It Happened Again!

Oh yes, as the title of this blog post implies, it has happened again!

So now presumably you're reading to find out what "it" is.

Well...

My title was misleading, "it" includes a number of things:

First, there was this little piece of sketchwork I created as a counterpart to one of my earlier sketches, Starry Eyed. I call this new one Sunstruck, as one would naturally be when confronted by the regal equine deification of the sun. And, when you think about it, the sun is a star, so the title works.

Celestia is a wonderful character to think about as we know so little of her background, her mannerisms, her waist-to-butt ratio. It gives us room for plenty of wild speculation and exaggeration. And, being immortal—as far as we know—makes her that much more mercurial. How long has she lived? What has she seen? Has she already gotten through that speculated adolescent immortal phase where everything is just doom and gloom because nothing besides her lasts forever? Is she working toward some kind of transcendent state of being beyond mortal comprehension?

Or is she one of us? Just a slob like one of us?

The boundaries are vague, the rules unclear, the world our oyster, when it comes to creating Celestia. Plenty of fan-canon exists, and perhaps her propensity for pastry has become more infamous than Derpy's love of muffins. She's a goddess, she's a troll. A creator. A tyrant. And so on.

Here's the part where I acknowledge that I'm saying nothing new to anybody, and rather enjoy it nonetheless.

What I enjoy about writing (and drawing) this delightfully loose canvas of a character is how I can inject a new personality into her and imagine that in an immortal perspective. Imagine a bratty teenager being bratty for thousands of years, or somepony who's treated her subjects coldly until her entire kingdom crumbles and she gets some new subjects and the cycle starts all over again. I often think of arcs happening in a character's lifetime or in an important segment of their life, and they're usually confined to one story. How many arcs might an immortal creature have? Would she ever unlearn any of the lessons she's learned? Or would she eventually hit a growth plateau and remain the same way the rest of her unnatural life?

In some small way a few of my recent stories have dug into this, including my most recent story, Star-Crossed, a short go-nowhere tale about Celestia and Discord and when they start to date. Oh, and that was the second "it"; I wrote a new story.

The third "it" was about reading and how it relates to writing.

It's not a proud thing.

More often than not I don't go anywhere near this website. There's nothing against anybody on here personally, nor do I dislike the structure of the website. The truth is when I look at my peers who have written so much more, shown their talents time and time again by producing beautiful words, I have to look away. It's like looking into a hot, bright furnace. While a read, my eyes pinch tighter. Reading becomes uncomfortable, difficult.

Because I have a hard time being reminded that I suck.

I realize this is a terribly arrogant thing to say. Everybody struggles. Beneath each story is an untold story of late nights slaving over a hot keyboard, or a cold keyboard, staring coldly at a blank page that refuses to break out in words. My struggle is seeing the story beneath and understanding that on the other side is a real human being, not some archetypal narrative god.

So it inevitably happens whenever I decide to post one of my completed stories to this website, naturally I begin comparing what I've written to what every other person who I'd remotely call an idol has written. My best wilts in comparison to their worst. Their shadow is my sunshine. Eventually I throw my hands in the air and decide to click "Submit" and let the whims of the viewers take it away.

My struggle is also in finding someone to compare myself to. Let me clarify that: My struggle is that I'm trying to find someone with whom I can compare myself. That's something I can't seem to get through my thick skull. I am not a Douglas Adams or a David Means or a Ray Bradbury. They each write their stories unlike anybody else ever did.

Why am I trying to be somebody I'm not?

If you've read this far, you've read far more of my blathering than a sane person ever should, which is not a bad thing. Many good things require at least a hint of creative insanity, in my experience.

-RLC