I’m sitting on my bed listening to Steely Dan’s Royal Scam.

This is the part when I’d go into further discussion of its sophisticated arrangements, astro-chord progressions, and sardonic lyrics.  Or perhaps the wild neurosis of its creators, Donald Fagen and Walter Becker (arrogant bastards that they are).

The problem though is I have writer’s block.  I’ve had it since my last post, which shockingly was three months ago. Ugh.

I began this blog with such high hopes. I envisioned expositions of catharsis and enlightenment. A sharing of special moments in time with others of a similar mind, or even more desirable, a dissimilar one.

And just as I’ve hit the backspace key countless times throughout this post, my mind has done the same before even sitting at the keyboard over the past few months.

The problem with writer’s block is not necessarily that you can’t write anything. The problem is that you think that everything you write -for lack of a better word- sucks.

Writer’s block is a 6’5”, 250 lb bouncer in your mind. Your thoughts, rather than stepping stylishly out of the sleek limousine and given the nod to proceed inside, are kept behind the velvet rope. (I’m sorry, sir, your name isn’t on the list, and you certainly can’t come in looking like that.)

So what is one to do?

Well, you can’t just turn around and go home. If you do that enough times you will simply never write.

Instead, slip the bouncer a twenty and walk through as you are. Or maybe you distract him a bit while your buddies sneak inside. Or, perhaps you adopt an accent, ask to see the list and pretend you’re the sausage king of Chicago. Fake it till you make it, as they say.

The most important thing you have to do is keep writing. And you have to allow yourself to, well…suck. At least for the time being.

So here I am, warts and all. I’m going to accept mediocrity for the moment and embrace the meh.

And perhaps soon I can stop bribing the bouncer.

(P.S. Thanks, Chris)