Every start is fraught with difficulties, and Shawn O'Pear was as much prone to experiencing downfalls as his predecessor, Shakespeare was. However, while my troubles as Shakespeare ended the moment I became Shawn, that was the day troubles started for him, the unknown author, unrecognized by the world.

I was so much in a habit of being praised, recognized wherever the road took me, that I was surprised that was not the case with my new persona Shawn. It was a much more difficult adjustment than one would assume.

Not only was I faced with the unfamiliarity of this new age and modern contraptions, whose names I could barely pronounce, let alone understand the function, but I was faced with having to start building up my reputation anew.

What is worse, even though I loved the freedom of being able to explore other avenues of my creativity, my mind would often wander to that last play, wondering what came to be of it. Why has it never reached the public? Would that have been the comeback that the great Shakespeare needed?

I presume that's something I will never know, but from time to time, it does make my mood dour, contemplating the cruel hand that had been dealt to me. More so since, even in the modern-day and age, I was unable to find the explanation for my plight, try as I might.

However, the occasional doubts clouding my mind did not prevent the said mind to strive towards reinventing itself, finding the right niche to flourish in.

The world I found myself in is full of possibilities, of opportunities, and yet there are many hidden dangers that I have to reflect upon to prevent myself from falling under the spell of charlatans and thieves. For, as many beautiful flowers decorate this brave new world, as many weeds tarnish it as well.

Someone as unfamiliar with the dangers, such as myself, has to exert even more caution when dealing with fellow men. Well, with fellow humans. I was rather rudely informed that saying 'men' was not...' politically correct' since women have equal rights as men, which is such a noble yet odd concept for me to accept.

Anyway, having in mind how perplexing it can be to navigate the ways of this world, I had encountered many difficulties in getting my work noticed. Honestly, I had trouble even publishing my works for reasons I was unable to even begin to grasp.

Part of the reason appears to be that too many people are calling themselves authors, thus making it difficult for the true laureates to thrive. To me, it is odd that the quality of one's writing is not recommendation enough, yet I endeavor to adjust.

What I have learned from multiple rejections I have received is that I have to be wise and not to be haste to become what I once was, admired by many and envied by quite a few.

As William Shakespeare once said: "Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast."

I cannot being to explain how odd it is to be finding inspiration and encouragement in one's own words, but I am. At the time I have written those words, I do not believe I had been able to fully comprehend how true they were for every situation we are faced with.

Though, I found it odd that my quill turned into a pen, though I was a man out of my time, and though I was rejected many a time, I continue to write. At times, it was all I did besides providing myself with nourishment, and it was more fulfilling than I ever thought it could be.

At certain times, I was uncertain whether I was guiding the pen or if my hand was led by the pen, into creating the stories that were as unique as they were long. I felt as if I had come across a well of ideas, and it never seemed to run out of new concepts for me to ponder on.

Yet, there was a certain ominous feeling that didn't allow me to fully relax and enjoy my creation. My works felt different from what I had conceived before. Perhaps since they truly were nothing like the works I had previously created, but part of it was something I couldn't explain.

I have always gotten a certain feeling from my works, energies radiating from them, if you will, and this one was different. It felt more alive than anything I had written before reaching this time and place.

Knowing full well how it was to be judged and considered insane in this world, I had decided not to dwell on the strangeness of my circumstance. I did not even consider my miraculous appearance as much as I probably should have. I just wanted to be, if not normal, then the closest to it I could get.

I am ashamed to admit that I have even made changes to my speech, to better immerse myself into the society that I was thrust into, thus prompting me to use some expressions and speech patterns that I would have looked upon as vernacular had it not been for the need to matter, to be recognized as worthy by these people. Admittedly, I wished to garnish the favor I once had among the people, which in this age is not an easy task to accomplish.

Perhaps that is the reason why it took me a fair amount of time to realize that there was something utterly unusual with my pen, besides the fact that it had been quill and upon traveling into another time turned into a pen. There was something, dare I say, otherworldly about it.

However, knowing how superstition was frowned upon by the society I was now part of, I have tried my very best to suppress the sensation that was growing with every day that passed, with every line that was written.

Soon enough, it came to the point where even I was unable to further ignore what was becoming more than obvious. What I had in my hands was anything but a regular pen, and yet, I could have sworn it was but another quill that I had lying around when I was still Shakespeare. Yet, I could not recall how I had acquired it.

Perhaps that is not such an unusual occurrence for some, however, I had known where every quill I owned originated from. It was one of many small eccentricities I possessed, and yet managed to conceal from the general public. However, that particular quill which I held that fateful day, I do not recall ever procuring, which is most unusual.

Furthermore, the transformation it has achieved is nothing short of magical. Although I had written about magic in those days, it's power had never touched my life, so I was unsure what to believe in.

One thing was certain, what I had in my hand was no ordinary pen, nor quill, it was something more. Thus, I started to suspect that there was more to my sudden displacement, than what I was initially able to perceive.

That was how I became entangled in the web of possibilities and uncertainties, all the while attempting to build a life for myself and lamenting the loss of all that I once had.

The dream-like qualities that the past clothed itself in made it even more challenging to separate fact from a very imaginative mind of a former bard. However, one thing I knew was that I was not the same, by name nor behavior, and it was all due to one magic pen that I was bound to learn the truth about.