I look down at the bare pad of paper lying in front of me. I have an idea of what I'm going to write, but beginnings are always so difficult. I spend about five minutes doing the staring thing again, during which time Sara is scribbling madly on her own pad. Her brows are furrowed, but a smile keeps appearing on her lips. I wonder what she's writing. I wonder whether I'll get to see it when she's done.

Then again, maybe I'd regret it if I did. She could be writing a lie about how she enjoyed our kiss yesterday. She could be writing the truth about how she hates having to spend time with me. Hell, she could be writing that she's actually a spy for the CIA – and be telling the truth! – for all I know.

This isn't helping me. I determinedly put my pen to the paper and tap it a few times, waiting for inspiration to strike. I look back up and stare into space. Do I want to do the truth or the lie first? I decide that the lie will be easier, because I won't have to worry about censoring it where appropriate, so I return my attention to my paper and start writing:

I live in Las Vegas, otherwise known as SinCity, and in my line of work I see a whole lot of those sins. Occasionally I'm even the victim of one, like this weekend. It was 11:30 at night – midday to my body clock – and I was walking down the Strip in front of Treasure Island looking for the policeman who was supposed to lead me to my scene in the hotel lobby. He wasn't anywhere in sight, though, so I kind of leaned back against the fence separating the sidewalk from the private property, and looked around for him closer.

This is sounding good, I think. Maybe I should be writing books instead of prodding dead people with tweezers.

On second though, maybe not. I start writing again:

I still didn't see him, and I was beginning to get really annoyed now. I was just about to start walking to the hotel myself to find someone to take me to the scene when I felt someone touch my arm.

Now there's something I really have been experiencing lately, I realize with a smile. Lots of arm-touching.

I turned around expecting to maybe see the cop, but instead there was this little old lady with a huge knife. It seemed surreal, and things happened so fast that I'm not sure I remember it all, but I jumped back and she kind of poked the knife forward, just to threaten me I think. She told me to give her my wallet. I was still hoping for the policeman to show up, so I tried to stall her as long as I could, but she started waving the knife again and I gave it up. She gave me back my credit cards, though, for some strange reason. Polite thief, I guess.

Just as she was happily strolling down the street, the cop appeared next to me and asked if I was ready to go. I didn't want to look like an idiot who just got robbed by some old lady, so I just shrugged and went with him.

There. Event described, and rather artfully if I do say so myself. I think it's just ridiculous enough to be believable, and I'm eager to know if I'm right. Still two hours to go until we turn these in, I see when I look at the clock. Maybe I ought to stop gloating and start working on experience number 2.

Truth is more difficult than fiction. What in the world do I have to write that doesn't involve Sara or Sharon (both of whom, if mentioned, would piss Sara off royally)? I could describe brushing my teeth or something, I suppose; Grace didn't say we couldn't describe something trivial. At the same time, though, that's going to make me look like I couldn't think of anything to write – and I'm really trying to curtail my talent at making myself look stupid around Sara.

What if I write about something that's so innocuous that, even if it does involve Sara, she couldn't get angry about it?

Then again, what do I have that's that innocuous?

I could write about doing my crossword on the plane, and her sharing her candy. Those were both innocent activities. I tap my pen against my chin, trying to think of a way to make this sound interesting yet benign.

I don't really enjoy airplane trips, I write. Many people get a thrill out of it, or at least find a way to occupy themselves. I'm not one of them. I get antsy when I'm stuck in a cramped, dirty seat, surrounded by cramped, dirty people for extended periods of time. It's usually worse when I travel with someone I know, because there's always that strange obligation each person feels to entertain the other.

I wasn't particularly looking forward to the flight from Las Vegas to this workshop, in New York, and even less so because I was traveling with someone else. So when Sara and I got settled on the plane, I was rather uncomfortable.

It turns out that entertainment wouldn't be a problem. Sara's perfectly capable of entertaining herself without depending on me

I stop writing and reread the last few sentences. I think I'm inching past that point of innocuous-ness. I should probably just scratch out that whole beginning and start over right at the point where I was struggling with 13 down. I draw a thick line through my words, then scribble over them to cover it more in case whoever reads this is interested in my mistakes.

I don't really enjoy airplane trips, I write. Many people get a thrill out of it, or at least find a way to occupy themselves. I'm not one of them. I get antsy when I'm stuck in a cramped, dirty seat, surrounded by cramped, dirty people for extended periods of time.

