vision. She was totally focused. She’d forgotten about the date that they’d been talking about mere hours earlier. Octavia wasn’t, under normal circumstances, a forgetful pony. Vinyl sighed. This was going to be tough, this stupid contest. If only it weren’t so important.

“I’m almost ready, Vinny! I won’t be much longer!”

She was snapped back to reality. She needed to get dressed, too. She picked out her best dress from her closet. It was crimson, to match her eyes. Normally, Vinyl wouldn’t go for a color so attention-grabbing—not that she usually was the type of pony to dress up at all—but Octavia adored it, saying it matched Vinyl’s “Bold personality.” She had to admit it was nice—she just wasn’t the “Fancy dress” type. Well, after all, this was for her marefriend more than it was for her. She slipped in on.

“Ready!” Octavia stepped out. Her dress was long, black and flowing, topped with her trademark purple bow tied around her back. She’d put her hair up in a bun, to show of her face, highlighted with eye shadow and a hint of blush on her cheeks. Vinyl’s heart skipped a beat.

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen the dress. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Octavia’s hair up, or her face with makeup. But Vinyl’s heart acted as if it was her first time seeing her face at all.

“Do I look alright?”

“Stunning, dear.” Why was she so nervous?

Octavia gave her a look. “I said to save it.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t help but tell the truth.” She calmed herself down. It was just another date, she told herself. They’d been on many in the past. But this one was special. She took a deep breath. “Okay, ready to go?” She opened the front door.

“Yes. Let’s. So where are we go—oops, my purse. One second, darling.” She quickly dashed back in to the bedroom. She found her gray purse after a few seconds and flung it over her shoulder. On her way back out she noticed a paper on the table in passing. It was the flyer. She paused to look at the pony playing music in the background. Their eyes were still closed with passion. “Ugh,” she muttered. She flipped it over so she wouldn’t have to see that pony’s stupid face again. “Okay,” she stated as she opened the door again, “really ready this time.”

* * *

“Vinyl, you really shouldn’t have.”

“Nonsense. I keep saying to you that if I’m gonna splurge, I’m not gonna do it half-flanked.”

“Vinyl! Language! Look at where we are!” Octavia whispered sharply.

Vinyl grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, ‘Tavi.”

“Ugh. It’s okay. But really, this is a really nice restaurant. How did you get reservations here?”

“In advance. Like, way in advance. I told you not to worry about it, it’s nothing, really.”

“It is something. Quite a lot, I imagine. Vinny, how much does the food here cost?”

“I said don’t worry about it. I’m doing some special shows this weekend at the club to make up for it. Besides, it’s not too too much.”

“Oh, really, Vinny, this is—”

“C’mon, shush now! Can’t you let me do something nice for you? It’s just this once.”

“Yeah.” Octavia looked around nervously. “It’s just...” She couldn’t say it. She didn’t want to be there. She wasn’t in the mood. She should be excited. She’d wanted to come to this restaurant for months. She had ever since she caught a gig here in April filling in for the cellist who performed here nightly with his string quartet. As a perk of the job, the musicians were given some complimentary hors d’oeuvres. It was quite simply the best food Octavia had ever tasted, bar none. It was no wonder this place was packed every night. How on earth had Vinyl gotten a reservation? She didn’t want to think about it. She remembered how good the food tasted, and tried to get herself excited licking her lips in anticipation of the meal to come.

“Just what?”

“Just incredible. You’ve outdone yourself, darling.” It was the string quartet. She couldn’t get her mind off of it. No matter where she went, she couldn’t get her mind off of music. They were playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D. How cliché, she thought. I’d expect something more original from an establishment of this quality.

“Thanks, ‘Tavi. I hope you enjoy it.”

It was a very popular song, especially at places like weddings. Octavia estimated that she played it at approximately one third of all gigs that she played. Everypony loved it. What was not to love? It’s harmless, sweet. It was funny, really that something so—well—frivolous could be so popular, though. Maybe that’s why people liked it. It was simple. She snorted inwardly. If that was what it took to find fame—well, could Octavia really stoop to aiming for frivolity? But that couldn’t be it. It was hardly the first basic song ever written. But it was the one that was played at all of the weddings. Why? Why was it deemed more worthy of fame than any other superficial tune? Why was it more worthy than anything Octavia had created?

