The Meandering Mind · 10:25am Jun 2nd, 2014
Mine in particular. My meandering mind, pushed into a writing style that is familiar to me, and yet also in my distant past. I have not written fiction in first-person perspective, other than short pieces here and there with character thoughts, in a long time.
But here I sit, early in the morning, long after I should have gone to bed, with my mind full of ideas and my drive to write overriding my need to sleep.
I won't be doing this with the fic as I write it, it won't be appearing on FimFiction until it is complete after this point, but I thought I would share first first couple of paragraphs that I wrote tonight. It's a much more wordy style than I am used to writing, as I usually take a less is more approach. The almost utilitarian method by which I write The Conquering of Love, could perhaps use a little more flare such as what I've somehow regurgitated this evening.
Dreamers.
I suppose that is what many ponies would call poets. Spinning words into lyrics is a form of art, and one that I had dedicated myself to from a young age. A kid growing up in Cloudsdale, surrounded by pegasi who were rough around the edges and eager to exercise their muscles and take to the sky, I was one cut from a different cloth. Perhaps it was the way lyrics swirled around in my head and gave me shivers. Maybe it was the sheer bliss that listening to my father’s old records gave me. I knew a few kids who were into music, who wanted to form bands and tour Equestria, living the high life of screaming fans and the thrills of the spotlight, but that was not for me. I knew, as I said, from a young age that I was meant to be a lyricist. I was meant to take words from the air, put them onto paper, and create something that would inspire others in the same way that I was inspired. Yes, I suppose I was a dreamer, my heart full of desire to create something marvelous.
I sat down, pen in mouth, ready to ink what would surely become a timeless classic, an instant hit song, or the sort of legendary verse that would leave the lips of Canterlot royalty during a high society gathering. It would echo across the halls, ponies being moved to tears from its sheer beauty, mares falling against their beloveds, and the princess herself staring downward in quiet contemplation. The quiet sound of hooves softly clapping together would fill the room afterwards, everyone knowing that they had just experienced something irreplaceable and deep. Yes, with those thoughts, I put pen to paper, and scrawled my first ever poem.
It sucked.
When I read this, I imagined someone reading it in a British accent.
~PC