Stay with Me, Inspiration!

by FerociousCreation

Cursed to Fly

Another day of school had my back aching from all the books in my saddlebag. If I would have tried to fly, my wings would have fallen off and I would end up a flightless pegasus. A mental note was made: watch where I walk when I go home; wouldn’t want to step off a cloud and be killed by my overwhelming education.

But my day at school was not over despite the bell dismissing everypony to their weekend. The halls of Cloudsdale High had a steady traffic of pegasi, both on the tile and airborne. With everypony wanting to leave in a quick hurry, I managed to arrive at my after school club in a matter of minutes.

I entered the classroom, noticing everypony in their own groups, discussing their plans for the weekend. One pegasus complained they had several exams to prepare for on Monday, while another said there was a party going on at High Heavens’ house. Trying to be the invisible pony, I trudged to the back of the classroom, my mane blocking out most of my peripheral. My option to be by myself was my choice alone. Nopony excluded me on purpose, but that also meant nopony included me with much other than club discussion.

The saddlebag slipped off my back beside the desk I chose to sit at in a heavy thump. Some turned to notice me, so I tilted my head forward in hopes no eye contact was made. My mane had not yet grown to the length I wanted it and I wished I was half unicorn so that I can grow it at a faster rate. My hoof grabbed my notebook that contained my poems and flipped it open. The other reason for my seclusion was because I cherished my works. Too bad I hated them just as much. Nopony’s eyes but my own were for the words I had scribbled down.

Ahead of my position, the whiteboard had in bold lettering, “Poetry Club. Today’s topic: Critique #8 and Special Event." Every Friday, my poetry club did critiques on other poems written by those partaking in the club. And every poem that was submitted is anonymous. The only pony who knows what poem is being discussed is the author unless the poet wishes to be known. The critique questions went in this order: the purpose of the poem/what the poem is trying to accomplish, what were the high and low points, and did it accomplish its goal. I never liked the last question. Every poem I have submitted had always failed at having its meaning transcend, further causing me to hate my works. But the effort I gave was my best and I tried to make something as amazing as the other poets did.

What did strike me was as strange was the second notice written on the whiteboard. Special Event? What did that entail, I thought. I was sure whatever the event was to be explained as the club proceeded its normal routines.

My eyes fan over my newest poem, hoping it was something the class may appreciate for once. Without removing my stare from the paper, I reach into my bag to grab a tiny music player, the Peach Mini. The screen was a little too small for my liking, but it was much better than being in a time where ponies had to carry around a boombox to listen to music on the go. I flicked through the device, though my fat hoof on the occasion tapped on something I was not intending to select. After painstakingly selecting the song I was looking for, I placed the buds in my ears and began to read my poem.

Once again, I listened to my poem’s inspiration. I had a unique way of writing my poems. I would write lyrics for songs that had no words to compliment them. Most of the songs that breed a poem were classical pieces from past ponies. Some poems would be inspired by electronic or alternative, but the point still rests; I demanded inspiration from songs.

As the instrumental in my ears concludes, so did my reading. The "Moonbeam Sonata", by Beethooven was my current source of inspiration. I've always felt pity for the sonata, not having any words explaining the beautiful notes it was conveying. Thankfully, the long-gone composer can rest easy, knowing that somepony was using his work to express what he couldn’t.

Curious when the critiques were about to begin, I looked up to see how many others have entered the room. But I immediately slammed my notebook shut when I noticed somepony had been standing in front of me with their eyes trying to find mine.

“No need to act skittish, Songbird,” Feather Wand said, flashing an amused smile. “It’s just me.” Even though he and I knew each other, that didn’t mean I was comfortable with him catching a glimpse of my work. Feather was objectively the best poet in the club, even though most believed High Dive’s writing was superior. Too bad they had crummy opinions. Feather Wand was more than just a poet; he was a composer. The stallion was a well-known pianist that wrote his own music with lyrics. He was also in my choir class, so if I knew anypony who had a great singing voice, it was Feather. There was a small amount of envy to be had every time I saw, heard, and even talked to him. Again, I wished I was a unicorn and wanted to use magic to absorb his natural talent for writing musical pieces. But alas, I was cursed to fly.

