It will not last the night

Hello, interwebs!

My name is Kirstin, Ms. Steitz, if you're nasty.  Seriously, I want to start this blog with earnest.  The past couple years have marked a long, dry spell in my writing life.  I dropped out of College my senior year, to the quiet dismay of my family and friends; but it was a good step for me.  I had reached a point of no return.  I was scared and hurt and barely able to make it through the day.  Assignments piled up, I skipped class like a jump-rope pro, and my bar tab was immense.  I was disillusioned with the academic industry and terrified that I just didn't have what it takes to be a "real writer".  I needed to move on and find a place where I could be myself and have a full nights sleep more than 2 weeks out of the year.  After almost a decade of classes and work, I needed to focus on improving my life, so I quit.

During this lull, I tried to publish my poetry.  I tried to keep writing- but every rejection letter was a knot in my stomach.  I wasn't strong enough to keep submitting and received very little feedback from editors.

A year after I quit school, my mentor passed away.  The woman who had literally informed almost every aspect of my literary and spiritual life for the past 9 years was diagnosed with cancer and left us very quickly.  It was a quick, excruciating and fraught exit from our lives.  It tumbled down and crushed me.  Her passing sent me into a spiral.  I would sit in front of a notebook or laptop and stare at the screen, unable to find words.  Her passing marked an end to my writing.  It was as if the universe said "Oh, hey!  Silly girl, this writing thing is a fluke."

So I watched my friends and former partners-in-crime go on to publish, to become teachers and Directors, and to successfully pursue their craft.  I cheered them on (and still do!) but mourned the little deaths of my made-up alphabet.

So this blog is my apology to myself.


Dear imagination,
I have forsaken thee.  I have neglected you and spit on you.  I have lost you in my fear.

I started writing when I was wee.  I started writing around the things I wanted to say because I didn't know how to say them- then I wrote around them because saying things directly never relays the meaning, and I finally knew that.

I'm sorry.  Here's a cookie.  Let's be friends again?

love and kisses,
Kirstin