The steam from my almond cappuccino cleared my sinuses but not my head. I'd tried everything: copying someone elses work to get me warmed up, reading for a few minutes from my favorite book, even exercising. I'd walked ten times around the inside of the coffeehouse, but sat back down when the elderly couple at the table next to mine began to stare. I no longer had any doubt. I'd caught it. For the first time in my writing career, it had gotten me. I was infected with writer's block.

I stared at my notebook and cushion-tipped, black writing implement. "It's all your fault, I told the pen. You're supposed to keep me working. I pick you up, you write. That's the way it works. Remember? We had a deal."

"Blah, blah, blah," a voice whispered at me.

I shook my head and glared at the ballpoint. "Very funny. Since when did you start talking back?"

"Excuse me, dear?" a voice said.

I turned. The gray-haired woman's sweet smile was fading.

"Sorry," I told my table neighbor. "I was just talking to myself." After having earlier watched me circle the coffeehouse, I'm sure she had no trouble believing my little story.

"Blah, blah, blah."

There it was again, but loud enough this time to startle me. I jumped, spilling my coffee all over the table. I saw it, but just for a moment. Blah, blah, blah, was written in the puddle of brown cappuccino that was quickly escaping the table and worming its way towards the aging lady and her husband. I guess the couple decided they'd had enough of me. In a huff and hurry, they left before the cappuccino and I could menace them any further.

I managed to rescue my notebook and pen. The waitress, Sue, and her stained cloth worked on restoring order to the table and floor.

"Saltzman!"

Sue looked up from where she knelt, catching the last of my rebellious cappuccino. "Sure. I'll be happy to make you another one, she replied. But I have to charge you for it."

"Oh, fine. Great," I mumbled. "But would you dry this table off first, please." That voice I was hearing; I now knew where it was coming from and what it was trying to tell me. It was an echo from Joel Saltzman, author of, If You Can Talk, You Can Write. In his book he says, "Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah . . . GOLD."

The table was dry now, and Sue had given me an understanding smile and a fresh cup of steaming, almond cappuccino.

How could I have forgotten such a basic premise? When you cant think of anything to write, just write Blah, blah, blah and keep going. So, I wrote: Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, . . . The steam from my almond cappuccino cleared my sinuses, but not my head. Id tried everything. . . .