“An artist who wishes to remain anonymous may be a little unsure about how they feel when others know their identity,” I argued, though I managed to smile. “Unlike me, you like to let others know what poem you wrote.”

“I prefer a more up-front approach,” Feather said. “Ponies can point to exactly what I messed up on.”

I shrugged, “Not everypony is as confident as you are.”

My inspiration rose his brow, “Says the best singer in the class.”

Even though I like to talk Feather, I did not feel like I deserved any praise from him. “All I do is read what’s on the music sheet and move my voice up and down.”

One small frown from Feather was enough to deflate my mood. “Don’t cut yourself too low,” he said with a shake of the head. “Otherwise, you won’t grow leaves and end up a stump.” Feather gave up the effort to try and catch my irises and straightened himself. “I just wanted to see if you would try and show me what you’ve written.”

“No no no,” I stuttered, my hoof locking down on my notebook, afraid he would make a grab for it. “I'm not ready. Besides, it's nothing great.”

The poetic stallion slowly spun around, his tail and mane swaying like the tall figurative tree that he was. “You have greatness, Songbird. Give yourself some pride.” A pony entered the classroom and Feather went over to greet her.

My mind was taken away from the beautiful figurative language impromptu. If I would have tried to muster up something as wonderful as what Feather had said about leaves and being a stump, I would have lost control of my creativity and forget how to properly speak. I wanted to like my work and have his pride. But the criticism against myself and the feedback the other poets return to me is like… stone slabs cemented to my hooves and… I tried to swim with those stone slabs. It did amaze me to know how far I have come along in the club without giving up, but I feared that the stone slabs may finally drown me. I could only pray to Celestia that the critique would be a pleasant one; or at least not end up like my last poem.

“Alright, everypony,” Mr. Aileron spoke at the front of the classroom, silencing the chattering ponies, “I think it is a good time to begin our session.” Those who were standing took the nearest desk to them and sat down. The closest pony to me was was three desks away, but kept her attention to the teacher. Safe from wandering eyes, my poetic notebook once again opened.

Roll call was the first order of business as it has been for two months. After a short two minutes of calling out our names, Mr. Aileron asked the club members if they had any questions regarding anything related to poetry or the club itself. The first question that was obviously on everypony’s mind, including myself, was what the “special event” was all about. However, the teacher was very mute on the subject and addressed that it would be announced at the end of critiques. This caused the members to mumble to themselves, trying to guess what was in store for them. Being alone in my corner, I was left to assume there might be a famous poet coming to the campus. As for other questions, one asked if somepony could critique their newest poem that involved bears. I would have suggested myself to try and help, but peer to peer interactions was not something I was comfortable with. If I were to try and help a poet in need with their creation, they might ask about my works and try to see my private projects. Somepony did eventually offer their services to aid the poem about carnivorous beasts. A few simple questions followed the bear admirer which resulted in simple responses.

We jumped straight into critiquing poems with no delay once the q and a was concluded. On Thursday, the others and I can turn in our pieces to Mr. Aileron at any point of the day, either by turning it into him personally, to his desk at the office, or after the club. The only way to distinguish one poet from another was a number randomly given to each member. Also, the numbers were changed every week. This helped keep ponies, like me, anonymous. If the numbers did stay with the same pony, others might see a pattern and call out specific numbers when they detected a familiar style. A genius system set up by Mr. Aileron.

My number for the week was 17. The previous was 13, and with the superstition following such a numerator, my poem met an unlucky predicament. I hoped 17 would bare a much more fortunate outcome. Just as the numbers given out, Mr. Aileron called out each number at random. 14 was the first one on the chopping block, which fared well and even I gave it my two bits. 13, the unlucky number following its older sibling, did not do as well as the first but was not terrible. I chewed on my tongue, wondering why the merciless number 13 shed mercy on another but tore my poem to pieces. I hated myself for wanting harm to fall upon another classmate all because of a random number… Maybe I did deserve the criticism given to me.

