Writing is a leap of faith off the Golden Gate Bridge wearing nothing but paper wings. When I hesitate, my hand on the rail, the bridge guard races towards me. My fingers freeze on the keyboard. My glimmering story idea, briefly afloat, pops and I turn my computer off. I knew I shouldn't have looked down. High flyer or not, who's behind Door Number Three?
I pull the door to avoidance open wider, and leave my office, taking my daughter, Gaby, with me. We drive to Coyote Point Museum, nestled among pungent Eucalyptus trees, overlooking San Francisco Bay. I point out the buildings in their otherworldly mist.
"I know that is San Francisco. You don't have to tell me," Gaby chides.
We pay our four dollars and go inside the museum. We've come to see the Bubble Man. This promises to be an interesting way not to write.
The Bubble Man is a hippie guy, frizzy hair to his waist, tendrils escaping from his ponytail. A large wart sits on one side of his nose. He exudes a beauty that is ethereal. He tells us that physicists have assured him it is impossible to blow a square bubble, that bubbles only come in one shape; round. Then he proceeds to blow an atom-like structure, smaller bubbles clinging around one larger bubble.
The Bubble Man lights a cigarette, inhaling. With a vaudevillian flourish, he produces a straw and puffs smoke into it. He pokes the smoke-filled straw into the nucleus of the bubbles and slowly blows. Out of nothing, graced by God, appears one square bubble.
I ooh and ah and clap, moved to tears by the Bubble Man, by the possibility of doing the impossible. I am ready to fly. I chant to myself, "I will write 250 words tomorrow. I will write 25 words today. I will write 2 words now: I believe."
I look over at Gaby to share the beauty of the moment. She sits next to me stone faced, her arms crossed, a jaded junior editor. I am seized by the desire never to write again.
Once home, I do everything within my power to avoid my desk. Thoughts of baking fortune cookies with Gaby drift through my head, though somebody else will have to write the fortunes. Cutting my hair is a way out, though the last time I took scissors in hand, I wound up looking like Frankenstein's mother. Maybe I'll defrost the freezer, clean the oven, and mop the floors. Then, just as I'm about to pick a diversion, one oddly shaped bubble of a story idea floats overhead, tricking me into looking up.
My hand brushes the knob of Door Number Three, it creaks open, and suddenly I am back in front of my computer, past the railing, too late for the guard to stop me, spreading my wings.

Bliss can be reached at blissg1@juno.com