As a writer, I’ve always believed I owe my readers and fellow dreamers my best — not perfection, but presence. The care to craft something alive, with color and heart. That’s the standard I hold myself to.
But I stumbled recently during the Running of the Leaves event. There was a moment in play — a light exchange with a batpony — where I said something along the lines of, “Luna said batponies were refined, elegant, and graceful. You are none of those things.”
Written out like that, without tone or breath, it reads sharper than it was ever meant to. The truth is, it was meant as teasing — a bit of friendly banter between equals. What I’d intended as playful wit landed instead as a barb. The emotion behind it never made it to the page.
It’s a simple mistake, one born of haste. I’d written between duties, rushing to stay part of a moment I didn’t want to miss. And in that rush, I forgot that words without tone can become their own kind of weapon.
I worry I soured the air of the scene. The story fell quiet afterward, and though I know these things happen in shared spaces, I can’t shake the feeling that I was the one who tilted the balance. I hate that. I never want my words to wound where they are meant to welcome.
Still, this is what writing teaches — that even missteps have lessons. Slow down. Let the heart speak as much as the mind. And remember that tone, like magic, lives in the pauses as much as in the prose. To @Nitobit, I apologize with all the care in my heart.
Until next time,
- Dusk "Lily" Haven
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