2. 9. 10. 4. Each went by with speedy discussion as if the world wanted to hurry to my poem. And to my great horror, Mr. Aileron called my number so early in the session. “Alright, Number 17, you are barely illegal to not have a curfew...” The class laughed at our instructor’s joke; I tried to laugh along with them but ended up sounding a lot more sarcastic than true. Thankfully, I had my mane to guard my eyes. But I was sure I was blushing and somepony would have seen it if they faced me. “...but I am sure you still have time to have your poem reviewed.” Something inside my heart almost spoke up, revealing my identity to the entire club members. I shut up the temptation by biting down on my lip. Mr. Aileron held my thin child in his hooves, peering down at it with judgemental eyes. But he didn’t falter for very long and he began, “Forest Lake, by Number 17..."

“A white ball up high

Reflects light off the lake.

Darkness below,

The fish always quiver.

A nat taps the

Surface and disturbs

The watery blanket,

Sending small waves.

Tall pines reach

For the moon

As if tricked by the light,

Thinking it be the sun.

The chirp of a cricket

Sings the chorus

Of the forest night,

Never allowing silence.”

The instructor bowed his head, indicating to the others he had concluded 17’s poem, and the classroom of pegasi clapped. I had to clap as well to hide that my work was being presented. The entire time Mr. Aileron spoke each line, I couldn’t breathe. Heart pounding in my throat, I manage to swallow it so I could reobtain the ability to use my lungs again.

“Alright,” Mr. Aileron clapped his hooves together, “Shall we begin with our first question: What is this poem trying to accomplish?” I quickly raise my hoof, eager to confess the meaning of my poem. “Yes, Songbird Serenade?”

Most ponies turned around to see me answer, including Feather. I glance down at my original copy of my own story, having the answer written. “The poem is trying to explain the activities that happen in the night at a forest lake.”

“Well, you are explaining what is happening in the poem,” the teacher began. “However, do you know what the poem is trying to convey?”

Anger took hold of my hoof as the pen ran a line across my preemptive answer. And I felt like an idiot. “It’s… trying to express how lively night times can be?”

“Hmm… Being unsure about what a poem is trying to represent might be a bad sign for it already,” Mr. Aileron said.

My eyes began to hurt. Already, the frustration began to eat away at me. I would have thought of a creative analogy to explain what was consuming my well-being, but my creative drive started to come to a slow stop.

I didn’t want anypony else to respond to question one. But to my displeasure and great humility, Feather spoke up, “The fish, nat, and cricket represent ponies who work in the night.” Feather’s detailed answer was not something I was expecting, but I was blown away by the response. I only hoped others would feel the same way about my accidental meaning. Some did, some had their own personal suggestion. As for my own personal thought, my feelings for my poem began to suffer.

“Now, let’s talk about what you liked and disliked,” Mr. Aileron proclaimed. “Remember, if you have one negative thing to say, have something positive. No matter how bad poem may be, there is always a redeeming quality. And for every good poem, there is always something that needs to be improved on.”

There was a rising urge to raise my hoof and simply say it just sucked overall. However, despite my poem being as terrible as it was, the practice of outright hating somepony’s work was like a taboo. Like Mr. Aileron had said before, “No matter how bad a poem may be, there is always a redeeming quality.” I could only sit in my chair and hope judgment was not going to be a cruel mistress.

As if he was trying to single me out, Feather rose his hoof first to give his feedback. I held the pen to my paper, waiting to note the stallion’s credible words. “I absolutely love the cricket’s conclusion to the poem. Number 17, well done.” A black circle surrounded my last stanza as I wrote, “He loved it!” Little hearts and stars began to litter themselves around the words I wrote.

