Title: I Wanna Write a Story
Author: Amber Donahue (Ambino1111@prodigy.net)
Rating: PG-13 for some mild swearing
Category: Sam POV, Josh/Donna
Summary: Sam takes a break from work and wants to write a story, only he can't think of what to write. Will a real life mystery involving Josh and Donna give him ideas?
Author's Notes: Okay, I sat down at the computer yesterday and this came out. Have no idea where it came from, but am willing to try to finish it. Feedback always encourages me.
"I wanna write a story."
"What?" Toby didn't appear to be listening.
"I said, I want to write a story," Sam repeated, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Then do it. There's nothing stopping you… except for about seven speeches we have to write by tomorrow night."
Sam was not deterred by his boss's sarcastic words. He had been nourishing the desire to write a work of fiction for the past few weeks but kept putting it on the back burner. "In another four years," He'd tell himself. "In four years I'll have all the time in the world to write." His muse, however, had other ideas.
"I wanna write a story."
"Whoa. Déjà vu," Toby muttered, crossing out a two-line sentence on his legal pad and looking up at Sam.
"No, seriously, Toby. I want to write a story."
"It's not going to be about crime-solving pilgrims, is it?" The older man asked gruffly, cocking his head to the side and warily eyeing his deputy.
"Maybe. I haven't decided yet. I think I'm going to go write it right now."
Toby scratched the back of his head in reluctant agreement. "Fine, Sam. Go and abandon me for some story. I can staff some of this out to other, more qualified writers."
"You're not going to guilt me, Toby," Sam declared, clicking shut his laptop and standing. "I'm going to go write a story."
"Just do it already," Toby growled. As soon as Sam left his office, he bellowed for Bonnie.
"I'll be back soon, Toby," Sam said over his shoulder. He felt a shot of excitement course through his body. He was going to write a story. He hadn't done that in a while.
But where should he write it? The communications bullpen was much too crowded. Perhaps the mess?
Ah, yes. The mess! That was the answer.
Sam spun on his heel and changed direction, now heading downstairs with his computer tucked safely under his arm. The mess was the perfect place to write… and occasionally play solitaire.
But that was not going to happen today. Sam's mind was chock full of ideas, and he doubted he'd even have time to think about solitaire; there was way too much to write about in such a short amount of time.
The mess wasn't empty, but it wasn't bustling with activity, either. He picked his favorite table, set his laptop on the table, and pulled it open. It was time to write.
Microsoft Word opened quickly as Sam readied himself for the monumental task ahead of him. He popped his neck, cracked his knuckles, and rolled his shoulders. Before he knew it, he was staring at the blinking cursor on the painfully white screen.
Okay. Ready. Time to go.
Sam Seaborn raised his two hands and placed them above home row. He felt the empowering sense of anticipation flow through him. It was time to start his story.
Nothing was coming.
'That's okay, don't panic,' He told himself. 'Just wait and it will come.'
Damn blinking cursor!
Okay, this wasn't working. Where had all those ideas gone? His mind was swamped with them a mere five minutes ago. Now that he was ready, they had somehow disappeared.
Typical.
He was all alone with his ambition.
"Maybe I need some pie," He said out loud to no one. Some intern sitting at the table next to him shot the Deputy Communications Director a confused look, perhaps not recognizing that the man talking to himself was of national importance and was allowed to occasionally act like an eccentric.
Damn interns.
Sam trudged up to wait in line for some pie. The only kind they had was pecan, but he wasn't in the mood for it. Besides, in all likelihood Toby would be down in five or so minutes demanding the last piece, and if there was no more pie there would be hell to pay.
Maybe the mess wasn't the best place to write. If he saw Sam, Toby was bound to make him get back to work.
Once again shutting his laptop, Sam headed to Josh's office. His best friend was supposed to be having some meeting with some senator (Sam had zoned out when Josh talked about it), so his office was empty and quiet.
"Hey, Sam," Donna greeted cheerfully, placing her hand over the phone she held to her ear. "Josh isn't back yet."
"Can I wait in his office?" Sam asked, feeling coy and proud of it. Donna didn't need to know his real reason for coming - she might try to distract him while he worked on his important story.
Sam practically ran into the office when Donna nodded her head. Yes! Time to get down to business.
While he waited for the computer to boot up, Sam swung open the refrigerator door and rifled through its contents. Expired yogurt, leftover Chinese take-out, a half-empty bottle of water, and a six pack of beer.
