How to Write, Part 2: Blood, Sweat, And Tears

Okay. Luna says I'm not allowed to talk about 'boring silly words' yet, so I have to talk about another topic. Oddly, one that's near and dear to the hearts of both myself and the warrior princess you all know and love. This is also one of the most important things to remember about writing: about a lot of things, as a matter of fact, and it helped me out when times got tough myself. It helps me out these days, too. It also sometimes makes me seem like I'm a little masochistic.
We all often start writing because it seems fun. Because it's great, to see your ideas put down on paper, to see a tale that you yourself have woven together forming bit-by-bit over the page. There's a certain rush, and both feelings of control, and of release, and even relief that comes with it.
But sometimes, as we all know, that feeling can sour. There's time constrictions, writer's block, not having things set up the perfect way we're used to - does anyone else suffer the changeisbadchangeisbadchangeisbad OCD thought-train like I do? - and of course finding out that for some of your writing, for some of your most meaningful expressions, the most you'll probably ever get is a pat on the head, a disinterested 'that's nice,' and maybe a few comments about how you probably could have done better. By nature, a lot of us want praise for what we do, especially when we do something we feel is important, or that has meaning behind it to ourselves: not a lot of us go out there, prepared for rejection... and the crippling disinterest, which can be even more painful. Even we go out braced for impact, that can just make it hurt all the more. But I'm not here to talk about criticism, critique, or comments, or even that lagging feeling that comes from the lack thereof. I'm talking about when writing goes from "this is a pleasant way to spend my time" to "this feels like work now" or "ugh this sucks."
But if you really want to write, if you want to see yourself becoming better, becoming more than you are, truly understanding your craft... you have to embrace that aspect. That writing is work, and it's not always going to be fun. You have to understand and be prepared for the fact you aren't going to always get praised for your work, and that sometimes the things you write, only you will ever truly understand and care about. You need to gaze into the abyss, and you need to be ready to spend hours, sitting at your... whatever you use, fighting to write just one more word, one more sentence, one more page. You need discipline, and resolve, and strength. And you need to believe in something: if not in yourself, then in your stories. I may not believe in myself at all but I have never, ever allowed my faith in what I've written to falter.
Look at it this way: sometimes, something hard, and painful, and difficult and challenging and blah blah blah, it's the better path. Not because it's "superior" but because of the way you're gonna feel when you make it down that path. That pride. That worth. When you can look back and say, "I did it," at the end of the long hard road. When you can honestly say that in spite of everything you pushed through. Bleed for your writing. Fight for your writing. Maybe don't be as crazy as me and be ready to die for it, but... give it your flesh, give it your blood, give it a little piece of your soul, and pour your strength and soul into it. Live it. Be it.
Maybe it's only because of what I've seen. What I still face more days than I care to think about... but life isn't easy. And you know what? It shouldn't be. It's good that it's not. Yeah, it hurts. Horses of Heaven can it ever hurt, I understand that. But if it never did, how would we truly be able to appreciate and understand the depths of pleasure, of good, of right that we can find in life, too? How could any of us dare to say that our lives were worthwhile, without the painful parts? What the hell would any of us learn? I know for a fact that it's because of what I've gone through that I write the way I do. That gave me the strength to learn to sit here, every goddamn day, and write. To stand beside the pony I care for with all my heart and soul, and weather the worst of storms. To see meaning in darkness, and to understand... more than I ever thought I could. Sometimes I stupidly envy those ponies who live their great, unremarkable happy normal little lives. But they should be the ones envying me.
Anyway. Luna says I've gone way off topic and way overboard. I think I probably have but, hey, I said my piece. And I can still blame this all on Luna one way or another anyway, right? The short version is this:
Writing hurts sometimes. Because you're going to face your demons and because sometimes you lose the strength and because sometimes you just don't feel like it. None of those are reasons to stop. Force yourself to push forwards, and don't give up. You'll be stronger for it, and your writing will become stronger for it. You might be surprised at what it teaches you... and besides, if you ever really screw up, that's what editing's for.
Goodnight, everypony. I'm going to go and make out with my hot wife now. Because that's every writer's dream.
You know, unless they like stallions.
It shouldn't be too hard to pretend Luna's a stallion if you like stallions.
Oh Horses of Heaven Luna you are not a stallion. Don't look at me like that. What are youafeagabah

