It was 11:30 at night, and I was sitting at my computer; completing an evening meditation ritual I have come to call writing.
I’ve been working on a piece of Fanfiction for several months, one that, although nothing of real popularity, I enjoy writing and people enjoy reading. Only problem is I’ve been stuck on the same chapter for three months, and nothing more than a paragraph or two has come out.
It’s not like I’ve been ignoring it! The Google Doc has been open in my browser for days at a time, begging me to continue the prose. About once a week, I open it up, reread what I have, and then proceed to stare at it; waiting for the words to come to me. Occasionally I’ll get a piece of dialogue, or a reaction, or even some notes for a future chapter, but never more than a sentence, and it often gets deleted.
But this story isn’t about my inability to write, it’s about the incredible way I overcame it.
So, where was I? Ah! Sitting in my chair, staring at the blinking cursor. It does taunt you, the cursor. Reminding you that all it takes to stop it winking in and out of existence is your fingers to waft across the keyboard. I can’t tell you how long I stared at it, tapping my toes in time with the beat, because somewhere along the line I dozed off.
I awake some unknown amount of time later, to find this message typed on the screen.
“Okay, mister sleepy-pants, time to finish this chapter!”
After checking to make sure I wasn’t sleep-typing, I’m perplexed: How in the hell did that get there? So, I do what any reasonable human being would do when they think they’re going insane; I type back.
“Who are you, and what are you doing reading my story?”
And then I wait. The cursor winks away about ten seconds, and then starts moving on its own.
“Oh, you know who I am, silly. And I’m here to get you past your writers block.”
Alright then. I’m dealing with some form of dissociative personality disorder, and it’s trying to tell me the blatantly obvious. Still not convinced, I inquire further.
“Ok, who sent you?”
My mysterious co-writer responded, “Dashie. She’s been sitting at a table listening to the same conversation for four months. She got tired of it, and called on my special talent!”
Ok, so apparently a voice in my head got in touch with one of the characters in my story, and decided that I needed an intervention. How nice.
Since I learned a long time ago to give into madness to save my sanity, I decide to play along. “Alright, and how do you plan to do this?”
“Easy! You’re going to have a random conversation with me!”
I blink. “Not quite sure how that’s going to help. Random dialog? Hardly makes for a good story.”
“Oh, Puhlease! Entire episodes of the show were written with me having random conversations! Did you see ‘The Last Roundup’? There was an entire scene where I did nothing but talk to myself! It was great! Pickle Barrel, Kumquat! Pickle Barrel, Kumquat! Pickle Barrel, Kumquat! Pickle Barrel, Kumquat! Pickle Barrel, Kumqu-”
I cut the madness off. “Okay, so you’re a manifestation of Pinkie Pie. I get it!”
“Manifestation? I didn’t manifest from anywhere, silly! I’m just me! Although I guess you could say that I manifested from a rock farm, or from my parents, but that was a long time ago!”
It’s at this point I realize something; this little ploy my brain is playing on me is working! I’ve filled up almost an entire page of randomness. So I figure, what the hell, it can’t make things any worse to continue.
“So, wait a minute. The whole rock farm thing wasn’t some conjured up story, it actually existed?”
“Of Course! You humans really are silly sometimes. Why would you think I would make that up?”
“I don’t know, Pinkie. We don’t have rock farms here. It just seemed like such an odd place for somepony as lively and happy as you to have come from...”
“I know, right! It was so boooring! Somepony had to come along to liven the place up a bit! And when I saw Dashie’s Sonic Rainboom, I just couldn’t help but smile!”
I sit there, perplexed, as this incarnation continues on about how she got her cutie mark. Eventually, I have enough.
“Pinkie, or whatever you are, I’ve heard this story a million times. While I appreciate hearing it from the horse’s mouth, I think we’re getting off topic.”