“As for my unfortunate criticism…” The doodling of happy shapes came to a stop and I had to turn my head a little to see Feather through the crack of my bangs. “...I don't see the point of the third stanza. The pine trees throw off the flow of the poem. I would have stayed with the theme of using small creatures. I already know the setting is in a forest. There is no need to explain the trees.”

“I agree,” Drizzle interjected. “Also, the title tells us what to expect in the poem. Nothing surprised me or popped out.” An “x” was slashed across the third part of my poem while a line carved itself along my lousy title. I have done that mistake before but somehow keep falling prey to it.

“But there must be something good about it.” Mr. Aileron said with a raised brow. “Feather Wand found several. And now that you said there were two things you didn't like, I require you to find two things you do like.” The entire classroom laughed at Drizzle as she was thrown the spotlight. Yeah, find something great about my poem, I thought with bitter intention.

A minute of awkward silence dangled over Drizzle’s head before she finally had an answer. “The cricket chorus is very clever.”

“And?”

“And… umm…” Some of Drizzle’s friends gave her friendly pushes of encouragement, egging her to muster up another response. “I liked the fish as well. It explains that there are many things that lurk in the darkness.”

I would have preferred an immediate answer, but Drizzle’s second remark did make me like the fish under the lake a little more. The rest of the club members seemed to really love the last stanza. And with each compliment my cricket received, another heart and star surrounded the four-lined paragraph. But every other criticism created more blows to my pride. Why does the moon exist? Why does the poem explain every detail the nat was doing?

The worst input of all was when High Dive’s criticism came to light. “What was the point of the poem?” she asked with no harsh tone in her voice. If there was one pony who would give somepony the best and harshest critique, it would be her. “I'm being explained the scene of a lake at night. I can hear and see each image, and can almost feel the warm humidity of a summer’s evening.”

I looked down at my notebook, witnessing the slaughter of “Forest Lake” by my own hoof. Aside from the various insults littering my paper, long detailed notes were inscribed along the open spaces. It brought me great pain to write down every word my classmates had mentioned, but I might as well take note as to why my poem was terrible.

“It's just like what Songbird Serenade said,” High Dive continued. The mention of my name almost made me run out of the classroom. I thought I had been found out. But my fears dissolved when High Dive resumed, “she explained what the poem was doing but wasn't sure what the poem was expressing.” The fact that even I didn't know what my poem meant was a terrible sign of a failed piece.

“Anypony else have anymore words they wish to add?” the teacher asked, and I hoped no more words would be shared about my ugly work. Thankfully, nopony spoke another word. “Well then, time for our final question: does the poem succeed in what it is trying to convey?”

Even if anypony had some sense of sympathy for Number 17’s poem, not a single hoof was raised. Not even my own.

The rest of the critiques continued at a steady pace, but I was resistant to join in. Not even Feather Wand’s poem brought me to involve myself in praising him. Feather did say his number was 3, so everypony knew he was the stallion behind “Permanent Sand Line.” It was beautiful, and he even managed to sing it. But the more attention and positivity he received, the more jealousy began to corrupt my soul.

After Number 20 had their fill of positive and negative responses, Mr. Aileron jumped right into another topic. “Well, I think it is safe to say we all have had a successful critique session.” The only success my poem had was its amazing description of explaining a forest lake. “Now, onto the special event I have planned.” The teenage pegasi all clamped their mouths shut, eager to hear what was in store for us.

“Now, since we have all been here for two whole months, I think it would be best to try something new.” A wave of murmurs swept across the classroom. All I could do was hum to myself in curiosity. “Next Friday, we are going to the theater to act out our poems.” A wave of “ooo’s” following more chatter echoed off the walls. Acting was something I would not mind doing. Heck, various times have I been able to gain major roles in several plays before. But something made me uneasy about what Mr. Aileron said. “Our poems.” Will we be taking somepony else’s poem and act it out?