Grinning, Sam pulled out a beer bottle, twisted off the top, and took a swig. There. Maybe that would relax him now.
He plopped down in Josh's cushy office chair and, through much effort, managed to balance his computer and his beer with his feet on the desk.
"Time to get cracking, Seaborn," Sam muttered to himself, trying to get psyched. It wasn't working.
'This is ridiculous,' He thought. 'I am a world-renowned speech writer… well, maybe not world-renowned, but at least nationally… or municipally. Whatever. Anyway, I'm a speech writer. I write for a living. This should not be hard.'
Feeling slightly desperate, Sam did what he always did when he was stuck on a speech: play solitaire.
So, it wasn't the most efficient use of his time, but it helped clear his brain… at least, it usually did. Nothing seemed to be working today.
Feeling bored and restless after his third loss in a row, Sam quit the program and stared once again at the blinking cursor. It blinked at a constant rate, incessantly mocking him.
'I'll show YOU,' Sam thought, pointing his finger threateningly at his new enemy. His hands resumed their position on home row.
"Do what your creative writing teacher told you all those years ago," Sam instructed, momentarily wondering from where this talking-out-loud-to-himself phase had manifested itself. "Just write."
With a decisive nod, Sam began to type. However, because he felt too pressured, he merely made a stream of letters, namely asdfjkl;asdfjkl;asdfjkl; over and over again. His fingers hadn't left home row yet.
With a sigh, Sam held down the delete key and removed the non-words He could do this. He would do this, no longer because he wanted to, but because he had to prove the cursor wrong.
"I am insane!" He shrieked, leaning his head on the back of Josh's chair. "I am talking out loud to myself and plotting revenge on a stupid, blinking, evil cursor."
This pitiful news deserved another drink. Or two. Actually, it was more worthy of half the bottle. Anything less would be unsatisfactory.
The half a beer had settled in his stomach, but Sam was no closer to a story. He placed the bottle on a stack of papers on Josh's desk and rubbed at his eyes. He needed his glasses… but that required a trip back to his office, and Sam wasn't willing to risk a meeting with Toby.
Instead, he laced his hands behind his head and shut his eyes. He wasn't going to take a nap - he was merely resting his tired, strained eyes.
"Sam?"
Sam jumped in his seat, slamming back into consciousness. "Huh?" He asked sleepily, blinking rapidly and wiping his eyes.
"Sam, what are you doing?" Josh asked, exhaustion dripping from his words. His hands were at his sides, one holding his backpack, the other his coat.
"I'm, uh, I'm writing a story."
"Yeah. It really looked like you were working hard on that one."
"I was thinking about it," He defended. Josh dropped his stuff on a chair and walked over to his friend. He reached out and swept his feet off his desk. They landed on the floor with a thud Sam didn't feel, for they had long ago fallen asleep.
"Can't you do that in your office?"
"How'd your meeting go?" Sam asked, unwilling to relinquish his seat yet.
"It was all right. Nothing major."
"Good, that's good."
Josh spotted the beer on his desk. "You drunk?"
"Nope," Sam shut off his computer and closed it. No use fooling himself. He grabbed his bottle and stood.
A pink piece of paper was stuck to the bottom of the bottle. Josh deftly reached over and snatched it as he collapsed in his chair. Whatever it said, he didn't want Sam to know, for he folded it and shoved it in his shirt pocket.
Sam was too preoccupied with chugging the rest of his beer to notice.
"I'm trying to write a story, Josh," He whined. Josh groaned.
"It's not the crime-fighting pilgrims, is it?"
"Why does everyone hate that idea?"
"Because it's a bad one."
"I don't think it is."
"Well, you're freakish."
"Thanks."
"Anytime."
Sam sighed and walked over to one of Josh's many doors. He tossed the empty beer bottle in the trash can and reached for the door handle, laptop once again securely under his arm. "I can't think of any stories to write."
"I'm sorry," Josh said, not entirely insincerely.
"I mean, there must be a million things I could write, but none of them would be any good, and hardly any original."
Josh grunted a non-committal response.
"It's a sad thing when you realize there may not be anything new to write," Sam decided with a slight frown on his face. Josh rolled his eyes.
"Looks like you'll be out of a job soon, my friend."
Sam gave him a look and opened the door. "See ya later, Josh."
He hadn't taken three steps into the hallway before someone collided with him. Luckily for his laptop, neither person had been moving very quickly.
"Sorry. Oh, hey, Spanky."
"Don't call me that."