She listened to the cello’s drone: eight notes, repeated ad nauseam. She had nightmares about those eight notes, all joking aside. They were the bane of her—of any cellist’s existence. D. A. B. F#. G. D. G. A. Blech. It was downright boring! And yet it was the most popular piece she performed. Why did those eight notes deserve to go down in history?

“You’re kind of quiet.”

“Just thinking.” Eight notes. That’s all the song was, at its heart: the cello’s drone. Slowly, in the beginning the violin harmonizes it. The second violin follows the lead of the first, followed shortly thereafter by the viola. Soon the notes quicken, and the chords broaden their range, adding size and volume. The cello drones on. Before anypony knows it, the center of the piece has arrived, with all instruments pacing briskly and playfully up and down scales, each separately but joined just the same. Except, of course, for the cello, who drones on. Then the piece winds down as quickly as it had wound itself up. The scales slow to plodding harmonies again and one by one the instruments drop out, until once again only the cello remains, droning on until oblivion. What was so great about those eight notes?

“Watch’a thinkin’ about?”

“Music.” Celestia, she hated that song. All of a sudden, frustration she didn’t even know she was bottling up burst open its cork. She hated that song with every bone in her body. Why would they not stop? Stop the incessant drone! Play something else. Beethooven, Bach, Mozart. Anything but this. Those eight Celestia-damned notes! They taunted her, teased her, frustrated her. Why were those eight notes better than the pony playing them?

“Oh, my. Octavia, I know. It’s the contest.” Vinyl’s heart sank. She knew how she could get. “Listen, I’d hoped that tonight would help calm you down. I wanted you to enjoy yourself. You deserve it. You work yourself so hard, Octavia. Please, I wanted tonight to be special. Can you try, Octavia? Can you try to make this special? At least nice?” Vinyl’s started to sound desperate.

“It’s beautiful.”

“What in Celestia—”

“The music, Vinny. It’s so simple, yet that doesn’t make it any less beautiful.”

“Yes. The music is nice. But I think you should take a night off from all that, you know?”

“How do you write something like that?”

“Octavia. Stop.”

“I’ve been writing full-fledged symphonies since I was twelve, Vinny. And none of them even come close to being as good as this.”

“Octavia, are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, I’m listening to you. And I’m hearing what you’re saying. But I need this, Vinny. Don’t you know how important it is to me?”

“Yes,” Vinyl was getting exasperated, “but don’t you think that there is a point where—”

“No, Vinyl! There is no ‘point’ where music stops being important. I’ve devoted my life to it. And I’m failing, Vinny. We’re failing. I need to make something beautiful for this or else...or else...I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen if we keep living like this. We don’t have money, Vinyl. Celestia, what are we doing here? We can’t pay for this! Where did you come up with the idea that we could do this? Where’s the money? I’ll tell you where: it’s in here.” Octavia was standing up, barely keeping her voice under control. She pointed to her head. “This is where the music is. This is where the money is going to come from. But it’s only going to come if I can write something beautiful. Something beautiful. Something beautiful and simple, like that.” She waved her hoof at the musicians in the corner of the room. “It’s only going to come if I can get past this Celestia-forsaken writer’s block!”

Vinyl was stunned.

“Well? That’s what I was thinking about.”

There was another pause. Vinyl looked down as the initial shock wore off. “You know,” she said, breaking the silence. “It took you a while to say the word ‘we’ in there. There is a ‘we’ in all of this. Maybe you forgot, in your little obsession, but that’s what tonight was supposed to be about, Octavia.”

“Well, maybe there are more important things than dinners and dates on calendars.”

“Like music.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should get to that, then.”

“What?”

“Your music. That’s where you’d rather be now, am I right? Go ahead. I’m done trying to stop you.”

“Vinyl—”

“Just go.”

A waiter coughed. The food was ready.

Vinyl ignored him. Common sense told her to let her go. She should let herself calm down and think before saying anything else. She was emotional now. She wasn’t ready to talk. Thank goodness she didn’t listen to that too often. “The music is more important than me. Wow. I really didn’t think that. I really thought that we meant something. That was what tonight was supposed to be about. Thanks, I guess, for clearing that up for me. I guess I was the naive one. Go home, then. Find love in your music that you apparently can’t find in me. Find comfort in your cello that you apparently can’t get from me. Find fulfillment from those judges that apparently you can’t get from my love.”

