Ink knew she was putting on nothing more than a facade, but she couldn’t help it. It felt so trivial from a larger perspective; someone moping over the perfect chapter that they’d written only to lose it as one might lose the fragments of a dream? That didn’t warrant, in her mind, the shoulder of her friends. That was for far more critical situations, like struggling grades, a loved one in peril…

There you go again, girl. Romanticizing. God.

She walked out of Canterlot High, her head a mess of thought and fragmented ideas. She did not walk home with Gaige or Hazel as she might have. She did not say goodbye to her other friends or her teachers. She went down the sidewalk, boots crunching through the snow, kicking up the piles of white, hands in her pockets. Her breath came out in as a fine mist. Her cheeks warmed red as the cool air kissed them gently.

Above was a white topaz sky, filled with clouds. Snow came down in soft flurries, dotting her face and the sidewalk. She passed parked cars slowly becoming enveloped by the snow. The road was covered in a thin layer of it; soon, a plow would come by, clear it away, salt the rest.

She brought a hand to her forehead and groaned into her forearm. If only her laptop hadn’t decided to die then and there. Of all the times to forget to save, this was definitely the dumbest.

Well, at least I’ve the notes I’ve taken… but are they enough?

Honest to God she hoped they were, but she couldn’t be certain. They were just notes on a subject she hardly understood. Could she say she had taken enough? Should she take more? Could you really study something as abstract and as personal as love from a distance? Could you write it if you had no experience with it? What was that saying: “Write what you know.”? Did that mean she couldn’t write love?

She shook her head. Snow bounced off but she hardly noticed. There were so many thoughts—too many, in fact—and no matter how hard she sought to push them away, they always returned, nagging and jabbing into her like pocket knives made of some intangible aether. Compelled by their reckless abandon for her privacy, she turned the corner and headed down the sidewalk, not once raising her head.

It was as if a heavy cloud carried itself over her, dropping insecurities and uncertainties with each step she took. Again and again she was confronted with the question of Could she? How many notes could she take before she would arrive at her answer? Could she get an answer?

Not that asking such questions actually yielded anything substantial—she knew this, deeply and personally, and yet could not stop herself. She wondered if Artifex was rubbing off on her; but then again, she’d never heard him voice his insecurities before.

Get a grip, girl! You gotta write this darn thing somehow, so there’s no point in spilling tears over missing pages.

She sighed, breath coming out in a puff of white. But I can’t help but feel I’m missing something! Something important, something crucial. If I could only figure out what…!

At that moment, her steps no longer continued forward. She looked up and found herself just outside Canterlot.

She took it all in: the cars rolling down the street, the trolley between them, the month-early Christmas music jingling, the brisk and flowing air, the totality of society condensed in a singular unit of prosperity, the flickering of the neon billboards above. She was never one for the city, but she never was one quite against it. Artifex had once tried to show her why it was the greatest place on earth, but the magic wasn’t quite the same.

But she could not deny its marvelous complexity, this city, and she could not deny that it was the source of many’s inspiration. It glowed with life and meaning. But not any more than the rest of the world, she realized; in equal amounts, perhaps spread out differently, but spread evenly all the same.

She stared down the sidewalk, down the pathways, the byways, the street and the alleyways, into open shops and closed ones, over the heads of passerbys and passengers. She stared, long and hard, lost in her formless thoughts, thinking.

The perfect romance…

Her thoughts became less concrete as she continued to stare. She knew she was confused, knew that something was blocking her creative outflow. Yet she, in staring out at the bright vibrancy set before her, felt some sort of kinship with it. An understanding? No, a mutual agreement; a compromise, of sorts, with that blockage.

“Ink?”

She knew that voice well.

Turning, she saw there, leaning gently on his cane, face not the least-bit red from the cold, eyes narrow, frown concerned and questioning.

She laughed a little. “Seriously, how are you not cold? It’s snowing!”

He didn’t answer, instead walking over, careful not to slip where there might be ice. Then he stood by her, and together they stared out into the city.

