Author's Notes:

The beginning of Timber's story, told to you the way he wanted it.

I've found that writing is a much better form of expression. At least for me.

The only problem is, I never know how, or where, to start. I'm trying to tell my whole story from beginning to end, but I don't know what I want to be the beginning.

It's been that way for quite a long time, though.

Ever since I was a colt I had trouble talking to ponies, and often did better just writing to them. Written assignments would get an A+ while any vocal presentations averaged a C at best. Writing letters to family members ended less awkwardly than meeting face-to-face.

I remember once, around grade 2, my mother's twin sisters came for a visit. I received so many cheek-rubs and mane-tousles, by the end of the day I didn't recognize my own reflection. My mahogany mane was a worse wreck than normal, and my face, rubbed raw and mixed with a blush that could only be described as uncontrollable internal bleeding, brightened my peanut-brown coat to a disgusting red-stained explosion.

I barely uttered two words to them during their whole visit, those being "Hello" and "Goodbye" at the appropriate times. After they left, my mother said how happy she was they could visit. Then, to my father, that she wished I would have interacted more with them.

That night I wrote my aunts a letter, thanking them for visiting and apologizing for acting so introverted. I wanted to tell them a lie. I wanted to come up with something like, "I recently had a nightmare with monsters that looked like you two," but decided against it. I felt that would be too childish. That said, I also didn't want to hurt their feelings that I was afraid of them after their initial assault that rendered me horrendous.

I told them I felt shy, and promised I would show them more affection during their next visit. Ending with a "Sincerely your's, Timber," I felt justified. I mailed it discreetly, wanting to right my own wrong without my mother's involvement. With some pre-school style help from the mail-pony, I got it stamped and shipped with no problem.

A week or so later, my mother was given a letter from her sisters. Basically it said she didn't need to apologize for her son, and that she definitely didn't need to fake a foal's writing to ease the blow. I was given a loud talk that was only partly anger. The rest of the short rant came out more like pride. I was only afraid she'd yell at me for not telling her, I never guessed she'd be proud that I handled it, or that I was so gifted.

After that point I expected more work. I don't know why, but I was afraid that my mother saw so much potential that she'd push me past my limits. She didn't.

What ended up happening was that my parents nearly separated.

I heard one of their conversations one night after the letters' exchange. She was talking about changing my name. That she didn't think "Timber" was a good name for a pony whose future was clearly in writing. He was cranky from work, so he reacted viciously.

"Timber was my grandfather's name!"

She tried to keep her voice down, since all her children were in bed, "But what if his cutie mark is a quill? Or a letter, or typewriter, something that has no relation to yours?"

"Are you telling me he's not my son?"

"I didn't say that, Mill."

"My sons are hard workers. They'll sooner pick up an ax before they pick up a pen." His poor choice of words amused me, but he was right.

All of my older brothers were serious stallions. Mill Jr., my oldest brother, worked at the lumber mill with dad until he moved out to de-forest a jungle in the south. Gravel had a job at the local quarry until he met a mare at the harvest fest and followed her back to her family's rock farm. Dale spends more time in our family's garden than there are hours in a day. I'm the fourth. Below me, the youngest boy is Picker, and as of late he doesn't seem like the pick-ax wielding quarry digger dad wanted him to be. The only "picking" he's been doing is fights at school, but I think he's going to end up baking more than anything.

Dad calls Picker and me "late bloomers." He has me doing chores around the farm like any of us, but I always feel like I have to do more just because it's not what I'm meant for.

Oh yeah, almost exactly one year after my parents' big fight about my destiny I got my cutie mark. It ended up being a sparkling quill apparently drawing a big swirl. It did look pretty cute on my flank, I won't lie: the bold black "ink" in the swirl and white-feather quill contrasted nicely with my coat, even though it didn't make much sense. But it didn't matter what I thought. As a colt in grade 3, my father had jurisdiction over me, and as long as I was home I would be doing no writing. That left me to doing my assignments at night, which of course lead to sight problems and a pair of glasses, as well as trouble sleeping later on.

But before that, my father was strict. He wouldn't have me doing anything at home besides farm work or other such hard labor. He even often demanded I wear trousers. He loved me enough to claim he was worried I'd get scratched or something, but I knew he was ashamed of my cutie mark. I obliged because I love him, I could never fight with him. Besides, it ended up being a lot less of a punishment than I expected!

Then again, I did fully expect him to disown me. I was relieved to get to stay.

Now that I've got all of that out of the way, I think I've decided on how I want to start;

My name is Timber. I am a seventeen-year-old earth pony, and close to graduating Green Stables High. I have plans to move to Manehatten and work for Bridleway writing plays, while also writing freelance novels. I have 4 brothers and 1 sister. I am single, and sexually confused.
...How's that?