I always bring a book of puzzles for times like that, so when I was on the plane to New York yesterday, I spent a large part of the flight working on a crossword. It was . . .

I stop again and scratch out the whole thing. This is just ridiculous! I had no trouble writing a lie, so why can't I write the truth? I raise my head and steal a glance at Sara. She looks up from her paper at the same time and offers me a smile.

I have a sudden urge to ask her which of us would have been screaming if we'd woken up together.

That would be a very bad thing to ask at this moment. A bad thing to ask at any moment, actually. I sigh and roll; my eyes toward the ceiling, searching for inspiration. Sara's still writing. What's she writing that makes her look so happy? She doesn't seem to be having any trouble with writers' block.

Then again, she's not the one with a guilty conscience.

"Fifteen minutes," Grace announces from the front of the room. What? Wait, when did that happen? Where did the last hour-and-a-half go? I've got to write something now, or be left with a blank paper to explain.

I like doing crossword puzzles, I dash off. And I brought a book of them on the plane out here yesterday. I spent a large part of the flight doing them while my seatmate, a coworker, entertained herself. The book has fifty of the crossword puzzles, with some logic and word puzzles thrown in between them. I've already finished forty-eight of them during previous trips and just boring moments of my life, and I packed the book determined to finish those last two before I leave New York.

I was working on puzzle number 48, struggling with clue 13 down, when my seatmate, whose name is Sara, leaned over and told me that the answer was "anaphor." The thing is, she's not known to be that great at crosswords, so when I considered her answer and realized that it was right, I was a little surprised.

I must have looked at her in a way that told her that, because she looked a little annoyed and told me that the only reason she had told me the answer was because my stomach was growling and keeping her from concentrating. I had been concentrating so hard that I hadn't even noticed, and I was a little embarrassed that it'd been audible.

There wasn't much I could do about it, though, because I hadn't brought any food on the plane with me. I was telling Sara that I could wait to eat when she threw some candy at me.

I know I'm getting parts of this wrong. My memory isn't what it used to be, and I hope I'm not getting things completely backwards – but I don't have enough time left to worry about that. I look at the clock – five minutes left.

I don't eat much candy, so I was hesitant to try these things, but she insisted and I discovered that they weren't too bad. My stomach soon subsided and Sara went to sleep while I watched a movie.

Well, that's the end of my story, but it doesn't sound right without some sort of conclusion to it. Ummm . . .

The moral of this story is: candy bugs are just as fun as real ones.

There! I slap my pen down and check the clock again. Finished, with 90 seconds to spare! I hear a muffled laugh on my right and turn to look at Sara, who grins at me.

"You look pleased with yourself," she tells me, eyes twinkling mischievously.

"I'm not usually a storyteller," I remind her. "I'm impressed that I was able to finish two stories in the time we got." I glance down at the closed notebook on her lap. "Did you finish yours?"

"Yup – and in only three-quarters of the time it took you."

"May I see them?"

"Of course not, Grissom! What if I wrote about something I don't want you to know about?" She paused, looking like she wants to take those words back. "Besides," she plows on after a moment, "I think they're going to be part of whatever exercise the moderator has us doing next."

Sure enough, as Sara was finishing her sentence, Grace stepped back onto the stage. "Ok, ladies and gentlemen," she said, clapping her hands once, "let's get going again. Now, I want you to take out your lies. We're going to analyze them together."

Oh no. Does this mean I'm going to have to read aloud? I hope not. On the other hand, maybe I'll get to hear Sara's story now.

"First," Grace continues, "We're going to do some line counting. What that means is I want you to count the number of lines you wrote as exposition of the event, the number of lines you wrote about the event itself, and the number of lines you wrote as follow-up to the event."

Boooooring. How is this going to tell us if someone's lying, anyway? I look over at Sara again, hoping she'll share in my look of amused exasperation. She doesn't, however. In fact, she doesn't even look up from her counting. I wonder what she's concentrating so hard on.

I give up on that after a few seconds and look down at my own story. One, two . . . I have ten lines leading up to the "robbery," seven about the crime itself, and three about the aftermath. That must be good, I think. Exposition is supposed to be very important, right?

"Everyone finished?" Grace says. "Good. Now I want you to do the same thing for your true statements."

I focus back on my paper. Six, eleven, and five this time. It seems strange that the counts for the truth are so different from the counts for the lie, and I suspect that it will turn out to be a way to distinguish between the two.