“You will hate me for asking this,” he said, “but how goes the novel?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Ah. Writer’s block?”

“Sort of. I had a good chapter going this morning, but then my laptop cut out…”

“My condolences.”

“It’s fine.”

“It really isn’t.”

“... No, I guess it isn’t.”

Another silence followed. It somehow did not feel off-putting.

“I think I’m just confused about what I really want to say,” Ink murmured. “It’s so hard to put everything to words, especially when there’s so much I want to say in the first place. And I know you said that good writing tells the truth, and I know I have that first line down—but, I don’t know. I feel like I’m always missing something.”

“Aren’t we all? Do all stories start off smoothly?”

“All the best ones seem to, anyway.”

“Only with hard work and determination.”

“And luck.”

“And luck. Definitely.”

“I’m… I don’t know what I am, Artifex. Maybe this is just a moment for me, or maybe it’s a sign of a larger problem. ‘She fell in love once…’ That’s all I’ve got in terms of solid writing so far.”

“You’re getting hung up on that.”

“Can you blame me? It just feels right, and…”

“And you’re afraid the rest of the story won’t be able to match up to it.”

Here she fell silent as she toyed with what was said. Artifex nodded. “You fear that in writing that line, that soulfully truthful line, your story will not be able to prove it. You fear that you have already expended all of your energy in crafting the perfect opening statement that you cannot continue, for fear of mocking it.”

“I guess so…”

He turned to her, an eyebrow raised, eyes twinkling just like the falling snow. She was drawn to them. “Feel free to correct me,” he said. “I’m really just extrapolating here.”

“Well, I can’t say you’re wrong. Or that you’re right. I don’t know.” She paused, then sighed. “I don’t know…”

He was gazing at her; she could feel his gaze set on her, intense and questioning, frigid like this blizzard but soft like this snow. She waited for him to say something, anything.

But the snow kept on coming, and he said nothing, and she felt the snow gather on her neck, and she shivered and her teeth chattered and her knees wobbled. I’d better get moving before I freeze, she thought, before, with those wobbling, unsteady legs of hers, advancing forward.

Then she felt hands slip around her shoulders—and Artifex was beside her, holding her steady. His presence was unusually warm and reassuring. “Ink,” was all he said.

And that was enough. Her frustration transformed into wariness, and she leaned into him, eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” she heard herself murmuring, though for what reason she didn’t know.

But Artifex replied, “It’s okay,” and she believed him.

They stood there, together, two friends locked in a steadying embrace, for a long time, until the line of cars and buses slowed, and the city before them began to quiet. They came out of the hug, cold but also warm. Ink regarded Artifex with a mix of gratitude and exhaustion.

He tapped his cane twice on the ground, attempting a smile. “Let’s go, Ink,” he said.

She nodded. Together they began the journey back home.

Author's Notes:

Weeks.

Weeks spent away from this chapter, from this story. Weeks that became a month, two months, almost three.

There are several reasons why this story had suddenly dropped off the radar. One was that my old laptop, on which I had written the majority of the chapters, fried; I lost my progress, my organization, and then my motivation. The calendar system I had so intricately created so as to keep this story and those that preceded it was erased, and I no longer felt as connected to it as I had in the past.

The story drifted into the far recesses of my mind. My novel came first, I reasoned, and so I put everything else aside but that. The first draft was completed, but still did Spilling Ink remain dormant.

Other things cropped up: deeply personal, dark, and depressing issues that crippled me entirely and required time spent away from everything. All writing grinded to a halt. There was little joy in it.

Yet here I am. With a new chapter. Why?

Because my problems have begun to be solved. They've been addressed. I've the strength to move on, to live on. I'm in a better place, now, more than I had ever been in.

Because of that, this story surfaced in my mind once again. There is drive there; low, perhaps weak, but still there. I remembered what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it; I envisioned how I wanted it to end.

One chapter was written, and now another is while I write this author's note. The story is alive, again. Time will tell if it remains that way.