A second later, ‘she’ replies. “Off topic? How can we get off topic? We weren’t talking about anything! And you’re such a grumpy-gus you can’t think of anything on your own!”
“That’s beside the point! Anyway, I’m still not exactly sure you’re, well, you, and I need something besides stories I’ve already heard to prove it. Mind helping me out?”
I get no response from the blinking cursor, and I almost think I have it beat, when suddenly it responds.
“Why do you need proof?”
I contemplate this for a moment. In reality, I don’t think there’s any proof ‘she’ can give me to convince me that this is anything other than a ploy of my subconscious.
Alas, I elaborate. “For all I know, you’re some kind of trick my mind is playing on me to write more. Prove me wrong.”
“And what would you do if I was?”
Well, that was unexpected. “Probably close out this document and go to bed, because I’ve obviously been talking to myself for about thirty minutes.”
“Please don’t do that, I don’t want to die...”
WHAT!? “No, Pinkie, I don’t want to kill you!”
A pause. “HAHAHAHAHAHA! You silly humans are sooo easy to prank! I wouldn’t die, I’d just be stuck sitting here waiting for you to say something. Until I get hungry, or Twilight starts working on some difficult and dangerous spell in public again. I mean, seriously, who does that? You think the number of times I’ve interrupted her she’d eventually get the idea! She is the smartest pony of all the smart ponies, after all...”
I giggle to myself thinking about that. “Yeah, Twilight can be pretty dense sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t think what she’s doing is all that dangerous?”
“Oh, no, she knows it, she just gets caught up in the moment and doesn’t stop and think about things like public safety. I know the feeling!”
“We know..” I deadpan.
“Alright, mister, explain that! I try to keep in mind the general welfare of my fellow ponies!”
Stammering and backtracking is very difficult to do when your words are directly in front of you! I write some unintelligible drivel before ‘she’ eventually stops me. “I’m just yanking your bridle! I know I can be insensitive sometimes to what other ponies feel about my parties and such, but they know I mean well!”
I feel somewhat better about making a snide comment to my subconscious, but then I realize something. “Wait, bridles? Why in the hay would you wear a bridle!? Ponies in Equestria don’t need to be directed!”
“Silly human! You obviously don’t know where we came from, do you? I’ve had some other people tell me about a movie called “Planet of the Apes”, or something like that. Imagine that, just instead of ape-men, we’re ponies!”
“That makes... a surprising amount of sense. So why, then, did all the people leave?”
“I dunno, really. It’s sort of a legend around here. Not many ponies believe it, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. So, y’know what? It’s possible!”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
The cursor blinks away for a minute, as if both of us are trying to think of something to say. Eventually, ‘Pinkie’ thinks of something. “So, do you believe I’m me, and not you yet?”
I think for a second, “Honestly, Pinkie, I don’t know. What I do know is that you’ve certainly helped me clear my mind. Thanks.”
“No problemo! Now get Dashie out of that cafeteria, she’s not too happy about sitting there!”
“Just one more thing, if I may?”
“Sure!”
“Why me?”
“Why not you?”
“Good point. Good night, Pinkie!”
A pause, “Wait, you’re not going to finish your story!? I kinda wanted to see Rainbow Dash kick that filly’s flank into next week!”
“Tomorrow morning, maybe. Right now, it’s well past three in the morning, and I need to go to bed. Good night, and thanks again!”
“Good night, sleepy head! Don’t forget to finish this chapter!”
I don’t plan on it.
The next morning, I awake, and see the screen of my computer. The cursor is still blinking away, and the paragraph I last wrote three weeks ago is still half-finished.
Whatever, must’ve been a dream, I think to myself, and sit down to finish the chapter.
A good hour and a half later, it’s done. A text message to my proofreader later, and I wait for revisions. Now for some breakfast.
After breakfast, I come back to my desk. I look at the screen, and a single message sits at the bottom of my completed chapter.
“Nice work! P.P”
The cursor blinks away.
