Summary: Vincent Alcott never gave up trying to be a successful writer.
Written for lucathia_rykatu as a yuletide treat.
The character is from chapter 11, or the 11th episode in the first season.
Never Give Up
By Dark Ice Dragon
Vincent Alcott never gave up trying to be a successful writer. The list of rejections got longer and longer with every passing month, but he never gave up. He was disheartened, of course, after every one, but he would shake his head and pick his much-abused feathered-pen, dipping it in the stained ink-pot and then begin writing once again. He would be successful. He would.
He tried different genres, different styles. He planned in advance; he wrote whatever came to mind.
Rejection, after rejection, after rejection, after rejection.
His home was littered with balls of scrapped paper, and his collections of books grew even more as he tried to see why those stories were successful. Little by little, Vincent started to see what the differences were between his and their stories and he began to incorporate them in to his own, testing them out.
He still received rejections, but there was a tentative acceptance to them, offering small feedback, rather than a slam in the face.
He took those suggestions to heart, changing what he could in his future stories, learning more about how to make his story better. Still the rejections rained on him, but he never gave up.
One day, a letter arrived at his door, from his mother. He stared at the envelope in the lamplight, scared of what it might contain. Was there something wrong? Had something happened? Or was it something else? What if she thought she had wasted her money on getting him an education? His imagination started to take hold, and he shook his head, the candle on his desk flickering, even while protected by glass.
He mother had taken the time to write him a letter, and had used her much needed money to send it to him; the least he could do was open it and read what she had to tell him.
When he opened the envelope, Vincent was hit by a variety of smells of his home that he hadn't realised he'd forgotten and sorely missed, too focused on trying to be successful, on not making his mother worry. The letter carried with it the hint of a baked apple pie, of the hedychium flowers that his mother adored and always had at least one vase of in the house, and of her. He took a moment just to savour the wash of memories that those scents evoked, seeing the characters on the page, but not reading them, not yet.
With old memories now fresh in his mind, Vincent looked to the stop of the page and started reading.
'Dear Vincent,' it began, his mother's handwriting as familiar to him as his own,
'I hope that this letter finds you safe and well.' He glanced around himself, at the pile of dirty plates that had been sitting on that shelf for days now, at the cracked window panes, at the peeling paint, and at the bare patches of wall where the plaster had fallen. He hunched his shoulders and continued reading.
'I received your latest letter from the youngest Letter Bee I have ever seen, but he was absolutely determined to make sure that your letter arrived safely to me, no matter what harm came to him.' 'The youngest Letter Bee'? Vincent had to think back before it came to him. The one that had berated him loudly for lying in his letters? That Letter Bee?
'I know that Letter Bees are special, willing to traverse across the land with so much danger in their paths, but this little Letter Bee was even more special than the previous Letter Bees; he showed me the heart buried within your letter-' Vincent's hands were trembling by then, making it harder to read his mother's words, his eyes wide in disbelief. What had that Letter Bee done? He didn't want his mother to know how his life was faring; he didn't want to worry her, not after everything she'd done for him!
'and I am so glad to see that you're still writing and haven't given up hope.' His hands stilled and he stared, dumbfounded, at the crisp paper in front of him. She wasn't worried? But he hadn't been published, and he was only scraping by, sometimes having to choose between food or paper; he always chose paper, when it came to that.
'I know that you will be successful one day, and I will always support your dream.' There were tears forming in Vincent's eyes and he scrubbed at them with the back of an arm, before they fell and marred what was written before he read it.
'If you see that Letter Bee again, could you please thank him again once more for me, for delivering such a wonderful letter?' Vincent nodded silently, the paper shaking again.
'I love you. Always remember that. Mother.'
He re-read the letter a few more times, feeling lighter every time, before he carefully placed it back in its envelope and then got up to stash it away in his bedside-table, alongside the other items of great importance to him. Every letter his mother had ever sent him was kept in a tiny, neat bundle there, tucked into a corner; beside that was a sheaf of papers, holding a few of the ideas that he had always constantly thought about, but never properly put to paper, because he didn't want those to be rejected either, not when he was so close to them; the rest of the drawer was filled with gifts he'd received from his small number of friends.
He pulled out the stack of letters and gently undid the bow across them, laying the most recent letter on top. After making sure that the edges were lined up with each other, Vincent tied them together again. Putting the letters back in place, Vincent paused as his hand brushed against the papers filled with unrealised ideas.
'Maybe…' he thought, hesitating, still looking at the pile of papers. 'Maybe I should use one of these.' There wasn't any point in them sitting in a drawer in a house if he wanted them to be read.
Nodding decisively, Vincent picked up the papers and took them back to his desk. After reading through his assortment of scribbles, he finally picked one of the premises that seemed the most relevant to what he wanted to do. Then he was left with a blank piece of paper and a full inkpot staring at him from the desk. It took Vincent only two seconds of staring back before he snatched his pen up and began frantically pouring the words on to the page as they came to him.
The paper and desk became stained by ink-spots that had flown while he'd been writing in a frenzy, but he ignored them in favour of translating the images in his mind to the words on the paper, the pen dancing around the spots when it came across them.
