Timeframe: Ben is in his mid to late 20's
Characters: Ben, Luke, Mara... possible others
Summary: Ben has a case of DarthWriters Block!
Author's Note: This was a response to a challenge over at TFN and was stemmed from my case of DWB! The challenge was... write
a story about an adult Ben who had continued to deny the Force. It had
to include the words: sobriquet, scion, aberrabt, and felicity.
It was supposed to be a one-shot but I was convensed to write more so... this will eventually be a short story.
Ben Skywalker had long ago given up the Force, refusing to follow in his parents foot steps claiming all it ever did was bring them trouble. Writing was something he had loved to do since he was very small. It brought him felicity, where there was only pain in the Force. For the longest of times he thought that writing would only be a pastime, something he could use as a release from real life, until a friend found a book he had been writing. This friend convinced him to find a publisher, that he could do what he loved for a living. Figuring he had nothing to lose, he did just that.
After months and months of rejection, Ben had all but given up hope when one small company decided to give an unknown a try; something they would not regret. He didn't use his real name when writing because he wanted to make it on his own, without his father's name to help him.
The holo novel, Killer's Quest, was the story of a man who had turned into a ruthless murderer, killing his friends, family, and countless others all for what he thought was a noble cause. But, as it turned out, his better galaxy didn't happen quite the way he planned it. In the end, he realized this and gave his life to try and make amends for all that he had done.
Now, Ben sat at his desk, pondering what to write. Since Killer's Quest, had hit the Corellian Times Best Seller List, his publisher had been begging for more. A sequel.
I have no clue what to write about he thought to himself. The only real character has been killed off, what more is there to write?
He had to get an idea quickly, for his deadline was fast approaching. He knew this wouldn't have been as big of a problem if he hadn't procrastinated by writing something else for several weeks, but the lack of ideas had discouraged him.
Well, you did have that one idea, but it's probably not such a good one.
As his pondering continued, a beeping came from his comm. He decided that if it was important they would leave a message; he continued to get nothing done.
"Flamer!" the sobriquet his publisher had given him due to his flaming red hair, came over the comm as a message was being left. "You had better not be answering this cause you are so deep into your writing that you didn't even hear the comm, or you're dead," he yelled with sarcasm evident in the tone of his voice. "Seriously," his voice sobered, "you've got a deadline soon, buddy. I hope you're close to being done!"
Seeing as inspiration was not coming and figuring he had no choice in the matter, he began to work on his idea from earlier: the one that didn't seem like the best of ideas.
But, where to begin?
Deciding a change might help get the creative juices flowing, he decided to return to his old aberrant ways of writing from when he was young. Grabbing a pillow from his couch and some flimsiplast from his desk, he climbed under his desk.
It might seem strange that a grown man was lying beneath a piece of furniture, but it seemed to be just what he needed. The words started to flow out of his head and onto the flimsi like a river flowing downhill. The trouble was getting them written down before the idea had vanished and his brain had moved on.
Several days of practically no sleep, very little to eat, and many cups of caf later, Scion of History was finished.
It was a story of the killer's son, whom he didn't know existed until shortly before his death. In fact, it is found out that the true way he died was to save his son's life, thus helping to restore the galaxy to its proper order.
Basically, it was the story of his father's life, with a few minor details rearranged. Unfortunately, it was close enough to the truth that his family would see the uncanny similarity. This was something they probably wouldn't be very thrilled about, but at this point, he had no choice; his deadline was today.
After comming his publisher and sending him the draft, Ben decided he had better go ahead and send a warning. He keyed in the frequency from memory and waited for the familiar face to pop up...
"Dad, I'm sorry..."