My lying pages. (Anthology Speed-writing!)

by PacifistDoodl3r

9 And now, the inevitable format vent. |January 22. 2023|

"It's just... I— who even..." The peach coloured mare used a hoof to strain her hair out of frustration. "Is there a computer physicist that can teach me how to format like that?" She scoffed, rolled her brownie kissed eyes, then opened a new tab. "I've been E-writing long enough! Why isn't this 7 on my side!?"

[How to format a letter within a story online]🔎

She searched. All that popped up were unrelated videos about "Becoming A Better Writer" and the sort. After three minutes of clicking on answers leading to nowhere, her stomach grumbled. Defeated, the mare went back to her half-typed document. The blinking line edged her to just let it go and use center paragraphing like she had always done. But something snapped within her.

It was a typical Tuesday morning in the bright and sunny Maretime Bay like no other. At least she felt that way until a trip to Daggertales.net wormed its way into her agenda. That featured tab within the website caused the mare to roll her eyes. Being alone and craving attention choked her with each passing day as an attempt at noticeability was made. Yes, these attempts were indeed in vain.

HoofyClouds. A username she had given herself years ago. There was a dream once upon a time to write stories to inspire and bring the spirits up for others... but she was too quiet. It wasn't the reader nor the other souls on the internet at fault— this invisibility was clearly all her doing. If she'd just reach out and meet people. If people actually liked her, maybe somepony would be willing to help.

"Edited by..." jabs at her very being. Seeing that another author had been lucky enough for an able hoof to care about their work slashed at a heart which hung from a thread. Chocolate eyes drifted across the computer screen, bubbling with resentment. All those likes and comments compared to her wasteland of a profile. It was lonely. What made matters worse was the fact she actually adored these new stories that gained attention. They were mostly about the fiction or historical fiction based loosely on Equestria many centuries ago. Ever since magic returned, there had been an interest spike on the past. Maybe she should write something relating to old Equestria like everyone else?

No. That wouldn't be unique. This website encourages originality but every time she'd publish something nobody has ever thought of... It gets ignored. Hours of writing just for her pieces to get overlooked... It hurts.

The mare was back in the present with her eyes still glued to the blinking line. What point was it to beat herself up over something so frivolous? That other voice from nowhere silently whispered,

”Try again.”

Those two words sounded so vague. Try what again? Rewriting the entire story? Create a new account and write anonymously? She feared no matter the choice, it'd always end up with her write back where she started. Alone, in an empty house staring at a bright computer screen. Again, some other worldly voice from her psyche returned.

”Try again. Write from the heart. Fluff the format.”

With such profanity, this voice had to be listened to. Maybe it was right? This formatting isn't everything. It was just a stupid white line that others put in to show quality. Why not make her own quality?

“Nooo! No— I WILL learn how to do this!” She spat as many examples of such formal letter formatting struck like lighting. However, this silly apparition seemed to be amused by her determination.

”That so?” It spoke with little emotion. Almost robot-like.

“S-shayyt uup!” She hissed at the thing that appeared. It was there. And it slowly shook its head in disapproval. Whatever it was, seemed to enjoy her struggle. At least, it would appear so.

”You'll never make it to the popular section if with this attitude. So paathetique!” It chuckled. It saw as the computer went into sleep mode and turned off.

What stared back at her was... herself. Beneath the unapproachable mare and sadness that consumed... despite being disliked and soon to be forgotten... it was her. Whatever got the lone writer to this point had been nothing but herself. She deeply sighed then took one last look at the pony who kept her company. The chair legs screeched. Tired eyes took notice of a white little bird on her windowsill. It had a hat on? Quite strange.

“What am I even doing ‘ere? Feeling surrey for myself... I can write. But— but they can write better.” She grumbled as the sentence faded under her breath.

”Pegasi can fly.” Commented the voice.

“Yeah? so?”

”And that doesn't really bother you, does it? You can't do magic like the others but you're okay with that. Right?” It continued to speak as she got up from the chair.

“But that isn't skill based— that's something physical. These authors can format betta’ than I can. Some even have editors who support them. I'm royally screwed.” The door swung open, leading to the barren living room connected to a small kitchen.

”You've made it this far without using the the fancy letter format. I won't leave until you agree it's just a cosmetic white line.”