He eventually had to stop though, exhaustion and hunger distracting him too much. There was also the fact that he didn't know enough. He had the setting, some ideas of a plot, and some of the minor characters, but not much on the protagonist, or what would make them stand out. The page was lined with scored out words, phrases and paragraphs of when he had tried to make the character come to him.
Just before Vincent collapsed onto his thin bed with ratty covers, the sun peeking through the blinds, he told himself that he would begin his research as soon as he woke up.
He fell asleep instantly.
* * *
The next afternoon, Vincent woke up, huddling back under the blanket for a scant second before he comprehended he was even awake. When the realisation filtered through, it cleared his foggy mind in an instant. He tumbled out of bed, dashing to change his clothes and to get a bite to eat and as soon as he was ready, he raced outside, a pile of papers in his old, beaten-up bag, alongside the ink-pot and pen.
He started his research by going around the city, trying to think of the buildings under a new light, just looking to see how things workedbefore he decided how to bend them. After that, Vincent went around asking questions to anyone who would talk to him. A lot of the time, he was ignored when he approached someone, but he was already used to that kind of reaction from publishers, so he didn't let that get him down, continuing on from every turned shoulder, every snort of laughter or raised eyebrow. Because there were people who were willing to talk to him, some for one minute, others for ten, others still for an hour, and that gave him the hope of that also happening in his writing, that there would be people who would want to publish him, willing to give him that chance.
Finally, he came across a Letter Bee, her blue uniform bright against the shadowed backdrop of the city, her dingo looking like a miniature griffon. She saw him approach, her dingo seeing him first, raising its head and staring at him. Vincent didn't let that deter him.
"Do you have a few minutes to spare of your time to answer a few of my questions?"
The Letter Bee looked torn, biting her lip, and then down at her bulging bag. She ducked her head, her bushy, black hair covering her face for a second. "I'm sorry, but I'm really busy at the moment. Is it about something really specific or…?"
He scratched his head. "I wanted to ask you about you job."
She blinked at that, eyes sliding away from as she thought. "Have you tried going to the Bee Hive? There'll be lots of Bees there who have come back from deliveries; I'm sure there'll be some who are willing to talk to you."
His eyes lit up, and he smiled widely at her. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that? His mind buzzed as he tried to think of what questions exactly to ask them and he waved at her as he dashed away.
"Thank you! Be careful while making your deliveries!"
* * *
Vincent had only ever been to the Bee Hive to ask for a Bee to pick up his letters; he'd never looked that much further in to it, or the people who worked there. He could see a lot of the blue uniforms and such a huge variety of dingoes, Vincent gave in and took out his paper and began scribbling what he could. Colours, sizes, what made them different from other dingoes, what made them similar…
While he was doing that, one Bee, a portly one who was carrying a dog on his back, came over to ask what he was doing.
"Well, I'm trying to write a book," he began, wondering why the Bee was carrying his dingo, "and I'm researching information I can use for it."
"Really? Hm…" The Bee looked around before shrugging, the dog still snoozing soundly. "I have some spare time right now, if you-"
"Ah! Really? Thank you!" Vincent scrabbled for a spare piece of paper and nearly spilled his inkpot in the process. "I don't think I'll take up much of your time."
The Bee smiled at him, settling down next to him after putting his dog on the ground. "I don't mind," he said as he pulled out a sandwich from his bag. It was a big one, filled with things like lettuce and meat and Vincent's mouth watered at the sight and smell of it, being hit by the reminder of the fact that he hadn't eaten all day, apart from the dry piece of bread when he'd woken up.
At that exact moment, Vincent's stomach decided to rumble loudly, and he chuckled weakly at the Bee, hoping that he'd pretend that he hadn't heard it. The Bee didn't do that - instead, he offered Vincent his sandwich.
He stared at it, the tantalising smell wafting right up his nose, not helping his hunger pangs whatsoever. "Oh, I couldn't – that's your food." Even while he said that, his stomach growled again and he winced.
"It's okay; I've got more." True to his word, the Bee pulled out another sandwich, exactly the same as the one in his other hand. "I'm always hungry so I carry a lot of food with me."
Hesitantly, Vincent took the sandwich and took a bite. He sighed, eyelids lowering as he leaned back on the chair. It tasted so good after everything else he'd been having for the last couple of months. After the first bite, he took it slowly, not sure if his stomach could even handle anything like this anymore.
"So, what is it that you want to ask?"
His cheeks reddened when he realised that he'd been eating the sandwich in silence and he cleared his throat, rubbing a hand over his hair. "Right, um." Vincent picked up the papers on his lap, dusting his hands free of some of the crumbs, and then asked his first question.
* * *
It came to him afterwards, that maybe he should use the Letter Bee that had started all this in his novel, as a way of thanking him. Maybe even make him the protagonist. Hmm… Vincent walked down the street, the idea forming in his mind. Yes, that could really work. And then he was running, running to get back to his house, to jot down every little thing as it came to him before it slipped through his fingers.
* * *
Vincent didn't know how long it had been -days, weeks, or months- but it'd been a while since he'd started writing before he sat back, exhausted but supremely happy. It was finally finished, after all the work that he'd put in to it.
This, this would get published. He was sure of it.
But it needed a name, a title.
It only took a few short minutes of thought before he decided. It was short, simple, and it encompassed everything that happened in it.
'Letter Bee'.