~Scrivener Blooms

How To Write, Part 1

Write.
The end.
Luna says that requires further explanation. Well, actually, she said something I can't really write down here... but alright, alright. I'll elucidate.
Isn't that a great word, elucidate? But really it's pointless if you don't know what it means... unless you put it into context somehow, of course. Like I did up there. "I'll elucidate." That means from that you get that it's something I will do, and considering the beginning of the paragraph, you can draw on the idea that it may mean in this instance I will explain.
So you know. If you put something into context properly, you can work the most complicated word in the world into a sentence, like... Brobdingnagian, and even if the person doesn't quite know what it means, they'll get it anyway. Like "his height was Brobdingnagian, towering over us all." Yes it means big. Really really big. Like Luna's ego. Luna's ego is Brobdingnagian. See, I didn't even have to insert something to illustrate how it was huge that time to get my point across. It can also mean monstrous. Which is also fitting.
And of course, out of context, the simplest words can be pretty monstrous to figure out. Like uh... oh. 'The red emotion.' Well, there's some context, you know it's an emotion, and red usually refers to a passion. Anger, or love... but it's still a stumbling block. Especially when you run into someone who takes things too literally, and you get all kinds of "hey emotions totally can't be a color" and everything. But of course if I write "The red emotion made him snarl" then you probably aren't going to assume it's love. Well. Luna and I growl at each other sometimes but we're weird like that.
Of course, there's jargon, too. Technical or specific terms that no one in their right mind would bring to a daily conversation unless they really just want to look smart or like they know what they're talking about. I met a lot of people like that. They really don't like it when you respond to "the idiosyncrasies of Flourish's work are amongst the first haute couture references of that time period, and clearly helped bring forwards the post-ren period of literature that many writers derived romantic and ideological works from today" with "You're stupid." Or worse, "Actually, Flourish was just copying one of his own former students. He really wasn't that original at all." Or. "I denounce your argument as irrelevant due to the well-known fact that chronologically speaking, Avesworth came before Flourish and denounced the juxtaposition of pre-Equestria eccletia via his subtle use of asymmetric metaphor."
I usually followed up the last with something poignant, like "suck it."
I was never very good at making nice with the fellow writers and scribes around Canterlot. Celestia reprimanded me a lot back in those days. I still think that being assigned to Luna was supposed to be a form of punishment, but well. Look how things turned out.
Uh... I'll talk about etymology next week or something. Shut up, Luna, words can be fun, too.

~Scrivener Blooms

To Do List

Okay, okay, okay. Gotta get used to posting again. But seriously, I'm still sore and all from the whole. Stabbing thing. Also, Luna keeps spilling things on the freaking keyboard. It's already hard enough to freaking type with freaking hooves and I freaking hate this freaking idea but "Scrivener Blooms if thou does not write in thy magic box journal I shall bring my wrath crashing down upon thy head!"
She hit me.
She hit me again.
I'm apparently not allowed to document how often she pummels me anymore. Mostly because it would take too much time and space to do so. She did suggest I write down a to-do-list, however, which... I think is a good idea, but don't tell her I said that.
So expect... soonishly... an influx of my poems, which I will then figure out how to sort. I don't like these computer things, and worse, they don't like me. And uh... I could do a post on etymology? No, Luna, it's not for nerds. You're a nerd.
Luna is not a nerd. And she wants everypony to know that. Her warrior princessness has also suggested that instead of writing on etymology I tell people how to write. My prompt and acerbic reply was for her to tell people how to be... dumb.
So it wasn't the greatest comeback and I'm also covered in coffee. But I think I will write a post on something like that, too, soonishly. For now, though, I have to go and wash myself off and then tend to my ever-lovely wife and make her a new coffee. Which she'll probably just pour on me again. But that's a fitting metaphor for a writer's life, you know: again and again making people stuff that lights up your mind but they just use to pour all over you and burn you even while they try and convince you to make them another cup. Of words. I stretched that metaphor too far.

~Scrivener Blooms

Yes, I was gone.

Blame Luna. She stabbed me. In the heart. Uh, literally, not metaphorically, so. It's. Is that better or worse, actually? I guess that depends on what a romantic you are at heart. THERE'S A PUN.
...Aren't relationships great?
But I'm back. And Horses of Heaven know I'll be trying my damnedest to keep up posting.

Rhymes Suck.

Do you hear me, out there, rhymes? Do you hear me? I think you're stupid. I hate you, rhyming. You're a crutch. A hard-to-use crutch that I can't seem to get the hang of. Look at me, I'm a poet and I can't write a couplet to save my life. Well, I can, but. Let me demonstrate.

Everyone was happy,
Life was sappy,
And then it all turned crappy,
BECAUSE THEY ALL DIED.

Are we beginning to understand why it was such a freakish stroke of luck that I ended up being the court poet at Canterlot? It's almost enough to make me believe in destiny and all, since it was there that I met Luna and well... you know. She's laughing at me right now, by the way, because I'm having an impossible time trying to write this stupid limerick for that annoying pony. The one with the color-stripes in her hair who's always calling me an idiot. No, not Luna, she doesn't have color-stripes and her mane is all... starry. Yes, Twilight Sparkle. Horses of Heaven this is frustrating me.
Anyway. Where was I? Right. I hate rhymes. I know, I know. "You're a poet, poems rhyme." Well, no, poems don't have to rhyme, and the poetic style I've always used actually functions better without rhyme. Rhyme often conveys a certain positivity that my poems lack: sure, this can be countered by modifying the standard meter and by tampering with the patterning of the rhyme scheme, but it's much easier to write:

Sallow fields, empty and devoid of life,
Whispering, crying out for what they have lost,
Oh broken ivory bones that lay riff-raff torn
Across the derelict and empty and forgotten wastes.

Over:

Sallow fields, empty and devoid of life,
Whispering, crying out against past strife,
Oh broken ivory bones that lay spread along the earth,
Remnants from which death has gone and stolen all worth.

And look what we have on top of that awkward meter, we have a bad case of encroaching lines. You know, where lines steadily grow longer and longer despite the fact they should all be the same length. Stupid lines. Stupid everything. I think I've made my point clear, anyway.