Last night was another of those nights. Except that I got to bed after 5:30am this time. And with the rapidly brightening sky welcoming a new day, my drunken drowsiness tempered a rising panic as I drifted off to sleep realizing that the first of my many back-to-back meetings would begin in two-and-a-half hours.

One of the guys in my group is leaving tomorrow for another department within the firm, and we ordered one of those cool photo cakes for a celebratory send-off. I threw together a quick PhotoShopped design and the cake shop transferred the edible image this morning onto a cake. It's amazing what they can do these days, huh?

I'm tired. I'm leaving for home now. G'night, all.

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I leave San Francisco back for New York in a few minutes, taking with me the precious memories of Baby Emma. The past few days have been beautiful days. We drove through Sonoma County up to the wineries, sampling this and that and watching the fields of grapes under the California sun. We had a few wonderful meals at some of Linda's and Peter's favourite spots, and shared a bit of great home cooking, too. We even spent a late Saturday morning at the farmer's market eating plums, strawberries, nectarines, peaches and so much of the colourful produce that was offered to us.

The highlight of the trip, of course, was Emma. Emma, the meeping baby. Meep, meep, she would squeal. Emma, who splashed and gurgled during her bath. Emma, who cried and called for attention during the night and during the day. Hey Uncle Patrick, pick me up. Isn't this why you're here? Sweet, sweet Emma, beautiful baby.

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At one glance I love you with a thousand hearts.

        --Mihri Hatun

She's so beautiful...

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I entered one of those 24-hour writing contests held over the weekend. The premise: submit a piece no longer than 1,000 words within 24 hours of receiving the topic. The topic: the perfect crime suddenly comes together in some guy's head, all but for one little detail. The procrastinator that I am, I waited until after 1am to start on it, and by 3am I was too tired to give it anything more than a cursory look-over. It was more like a 2-hour writing contest for me. In short, I'm not too happy with Pushy, Pushy...

On a much better note, I'm off to San Francisco bright-n-early tomorrow morning to see Emma. I'm pretty excited about it.

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Whenever I hear the term "writer's block," I picture a huge slab of wood resting quietly across a desk in a semi-darkened room. It's about three feet wide, two feet deep, and four inches thick, this block, and it lies silent as our bespectacled protagonist, The Writer, sits deep in thought behind it. A single lightbulb hangs lifeless, suspended in midair from a cavernous ceiling, bathing the scene in a dull, amber glow.

"Nothing's coming to me," The Writer whispers. And his eyebrows furrow closer together.

The block of wood is a sizeable slab of mahogany, or perhaps oak (I can't tell), and its densely packed concentric rings of darkened grain hint at immeasurable age and unquestionable authority. It sits there on The Writer's blank pages, staring up into his face.

Pick me up, it says.

"No, not now. I'm doing something important."

Play with me.

The Writer looks at his feet and notices three pieces of paper balled up in tightly wound spheres, lying obediently on the floor.

"Where's my wastepaper basket?" he asks.

You don't need it. Now pick me up.

"Not now, I said. I'm doing something important."

What are you doing?

"I'm trying to Write."

An indeterminate amount of time passes. I think it's about two hours. The Writer stares at his Block, but nothing is produced, not even a fourth sphere of paper to litter the floor.

"Nothing's coming to me," The Writer whispers.

You've said that already. Are you ready to play now?

"No. Pass me a pencil."

What good are they, anyway? They're all broken.

The Writer looks at his desk and cocks an eyebrow in surprise. His desk is cluttered with hundreds of broken yellow pencils, all neatly snapped in half.

"Where'd all these pencils come from?" he asks.

What do you mean?

"I mean, where'd all these pencils come from?"

You've only been breaking them in half for the past few hours.

"No, I mean, I don't even own that many pencils. And why are they broken so neatly down the middle?"

How do I know? I'm just a block. Wanna play now?

The Writer scratches his head and picks up one of the pencils. He studies it for a moment and then puts it down.

Two more hours pass.

How about a movie?

"Huh?"

Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.

"Divine who?"

I heard it's good.

"No thanks, I have important things to do."

You're still trying to Write?

"Yep."

The Writer shifts in his chair to a more comfortable position and resumes his downward gaze.

I'm getting hungry.

"Nothing's coming to me."

Yes, but I'm getting hungry.

"Why can't I Write?"

Want to order a pizza?

"My brain's been waterlogged for the past few days."

Mushrooms and olives, please.

"I just can't... Write..."

And a diet Coke.

The lightbulb flickers for a moment, but The Writer ignores it.

"Hey, you."

Who, me?

"Yeah, you. Why can't I Write when you're around?"

Well, it's my job.

"Oh?"

I'm a Writer's Block.

"A Writer's Block?"

Yep. That's me.

In the distance, a doorbell rings. The Writer looks up, startled. He walks over to the door and opens it. A delivery guy walks in.

"Can I help you?" asks The Writer.

"Someone ordered a pizza? A Mr. W. Block?"

Tell him to set it on the table, will you?

"Uh, set it on the table. Thanks." The Writer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a broken pencil. The delivery guy smiles and takes it.

"Thanks," he says. And he walks out the door, closing it behind him.

"You ordered a pizza?" says The Writer.

Yes, I'm hungry. I told you.

"Well, come to think of it, I'm hungry too."

Well, you've been sitting here a long time.

"What was that about your job now?"

It's just my job. Nothing more.

"Well, it's driving me crazy."

Guess how much I get paid for this.

"You get paid for this?"

Yeah, lean over and I'll tell you.

The Writer leans over the desk and jumps back in surprise.

"You get paid that much?"

Shhh... Don't tell anyone.

"Damn, why am I doing this?"

You are a Writer. That's what you do.

"I'm quitting."

You can't quit now. I'd be out of a job.

"But there are other Writers. I'm surely not the only one. You'll find someone else."

Yeah, but I like you.

"Well, uh, I like you too. But I can't work this way."

You're a Writer, right? Well, I'm your Block. Everyone needs a Block once in a while.

"Yeah, but I'm quitting."

You can't.

"Why not?"

Because you like to Write.

"Yeah, but you're preventing me."

I'm sorry. I can't help it. I was born that way.

"You were born that way?"

Well, you know what I mean.

"Okay, here's the deal. I'll keep Writing, but you have to promise to visit only once in a while."

Deal.

"When are you leaving?"

I'll leave when your Muses swing by.

"When's that?"

Dunno. But I'll stay here until then. I like visiting you in the summer. Deal?

"Deal."

Now pass me another slice, will you? I'm still hungry.

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