Two friends in need, two friends, therefore, indeed. One will not let me help, the other I cannot help. "Writing," Hemingway said "is easy. Just sit in front of the typewriter and bleed." For eleven years I have sat here. At times I have writhed. "China and Me" began Friday, was redone Saturday, redone again Sunday. And this I do for "fun;" it's not my job. For those under deadline, for those who must publish or perish it can be agonizing. Staring at the awful whiteness of the blank page is terrifying. And solitary. There is nothing anyone from the outside can do to help. When Hemingway wrote in cafes he sought solitude in anonymity. If...If a friend happened to see him and tried to strike up a conversation, well God help him. Even at his poorest he kept a writing flat in Paris, away from Hadley and Mr. Bumby. When the writing still would not come he would sit before the fireplace, he would peel an orange. He would toss pieces of the rind into the fire and watch them flame blue. Something, anything to avoid the white void. There was nothing anyone from the outside could do to help.