Keen sat at her desk, forehooves pressed to her temples as she stared at the page before her. There were words at the top, leading to a pitiful half-sentence that resolutely refused to finish itself. The very sight of it disgusted her. She considered going back to re-read the last five or six pages, but immediately tossed that idea away. It hadn’t worked the last five times, it wouldn’t work now.
The trash can sat just within hoof’s reach on her right. She resolutely refused to look at it, no matter how tempting the idea might be. Just as much effort was made to not look at the clock tick-tick-ticking away on her nightstand. Now matter what it might say, she’d be unhappy about it. It was dark outside her window, that told her more than enough.
At last the frustration became too much. Shoving away from the desk, she dragged her hooves down the stairs of her small townhouse and into the kitchen. A lack of caution led her to glance at the wall clock over the sink, and she scowled at the lateness of the hour. At least she was off work tomorrow.
A can full of hot chocolate mix, a mug, some cinnamon and a hint of hot sauce. All she needed now was the milk. She squinted against the brilliant glow of the refrigerator’s light, having to peer at the carton to check the date. Still good for another two or three days. She’d be done with it well before then. The fridge closed—
“Evening, Little Miss.”
Keen jumped with a tiny yelp at the sight of her dear, heart attack-inducing Uncle Fine, who smiled smugly at her from where he’d been standing behind the fridge’s door. She dropped the carton of milk, but managed to catch it in her magic right before it could land.
No sooner had her shock come had it gone, replaced by a beaming smile. “Uncle Fine.” She gave him a hug, which he eagerly returned. “How is it you always know exactly when to show up?”
He rubbed his chest with a grin. “Come now, you know better than to expect me to tell the truth about such things.”
“True.” She turned to set the carton of milk down, magic already snatching up a second mug. “But you always have the funniest answers.”
He took a seat at her kitchen table, smile untouched. “Well, in that case: I’ve hired some private investigators to keep an eye on your every move.” At her skeptical look, he added, “They’re breezies. Live in your walls and attic, and are very fond of ginger cookies.”
Turning on the burner to heat the milk, she giggled at the implications. “So that’s why I lose a cookie every other night. And here I thought somepony with a notorious sweet tooth and sneaky powers of sneakery was sneaking into my house to sneak away a cookie or two every other night.”
He hummed in contemplation as she sat opposite him. “One would think an aware pony would, I dunno, stop making the cookies?”
“Ah, but then said pony couldn’t keep trying to catch the cookie thief in the act,” Keen reminded him pleasantly. “Where would the fun be in that?”
“Where indeed?” Without turning from her, Fine magicked a cookie from its hiding place behind the utensil holder, split it in half, and offered her one while he nibbled on the other. “In all fairness to the thief, they are pretty tasty.”
“Aren’t they, though?” Making a mental note to find a better cookie hiding place – again – Keen levitated the milk and ingredients to the table and began mixing up the hot chocolate. She knew exactly how Uncle Fine liked it, and indeed had come to be fond of his style herself. The couple drops of hot sauce gave it just the kick it needed.
With the completed mug of hot chocolate set before him, Fine lifted the mug in his hooves and took a long whiff. His lips turned up in that happy smile he always got when that particular beverage was involved, but didn’t drink just yet. “So, what’s got you up so late?”
The only appropriate response was a heavy sigh and slouched shoulders. She took in the velvety scent of her chocolate, but it was only a marginal help. “Trying to write that story. Again.”
“Ah, the eternal battle.” He nodded sagely. “How goes the conflict?”
Rather than answer, Keen risked a tentative sip of her hot chocolate, the better to think on her frustrations. It was almost too hot, which made it perfect for drinking.
Her uncle’s eyebrows rose. “That bad?”
She took a deeper sip, letting the hot liquid slosh across her taste buds for a few seconds. The sweet, chocolatey nectar eased things quite a bit, such was its soul-saving power. With a sigh somewhere between pleasure and weariness, she set the mug down. “I don’t know. Some days I can churn out a few hundred words, other days I swear the blank page is mocking me. Tonight is the latter.” Resting her cheek atop her fetlock, she stared listlessly into her chocolate. “Sometimes I just want to chuck the whole thing in the garbage and be done with it.”
“That would be a shame.” He took a sip from his own mug, yet his face remained solemn. “You’ve been working on that story for three years.”
“Three-and-a-half,” she grimly corrected. She kept staring into the brown liquid before her, hoping that maybe Luna would appear, tell her this was a dream, then magically grant her all the inspiration she could ever desire. “Why do I keep doing this to myself? What’s the point?”
Uncle Fine shrugged, eyes turning to the nearby window. She didn’t know why, it was completely dark out. There wasn’t even a moon to alleviate the shadows. “I couldn’t say. We each have our own reasons. Me, I do it because I love it, even when it hurts.” Sip. “It hurts some ponies more than others.”
Hurt. Was that what she was feeling right now? She wasn’t sure. Deep down, she knew that writing wasn’t her strength. Her cutie mark wasn’t a quill and some paper. Granted, neither was her uncle’s, so that wasn’t an appropriate comparison. Some ponies had it, some ponies didn’t.
But she couldn’t stop. “I want to finish it.”
He looked at her. “Why?” A question, yes, but it felt more like an instruction.
A slow breath. Keen pursed her lips, feeling like she should have had an answer at the ready. But the answer she had was not something she wanted to share, not yet. “I just want to.” The answer felt juvenile. She took a sip of her chocolate. Though she refused to lift her eyes, she could feel her uncle’s studious gaze.
Eventually, he said, “You know my offer still stands.”
She drank a little more, then shook her head and finally met his eyes. “No. Your critiques on my short stories are great, and I appreciate it, but this one stays with me.”
