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the norma desmond of websites?

I've been sitting staring at a blank computer screen for hours, trying to organize my thoughts into some coherent manner for this week's slack article. I don't want to write, I thought, I just want to blog. There's an inherent pressure with the slack to make my articles pithy and smart and clever, with a distance beginning, middle, and end. While I don't always hit these notes, I always attempt to. But lately I've found myself wanting to do it less and less; it's easier for me to blog in short bursts. Maybe because my life is currently filled with more questions than answers. Not that I'm complaining, as the discovery process has been more than delightful.

But I've spent the better part of the day - a day when I really need to attack these two Billy & Mandy scripts, prioritizing my projects and unpacking from a weekend of delightful debauchery in San Francisco. (See my blog for more details) I don't know what the future holds for the slack. Is its time over? Is it a dying breed? Is it the Norma Desmond, still sparkly and fabulous but holding on a little too long?

Thoughts are appreciated.

Saturday night was Promsumating, Consumating's Nerd Prom. Saturday morning, I packed the pink mini full of black PVC and champagne and pointed the car to San Francisco. My friend J. and I were off on what we knew was sure to be an adventure. I had met a handful of the people who were going to be there. J. had met none of them. Hell, I had only met J. the day before.

I pulled up in front of the hotel, handed the bags to the bellman and dropped off the keys to the valet and headed inside. A cute brunette in the lobby ran up to me and gave me a hug.

I’m K., she said.

I’m—

She interrupted me. Oh, I took one look at you and knew you were the slackmistress.

I grinned and thought my evil plan is complete.

I've wanked off enough - here and to everyone i know - about my thoughts on merging my personal and professional life. Building the slack and the slackmistress as a brand, making it who I am and what I do. While glorious, I wonder about the potential ramifications of sharing my exploits of dipping my toe into the saucy pool. But I'm sick of feeling like I have to live two different lives, watering down my prose to make it PG-13 palatable.

I was dating a writer named R. for a few weeks, and this was a favorite topic of discussion. He gave me what I termed the best writing pep talk ever on our second date:

You're a motherfucking writer, he said. So write. You have "Lolita" on your bookshelf. That was written in five months. I'm not saying you're motherfucking Nabakov, but I don't know you that well and I know you have a story to tell. You've got six months to tell it. So fucking tell it.

Alas, R. dumped me over a week ago, but that doesn't make what he told me any less true. I have one story to tell: mine. Sure, it won't all see the page. A girl's got to have some secrets.

But my current plan it to have a lot less.