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:
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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.