He frowned, but it was more out of concern than anything. “It won’t be as good if you don’t have somepony look over it. You know that.”
“And somepony will look over it,” she assured him. “I just don’t want it to be you. For once, I’d like to say I finished a writing project without you looking over my shoulder.” Her breath caught in her throat at a sudden thought. “Y-you haven’t tried to read it behind my back, have you?” They both knew he was capable of it. Despite all their joking earlier, Fine Crime was a professional sneak. If he wanted to find something out, not even the Princesses themselves could stop him.
He seemed to understand her worry, but still he only met her gaze solemnly. “You’re speaking to a consummate liar, and you know it. If I said no, would you believe me?”
“I would if you gave me a Pinkie Promise.”
“Oof.” He flinched back as if struck, though he was suddenly smiling. “Going for the big guns.”
“Uncle Fine…”
“I know, I know.” He sighed, but didn’t lose his smile as he went through the motions. “I Pinkie Promise that I have not and will not attempt to look at your big project before you are ready to present the finished copy to me, cross my heart and hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.” He lifted his mug to his lips, but before drinking offered a smug, “Happy?”
She was. Very happy, in fact. Part of it was watching her spooky and deadly uncle go through the silly motions. The other part was that, of all ponies with good reason to not break a Pinkie Promise, none had as good a reason as him. If most Ponyvillians thought the promise was unbreakable, Uncle Fine considered it divine law. She took a big bite out of her half-cookie, savoring the taste and texture.
But this still didn’t resolve her real problem. “Of course, I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it.”
“Come now, Little Miss,” Uncle Fine replied haughtily, holding his mug as one might a teacup. “Did you not note my confidence? I promise to read your story when you finished it, not if.”
“I don’t share that confidence,” she grumbled, eyes shifting to the clock. Wow, it was late. Not that she would say anything about it. She doubted she’d get any sleep, and who knew if Uncle Fine even understood the word?
“You should.” His tone shifted to something somber as he set his mug down. “Confidence is a pony’s greatest tool. A writer must have faith in themselves, in their abilities, in their stories. I find the greatest thing a writer can do is believe they are good at what they do.”
She turned a skeptical eye on him. “That’s a little arrogant, don’t you think?”
“Keen, Little Miss, you’re experiencing the struggle right now.” Crossing a foreleg over the table, he leaned on it to meet her gaze with utmost seriousness. “Sometimes writing is easy. Sometimes it’s a nightmare. A writer needs to be a little arrogant sometimes. It’s what pushes us through the hard times, because we know we can beat it. ‘I have too much work to do, too many stories to share, to let myself be stopped by a mere feeling.’”
She quirked an eyebrow at his declaration. “This from the same guy who just a few years ago told me to buck up and accept criticism.”
“Was I wrong?”
“What you are is self-contradicting.”
He raised his forehooves in a shrug. “So it’s a balance. Just like using repetition to make a point or alliteration for fun, you have to figure out when to go for it and when it’s a bit much. But I think in your case, right now?” He gestured to her. “A little self-confidence would work wonders.”
She waved what little bit of cookie she still had at him. “That’s all well and good for you to say, but you can’t change how somepony feels like flicking a switch. There isn't a spell to make somepony confident.”
“Well, there is,” he replied with averted eyes and tapping forehooves. “But it involves a cursed book that comes with a few spikes on it just in case it wasn’t obvious that the thing is corrupting. Probably not what you’re looking for. Besides, I understand a dragon ate it.”
Was that a joke? Sometimes it was hard to tell with her uncle. She sighed and rested her cheek in her hoof once more. “Probably wouldn’t work on me anyway.” Her uncle responded with only a concerned stare, apparently at a loss for what else to say.
They remained that way for a time, finishing their cookie and hot chocolate in companionable but heavy silence. Keen was fine with that. It let her wallow in her own inability, and that was exactly what she felt like doing. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking of the story and what should happen next. There were twenty different directions she could take it and every single one had problems.
Uncle Fine had taught her what he could, but in the end they both knew – he had taught her, in fact – that every writer approached the task in their own way. What worked for him wouldn’t work for her, and vice versa. For all his experience and knowledge, in this he couldn’t help her at all.
Eventually, Uncle Fine set his mug down on the table and sighed. “You should visit your mother. She worries.” He stood, apparently ready to leave.
“Steal my cookies and go, is it?” she asked, half mocking.
His response was wholly serious. “Forgive me for wanting to check in on my favorite niece every now and then.”
That earned him a raised eyebrow. “There are other nieces?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “Doesn’t change the fact. As for the current problem… Well. I guess I’ve only one bit of advice to offer. Don’t think I’ve used this line before.” She perked her ears, curious and maybe even a little hopeful as he stepped backwards into the shadows. “Success depends entirely on you. If you want it badly enough, you’ll get it. So the question, Little Miss, is this:
“How badly do you want it?”
He was gone. There’d been no sound to indicate his passing, nothing she could see. Keen just knew, from years of having him around, that if she went to check the shadows she’d find nothing there. That was how he rolled.
“How badly I want it, huh?” Keen stared at her empty mug. How badly did she want this? Was it worth all the frustration and long, quiet nights staring at an empty page? When the job was finally finished, would she look back at everything and believe it was worth it? Or perhaps she would see it as nothing more than a waste of time. She could be sleeping. Or visiting her mother. Or her coltfriend. Or any of her regular friends, for that matter.
The empty mug merely stared back at her, providing no answers.
Keen’s lips set in a determined frown. Standing, she deposited both mugs in the kitchen sink and trotted back upstairs. She checked the clock. It wasn’t that late, not really.
She settled back at her writing desk, grasped the quill firmly in her magical aura, and got back to work.