“True. That is true, however, I hafta’ show quality by learning how to format like that! Geez, it looks so easy but complicated. What does typing a 7 have to do with this? I'm gonna... I feel so—” She closed her eyes as the refrigerator opened. The mare opened a bottle of orange juice, chugging it until it burned her tongue. Only after it was nearly empty, she placed it back into her fridge with guilt painted eyes.

”Feel better?” It asked her moments later.

“... I still don't know how to format a letta’ like those seasoned typers. My juice... basically outta’ juice too.” A huff exhaled from her nose, purring from a frowning muzzle.

”Go back on the document and try writing a poem. Just do it while trying out the other two format options.” Said the voice in a contrasting tone.

“Why? In the middle of the story? Makes no sense, to me. Can't I just make anotha’ document or somethin’?” Despite the question, she walked back to the computer. For a split second, a flowery smell with an aged tint of sweat had met her nose once she entered the room.

With a slight nudge of the mouse, everything sparked to life again. A screensaver showing a stallion with an arm around her waist appeared before the tab with the document loaded in. And then she started to type a poem.

”Some days I just allow the sleepiness to take me. Some days I just want someone to see me.
Here I am, wishing for a natural disaster to transpire. Since I'm easily disappointed, there is nothing I desire.
Cut me, drown me, make me feel worthless. I'd take any attention for life to make sense.
They were there all of my life, and now I am barely surviving. I forgot my name and wish I were crying.
That itch helps. The stitch that threads together my need to create. It keeps me sane while also being my bane.
Nobody is here to see whatever I make become new.
I miss being told, ‘bless you’.”

“Is that good?” She asked the voice but garnered no response. “I— I guess I'll run it though the two other formats...” her voice trailed, unimpressed with the words written down.

“Some days I just allow the sleepiness to take me. Some days I just want someone to see me.
Here I am, wishing for a natural disaster to transpire. Since I'm easily disappointed, there is nothing I desire.
Cut me, drown me, make me feel worthless. I'd take any attention for life to make sense.
They were there all of my life, and now I am barely surviving. I forgot my name and wish I were crying.
That itch helps. The stitch that threads together my need to create. It keeps me sane while also being my bane.
Nobody is here to see whatever I make become new.
I miss being told, ‘bless you’.”

And then, she repeated the process of copy and pasting the words.

”Some days I just allow the sleepiness to take me. Some days I just want someone to see me. Here I am, wishing for a natural disaster to transpire. Since I'm easily disappointed, there is nothing I desire. Cut me, drown me, make me feel worthless. I'd take any attention for life to make sense. They were there all of my life, and now I am barely surviving. I forgot my name and wish I were crying. That itch helps. The stitch that threads together my need to create. It keeps me sane while also being my bane. Nobody is here to see whatever I make become new. I miss being told, ‘bless you’.”

And then, finally, the centre formatting.

“Some days I just allow the sleepiness to take me. Some days I just want someone to see me.
Here I am, wishing for a natural disaster to transpire. Since I'm easily disappointed, there is nothing I desire.
Cut me, drown me, make me feel worthless. I'd take any attention for life to make sense.
They were there all of my life, and now I am barely surviving. I forgot my name and wish I were crying.
That itch helps. The stitch that threads together my need to create. It keeps me sane while also being my bane.
Nobody is here to see whatever I make become new.
I miss being told, ‘bless you’.”

The thought of seeing the missing white line running alongside the words pestered her again. As badly as she wanted to scream into her pillow for not knowing how to format professionally... this poem spoke to her. Would it be any different feeling with that fancy letter formatting?

Closed eyes caused these thoughts to grow! and Grow! But her stylized type of writing made her stand out. Yes, these authors know something she doesn't and it will hurt to witness something professionally made... but this poem was beautiful. No format can change this feeling of accomplishment.

Minutes had passed and that blinking bar stayed put. Eyes like freshly cooked brownies contemplated something.

The voice came back.

Author's Note:

Something needed to be written to express my frustration over this. I may never, truly, get rid of that voice in my head showing a little jealousy towards those who know how to format professionally but I think focusing on what I know how to do and expanding on it will make me equally happy. Technically, this is my first Gen 5 fic on here and I have no idea who this OC is. If you know how to...
🌫Do
🌫Something
🌫Like
🌫This
🌫Or whatever...
good for you. That is very neat! How amazing. Cool ability you can show off. I need some time to cope with this. Excuse me.

edit: I'm confused— how did it do that? That first written rendition of the poem undermines this whole story. I need ice cream and to cuddle my stuffed animals... all of them. Yes, all of them.