Author: Mac

Rating: PG

Summary: Someone in the White House battles writer's
block.

Story: vignette, first point of view.

Disclaimer: Although I love the characters of The West
Wing, I do not own them nor can lay claim to anything
that they have done in the past. Aaron Sorkin owns
the characters, I only own the plot of this story.

Author's Note: I was stuck on a scene for another
story and this started to haunt me.

*******
Late one night in the West Wing

The cursor blinks at me, taunting me. The blank
screen is mocking me. I have to write something. I
want to write something, but I can't get my fingers to
move. The President needs a draft of a speech first
thing in the morning, but this screen is taunting me,
telling me that I will not succeed in my goal tonight.

I need a break. Yeah, I need to get up and stretch
my legs, let my mind rest.

I'm back and my screen is still taunting me. The
white apple behind the liquid crystal display is
shining brightly; I can see its reflection off my
empty coffee cup. I have a pad full of notes on what
it is supposed to go into the speech but I can't get
the words down on paper... er, I mean on screen.

Damn it! I'm a speech writer, I should be having
words pouring out of my mouth like the bards of old.
I should be able to wax poetic about education; I
should be able to put passion into words about gun
control.

There's a knock on my door and a voice wakes me out
of my slump. "Hey, Toby."

I look up to see who it is although I already know
the voice. "Good Evening, Mr. President."

"Burning the midnight oil, I see."

"Yes, Sir."

"Don't worry about the speech, Toby. Go home and get
some sleep."

"Sir?"

"Go home and get some sleep. It's Friday night, the
country and your laptop will still be here in the
morning."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Oh, and Toby? Let Sam out of the doghouse.
He's learned his lesson."

"Yes, Sir." I pause for bit. As he turns to leave I
ask, "Sir? What are you doing here at 11:50 on a
Friday night?"

"Abbey won't be home for another two hours and you're
the only one still here. Even Leo left for the day an
hour ago."

"I see. I'll go home, Sir." And I did. The
computer screen still had nothing written on it, and
the cursor was still blinking at its steady pace,
waiting for me to stare at it in hope for words that
weren't ready to come.

The next morning I sat down in front of the PowerBook
and my fingers flew across the keyboard. The
President had the draft he was looking for that afternoon.