"Okay, Spanky."
"That's better."
CJ and Sam stared at each other for a second before CJ continued on her way. "Wait up!" Sam called, hurrying after her.
"Yeah?" She spun around at him expectantly. He shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm writing a story but I may be possibly experiencing writer's block."
"Okay," CJ resumed walking.
"Can I hang out with you?"
"'Hang out with me'? I have important things to do today, Samuel. I have an important job talking about important things with important people."
"You're avoiding work, too, huh?"
"Shhh. Fine, you can hang out with me."
"Good," Sam smiled. "We just have to make sure Toby doesn't find us."
"Agreed."
For the next five minutes, Sam and CJ wondered aimlessly through the hallways, not even bothering to talk. They were looking for something to do, anything but work, but, unfortunately, they were at the White House and their options were significantly limited.
"Have you ever been in the pool?" CJ asked suddenly. Sam looked over at her, startled.
"No… Have you?"
"No."
They both stopped and turned to face each other, eyes growing wide with realization. "I don't have any swimming trunks, CJ."
"Oh, like I carry around a bathing suit."
"Do you know where it is?"
"The pool, or my bathing suit?"
"The pool."
"It's under the Press Room, I believe."
"Should we? I mean, I've already gotten in trouble for burning the White House. I don't know if I want to flood it, too."
"C'mon, Sam. Don't be a baby. We used to live in California. We NEED water to function properly. We're withering away in DC!"
"Are you sure there's even still water in the pool?"
"No, but I'm willing to find out. Are you game?"
Sam thought about it for a moment. "Nah, I better not. I'm slacking off because I want to write a story, not because I want to go swimming."
"You're writing that pilgrim detective story?" CJ queried, unable to hide the disdain in her voice.
"What is WITH everybody? It's a great idea!"
"Sure, Sam, sure."
"It is!"
"I believe you. So… you don't want to go?"
Sam shook his head, feeling guilty for abandoning CJ and ruining her fun.
"It's okay, Spanky. I'll go pry Toby away from his work. He'd be more fun to see in an inner tube anyway."
Sam was slightly offended by that, until he realized that Toby would look pretty funny in an inner tube… especially one with a duck head.
Ooh, that gave him an idea.
"Gotta run, CJ," Sam said, jogging through the hallway with a death grip on his computer. Back to the same ol' question : where should he write?
The Rose Garden would be nice, except it was cold and he had no coat. 'Eh, I'll brave the weather. I'll suffer for the greater good of my writing.'
With that thought he found himself standing in front of the door to the Rose Garden. A Secret Service agent was standing guard.
"It's a bit cold out there, Mr. Seaborn. Are you sure you don't want a coat?"
"Nah, I'll be fine, Greg."
Sam thought he braced himself for the onslaught of cold air, but he wasn't prepared for the bitter cold that stung through to the bone. He gasped - the strong, icy wind had momentarily taken away his breath.
The Rose Garden was empty and pretty pathetic-looking - nothing blooming, absolutely nothing rosy. He walked until he came to the first bench, the infamous bench on which both CJ and Ainsley had ruined their pants by ignoring the "Wet Paint" sign. He took a seat and blew on his hands to warm them up.
He was beginning to think that maybe this wasn't the best of ideas.
Nevertheless, he booted up his laptop once again, forgetting the fact that the bitter cold wasn't good for it, and opened up another new blank document.
Just as he was about to start typing, Sam noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a movement across the garden. He turned to look and, after a few seconds of eye strain, realized it was Josh.
Seconds later a second head bobbed into view. It was Donna. They were walking back and forth in the rose garden, partially hidden by a statue.
Sam's senses perked up. Forgetting about the freezing cold, Sam watched in voyeuristic curiosity as Josh handed a folded pink piece of paper to Donna. She leaned over and whispered something to him, and he laughed, putting his arm around her shoulder and leading her back towards the White House.
What the hell was that? What had he just witnessed?
Curiosity peaked, story long forgotten, Sam picked up his laptop and stealthily headed back inside, occasionally peeping over the shrubbery to see the two oblivious people.
Maybe this real-life mystery could inspire his story? Nah. Sam decided to forsake the novel idea (he laughed out loud at his pun, attracting a strange glance from a Secret Service guard) and focus instead on solving the mystery of what had just happened between Josh and Donna in the Rose Garden.
Besides, he couldn't take any more blinking cursors.
TBC
So, what do you think? Should I continue? Is it worth it? Please let me know.