She opened her eyes. Octavia was gone. She hadn’t heard. Vinyl laughed. “I’m not hungry,” she said to the waiter, “you can take that back.”

The waiter shuffled away, apparently not wanting to pick a fight. Vinyl laughed again, harder. “Damn it.”

* * *

Octavia started with a brisk pace for her bedroom, to fetch some blank music paper and a quill. She stopped as she passed the table, though. She looked down at the flier again, to remind herself of what she was doing. The words were printed overtop a stock template picture of a unicorn playing the violin. The bow glowed a soft violet hue as it was tugged gently across the strings. A hoof daintily maneuvered strings above. The generic unicorn’s eyes were closed, apparently engrossed with emotion and passion for whatever music was emanating from her instrument. What sounds could exist that provoke that devotion? Octavia closed her eyes and imagined. Melodies and motifs and movements and masterpieces. Thoughts and themes and thrills. Crescendos and cadences and codas and cadenzas. Pieces to a puzzle, fitting together seamlessly, telling a story, painting a picture. Meaning in the nonsense, order in the chaos. What was that pony playing? Octavia listened...

...she heard nothing. She sighed. If only it were that easy to create art. If only art was somehow inherent, and to create it all a pony had to do was let it create itself. No, Octavia knew better than to expect that, but still can’t one hope?

She wearily dragged her hoof across her face. I wonder if it’s this hard for everypony. Maybe with the real geniuses it does just come easy. She tried to imagine Beethooven struggling to revise his ninth symphony over and over. Surely a masterpiece like that couldn’t have been so forced. Well, I suppose he was a genius for a reason. She sighed. And I’m not.

She closed her eyes again. Still nothing. She tried to hum a tune, but didn’t get anything good. She shrugged. It happens. It was hard to force these things, after all. She just needed some inspiration. Over in a drawer in her closet was a portfolio filled with her best past work, from all her past, going back to her early school days. She kept it there just for times like these, when she needed a bit of inspiration.

She hoofed through the folder lazily, picking a piece at random. It was a sonata for cello solo, written for her senior recital. Hardly her best work, but it was a fun piece nonetheless. She’d enjoyed playing it, so she kept it close to home. She picked up her cello and started playing.

It started off with an explosion of flourishes rolling up and down the range of her instrument. As it gave way to a persistent rhythmic pulse, it slowed down and calmed to a thematic march, which carried on for a bit before the beat suddenly collapsed and Octavia held one single note on longer than expected, at first abrasively, and then softening it, meditating on it, considering it. As quickly as it had stopped, the piece churned back to life again, repeating the flourishes from the beginning and again settling into a march. She stopped playing.

It was just as she remembered it. It was a joy to play, that piece. Playing it was like riding a roller coaster, twists and turns with both her hooves and her moods. But it wasn’t going anywhere. The marching melody at the center of the piece was one-dimensional. It didn’t develop. After five minutes of playing, Octavia was certainly having fun, but she was in the same place that she started. It was aimless. An interesting idea, conceptually, but the melody didn’t have anything to it.

She brushed it aside, picking up another. It was a symphonic work, of very large scale. She smirked. She must have done it when she was younger. Then, she had a taste for grandeur; perhaps that comes with youth. She opened it up to a point in the middle and hummed along with the melody. She frowned. It was definitely from when she was younger. It was clumsily done. She grabbed a pencil and started revising. That should be a G...the flutes shouldn’t be doubling the harmony there...need to rework this transition...this section goes on far too long.... She brushed it aside.

Another. It was a fantasia for string orchestra. Her hoof danced along the strings of her cello as she listened to it in her mind’s ear. It was calm, like floating on a river. Relaxing. She let her mind flow with the melody. Suddenly, an off pitch. The river hit a rock, and her mind was sent reeling. The music intensified, increasing in volume and speed. Suddenly, a waterfall. Off the edge the music fell. For a moment it was noiseless chaos, before settling down just as suddenly into the slowly flowing melody again. Octavia furled her brow. How odd. What was that supposed to be? No further explanation was given in the music. A few minutes later the piece escalated again, before ending abruptly on a vaguely tragic minor chord. Octavia couldn’t make heads or tails of it. She supposed she must have tossed it together during an experimental phase. She cast it aside and picked up another.

