//------------------------------//
// Twenty-Eight 
// Story: To My Uncle 
// by PaulAsaran 
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The podium was a sturdy basalt. Keen marveled at the smooth feel of it beneath her hooves. She took care to set the book down first, then the papers. She wanted to adjust her dress, but cast the thought aside as the jitters getting the better of her. When she looked up, she found every pony in the Rock Bottom Inn staring back at her.

Right. No pressure.

Uncle Fine sat at the table directly opposite her. He was all smiles, but for the first time that night it was intended purely for her benefit. She returned one now, just so he’d know it was appreciated.

She took a slow, heavy breath to ease her mind, cast her eyes over the first few words, and began her speech.

“Twenty-five years ago was a traumatic time in my life, a period of uncertainty and fear. One would think that stallions sneaking into a filly’s room on seemingly random nights would be part of the problem. But that's what Uncle Fine would do, against Mom’s better judgment.”

That with a grin at Lightning Dust, who did her part and shot a fake scowl Fine’s way. He took it with an amiable shrug.

“He told me stories. Some were from his children’s books. Some he got from other authors. Most were made up on the spot, flights of fancy designed for little more than to teleport a frightened, timid little filly away from all her troubles and worries for a little while.”

A pause. She hadn’t meant to pause. Her throat just didn’t want to cooperate at the moment. Another breath to clear her head.

“I treasured those stories. I couldn’t help but think of all the joy and fun they offered. If something like that can make a filly with terrible experiences like myself just be a filly for a while, they must be powerful things indeed. So when the thought came that I might tell the story, I was stunned by the very idea. I could tell a story too? Maybe, if I did, I could bring that kind of joy to another little pony. There was just one problem.

“I stink at telling stories.”

A round of chuckles passed through the room. Uncle Fine looked as though he wanted to object, but a pink hoof to his shoulder stilled his tongue. For that, Keen was glad. She couldn’t afford an interruption right now.

“But as much as writing isn’t my special talent, I still had a story to tell. I came back to it time and time again for my entire life. I regularly went to Uncle Fine for help, and in that way I learned so much about his art.

“I learned how different ponies find inspiration in different ways. I learned that having a different style isn’t a bad thing, just as much as I learned that it’s important to study what others have already done. I discovered the agony that comes with having somepony see your work for the first time and rip it to shreds, how such moments can be emotional, traumatic, and infuriating. But when you look back on them in a few years’ time, you realize that they hurt you because they cared, and wanted you to be the best writer you could possibly be.”

Oh, no. Her eyes were burning. She couldn’t cry, not now. If she started she’d never stop! Keen rubbed at her eyes, forced down a sniff, and made herself keep going. She didn’t dare look her uncle in the eyes.

“It’s an exquisite agony, creativity. More so for those of us who are self-critical and worry over every word. I watched my uncle write, witnessed how he can pour out words from his quill like water flowing from a tap. At times like that I’d feel so inadequate. I thought it meant I was bad at this. And I am, to be sure. So, so bad at it.”

No chuckles this time. The room was quiet. It might have been intimidating at any other time.

But Uncle Fine was there.

“But Uncle Fine was there. Always. When I doubted myself, he encouraged me. When I felt like quitting, he reminded me of why I kept struggling. On nights when I got tired of the blank page staring back at me, he’d cheer me up. I learned the craft and dragged every stubborn, deeply rooted word from my brain because I had a desperate need to prove something.”

Grabbing the book in her hooves, Keen lifted it up for all to see. Eyes shifted to the tome, ears perked. Uncle Fine sat up straight, his smile growing so wide as to rival his companion’s most pearly displays. It was a simple book of faux leather, colored green with the words To My Uncle emblazoned in front.

And there, in small type on the bottom of the cover, was the name of the author: Keen Arrow.

“I can do it. It took me twenty-three years, but I told my story. It might not be the best. It won’t sell out. It won’t make ponies weep, or laugh, or feel unparalleled joy. But it’s mine, as only I can tell it, because nopony else will. It was worth every. Single. Second. Because now I know. I can do this. And if I can do this, I can do anything.”

Rubbing her eyes to rid them of her tears, she turned her wavering smile to her beaming uncle. “You once asked me why I put myself through all of this.” Taking the book in her magic, she levitated it over to his waiting hooves. “You’ll just have to read it and find out. But for the sake of this speech… Thank you. For everything.”

Her dear uncle had tears in his eyes, the old sap. He held the book close, shivering and grinning. He tried to say something, but could only resort to a nod.

“And Pinkie Pie?”

The happy mare, in her white dress and beaming, teary smile, gave Keen her full attention.

“You’re a very lucky mare. You better take care of him.”

Touching her golden necklace, the newly minted bride declared, “That’s a Pinkie Promise!”

And so the speech ended and the wedding reception continued, Rainbow Dash taking the podium for her own speech. Keen went to sit next to her mother, who was adamantly denying that the tears on her cheeks were anything but ‘liquid pride’.

Keen didn’t know if she’d ever write another book. She didn’t know if the one she had was any good, although she maintained a certain optimism over that. What really mattered now was the experience, the awareness of what she had accomplished. She was a writer now. Officially, published work and all. She could only hope that she was also now a storyteller.

Yes, a storyteller. For as her uncle once told her, storytellers and writers were different things. Anyone could put words to a page. Anyone could tell you about a series of events, as they happened, chronologically. Facts, concepts, characters, rising action, climax, all the clinical things that any textbook could talk about, those things didn’t make a storyteller.

A writer told you what happened.

A storyteller made you experience it.

Maybe Keen had reached that vaunted level. Perhaps not. Only time and her readership would tell. But really, there was only one pony’s judgment she needed. As she met his warm, tear-filled eyes across the room, she knew she’d be happy with her work.

Whatever the result.