A clap of the hooves brought everypony’s attention back to the teacher. “What I would like for everypony to do before next Friday is to get their best poem and practice acting it out.” My stomach dropped a few inches, not liking Mr. Aileron’s plan one single bit. “In one week, we are all going onstage to become storytellers. This will be an excellent exercise to help visualize what your poem makes you do. Of course, you can revise any poem we have critiqued or even come up with something new. You can collaborate with others or be independent. But keep this in mind: you will be presenting your own work. Also, for those of you who wish to stay anonymous…” I had a strong sense that Mr. Aileron was directing his attention to me. “...this exercise will force you to open up and share with the class one of your poems. Nopony is required to act. But if you wish to be successful in your poetry, it is good for others to know about you. It may make you uncomfortable, yes, but keep in mind that we are all here to help one another.”

The only thing I wanted to help myself to was the door. And that's exactly what I did.

Comments

[Doctor Disco]

This has potential, the characterisations are fantastic, and the pacing is wonderful.

But I honestly just don't see how Serenade could be this critical of her work. Yes, we are our own critics, especially us who write our own songs, but there is a point where it begins to stretch into the unbelievable.

A habit like this, of crushing your own works and being insecure of them, would stretch well past into your later life, and more so at Serenade's rate. Yes, she seems confident in what few scenes we've garnered, but she could at least be happy about a select few of her poems, not none of them.

But I also like how, since this is through Serenade's eyes, that she only seems to really see the negative comments, never truly noticing the positive. And when she does, it seems to be short lived. I like that little detail. We are always a little more critical of our personal works than others would be.

I also like how her shyness is portrayed. It isn't the typical kind of shyness. She actually is just slightly disassociated with everyone, but her actual shyness comes from sharing any of her works. She isn't shy with people. She's shy with sharing. That's good.

Of course, I still have the nitpick about her being so self-destructive with all her work, which is just a tad far-fetched. Especially someone who radiates confidence like her in the few scenes we've got of her.

Other than that, (very constructive criticism, take it with grain of salt), the quality of this is very good, with only few grammatical errors. I like it a lot. I'll be looking forward to updates!

[FerociousCreation]

8463822 Holy crap, someone posted actual criticism! I may not know how to respond to it! D:
Really though, thank you for taking the time out of your day to read my story and give your thoughts about it.

Glad to know my pacing is good and the characterizations are enjoyable. I am not surprised that you would question the over exaggeration of Songbird and her bitter criticism. Trust me, I was aware this would most likely be mentioned. In her defense for her behavior, MLPFim has extream over exaggerations of character tropes. I do not know anyone who is as bombastic as Pinkie Pie. When I write my stories, I try my best to stay close to the show's premise/style, while putting my own twist on it. However, that does not excuse super unrealistic characterizations, so I can see why you would say that.

As for her poems, its the criticism that makes Songbird dislike them. Whenever I got criticism on other stories I had completed, I began to hate them. But as time went on, I saw the error of my distane. All I can say about her behavior is to just read and see.

Now onto the more liked bits, you appreciated:

It gives me great pleasure to know that what I was portraying as "shy" Songbird was interpreted in the way I was hoping. I didn't want her to start off by saying, "I have no friends," or, "nopony understands me." Pitty party stories like that are just... ugh. I wanted to give a mix of yes, feeling sorry for the main character BUT focusing more on relating to Songbird. We all receive criticism and it can hit us hard when there is more negative than positive. Heck, even when I saw your long comment, I got a bit nervous because everything you said was how you felt.

To conclude with your last returning thought to Songbird's negativity, I can agree that it is a bit over the top. Finding that ceiling to where it is not unbelievable is difficult. Your feedback about her bitterness will help me in the long run by helping me not make EVERYTHING such a mess for a character and give them a few redeeming/good attributes.

The smallest advice can bear the most weight.

So, I thank you for taking the time to look over my story, give your two bits, and for looking forward to what is to come. Lucky for you, I plan on finishing this story before the movie premieres. I want to catch the moment before all the Songbird fics come along. And I expect a lot of Songbird/Coloratura romance fics up the wazu...

Thanks again and enjoy what is to come.