An aria. Cliché. An overture. Tacky. A fugue. Boring. This wasn’t helping. Have I not written anything good in my entire history?! Papers were strewn all over the floor. She’d get them later. Right now, it was time to go to the big guns. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

As she left the room, she spied the flier on the table again. Ugh. How am I going to win this thing if that was the best I could dig up? She pushed the thought aside, as she found what she was looking for.

She placed the needle on the record carefully. The sounds of the Royal Canterlot Philharmonic suddenly began coating the room. It was the finale from Beethooven’s Ninth Symphony. The music immediately was more powerful than anything she’d read moments ago in her own hoofwriting. It was indescribable. The strings sang, resonating around the room brilliantly. The chorus bellowed, filling it with sound. The music was seamless, effortless, timeless. It was beautiful. Beethooven crafted each phrase masterfully, as if it they hadn’t been crafted at all by any mortal pony, but rather merely came into existence, from thin air. The melody plodded along, joyously. It bounced from instrument to instrument perfectly, harmonies and countermelodies stitching in between. It was brilliant, vibrant and emotional. And yet it seemed as if it could never have been written any other way. She looked at the pony on the flyer again. This time, she could see why he closed his eyes. How could one not cry when listening to sounds like this? It was just notes, notes on a page, but somehow they reached into her heart, lifting her soul. She felt...she felt.... With a bang, it ended. And the audience cheered. Octavia closed her eyes, and she could see it. A filled audience with ponies hooting and hollering on their hind legs. Women and children in tears at the spectacle. It was magnificent.

They were cheering her music.

She snapped out of her fantasy. She pushed the needle off of the record and she flipped the flyer over. She didn’t want to look at that pony again.

* * *

“Damn it.”

A tear rolled down Vinyl’s face. She kept laughing. Meekly, she raised a quivering hoof to her head. It clumsily jabbed at her electric-blue mane, ruining whatever half-hearted attempt she’d earlier put forth to make it presentable. There was a small box behind her left ear. She chuckled as she yanked it out with a few of her hairs. Her hooves tried and failed a few times to reveal what was inside. She relented and grasped it with her magic, snapping the top clean off and sending it flying across the room.

Inside the box was a silver necklace, at the end of which was a golden ring, decorated with a diamond. She gazed at it sadly. “This is what tonight was supposed to be about, ‘Tavi.”

Her face wet with more tears as she laughed again.

Forward

It started as it always starts, with a blank sheet of paper.

I’ve always thought that there’s something inexplicable about blank paper. Maybe it’s the color. It is a pleasing off-white reminiscent of those old photos you keep in your inherited albums filled with memories of times you wish you’d had a chance to see and ponies you wish you’d had a chance to meet. For no beginning is truly a blank, rather perhaps a culmination of things and ponies past, given a chance to live again through their memories left behind in your not yet forgotten albums and in your memories. Maybe it’s the sound—that cool swishhhh as you slide the paper across the desk in front of you. It refreshes you, reminding you of the simple perfection of the world untouched. If only ponies weren’t so foolish as to attempt to better it by crossing paper with a pen; but what is art if not imperfect? Not art, I’m sure. Perhaps it’s the smell, a smell that can’t be properly described, although possibly with the word “fresh”. The smell brings with it a promise of something new, good or bad. It is promisingly sweet, and forebodingly pungent. Perhaps it is unwise to read too much into the smell of paper, but I can’t help but be enamored by the way the untainted wafts beckon to me. They beg me to create, and I must oblige, because one must unwaveringly stride towards the future, and as always, the future remains unwritten.

I think the thing that gets me about the whole thing is the endless possibility. They say that the most powerful words are the ones left unspoken, and I must wholeheartedly agree. As I stare at the blank page before me, my mind’s eye sparkles with the beauty of every painting that has ever been painted, every novel yet to be written, every story never to be told. There is nothing more beautiful than the endless field of opportunity unspoken within every blank sheet of paper, and nothing I ever create can ever compare to the beauty of the void—white. But, alas, I cannot make a living selling an empty canvas; curse me for uttering something so cynical. So the duty of the artist is to stare into the emptiness and through maybe nothing other than sheer force of desire pull out a single thread of beauty and share it with the world. Nothing I could humbly create can compare to the beauty of the paper on which it was written, but that is not the point. Because the paper isn’t art, it is only the beginning. It is only the beginning of this story, and the other ones, which I am about to tell you.