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convention the year before and saw costumes that were just as convincing: people dressed like elves and Klingons and Jedi knights. For a few bucks you could buy fake Vulcan ears at any novelty store. It seemed plausible. Shelly had a new boyfriend, one who liked to play kinky games outdoors. He was one of those people who like to dress up in stuffed-animal costumes and have orgies. Furries, the media called them. They planned ahead of time to meet in the woods. Thought the hollow would be a nice, secluded spot where they could get their freak on without getting caught—except that Big Steve and I accidentally stumbled across them in mid–blow job. Or mid–golden shower, I thought, remembering how he’d pissed directly into Shelly’s face, and into his own. Maybe he was bisexual or into threesomes, as well. After all, he’d invited me to join them. That was another thing. He’d spoken clear English. As for the stone turning into flesh, that could have easily been some weird trick of the light. A mirage. It had been pretty dark from my vantage point; the sunshine was bright in the hollow, and my eyes could have deceived me. It all made sense.
    I told myself that was all it was, just a freak in a suit, but I didn’t believe a word of it.
    Still, I tried to move on. I had a book to write. U2’s Achtung Baby was playing on the stereo. I tried to lose myself in the melodies, tried to summon the words, but nothing came. My hands had stopped shaking, but my fingers still refused to move. I got another cup of coffee, took a deep breath, and sat back down. The cursor blinked at me like an eye. I gave it the middle finger.
    Big Steve finished his rawhide bone and curled up under the desk. He closed his eyes, and his breathing grew shallow. Sound asleep. Apparently he’d already made up his mind about what we’d seen.
    I cracked my knuckles again and then typed, CHAPTER ONE.
    “Okay,” I said to my muse. “We’re off to a good start. What happens next?”
    What happened next is that I sat there for fifteen minutes and smoked cigarette after cigarette and stared at the blank screen. I didn’t believe in writer’s block, a term used by authors to describe days when they couldn’t seem to find the words or the ideas behind the words. Writer’s block is nothing more than a convenient excuse for laziness. Get me drunk in a room full of writers or editors and you’d hear me say it time and time again. When you’re writing full-time like I am, writing to pay the bills and keep a roof over your head and food on the table, you can’t afford to have writer’s block. It’s just like any other job. When you show up and the whistle blows, you start working whether you feel like it or not. Otherwise you’re just a lazy bum who’s relying on his spouse to bring home the bacon all by herself.
    I didn’t believe in writer’s block, but I sure as shit couldn’t write that morning. I tried forcing it, but the words still wouldn’t come. Each of those great ideas I’d had regarding the Civil War, the ones I’d mulled over all winter long, had vanished. I couldn’t remember a single one, and when I racked my brain all I got was a headache. Eventually, after a prolonged period of inactivity, my screen saver popped up. screen saver popped up.
    Resigned to not writing, I logged on to the Net and checked my e-mail. There was nothing new. A few readers had dropped me notes about my books. I responded to each, and thanked them for the kind words if they liked it, and apologized if they didn’t, and told them I hoped they’d like the next one regardless. My editor had e-mailed as well, wanting to know how the next book was coming and if she would get first look. I lied and told her it was coming along well, really cooking now, and I’d be happy to send her the first three chapters very soon.
    My headache grew worse, to the point where I couldn’t even concentrate on e-mail. I sighed in exasperation. Big Steve opened one eye,