Consistently Inconsistent

If I were writing me as a character, I would immediately identify inconsistency as my fatal flaw. As a tow-headed child with long braids, the most common grade card I handed to my parents contained the phrase, "Doesn't apply herself." But applying myself is not the problem. Consistently applying myself is a different matter. I can take the plunge (eagerly, hungrily), I just get out of the pool for too many snacks or tennis games. Who doesn't like a snack, right?

This is a blog post I could easily cross-post to the yoga blog I contribute to.

There are few crafts or skills that I stick with, and my learning curve is entirely dependent on how much glitter is being thrown around me. Look, I like shiny things. I'm bad at schedules, boy am I bad.

Moving in with my wife was the best thing that ever happened to me. Not just because she's amazing, wonderful, and I love her- but because I was forced to finally adapt a sleep schedule. Several things coalesced to make this happen: I obtained a job with steady 8-5 hours, I moved in with a woman who refused to let me stay up until midnight, we moved into a house with nobody else but us (and no other schedules to knock me out of rhythm). I now consistently get up by 7 am and go to bed before midnight.

I don't think I can stress how significant of a change this has been in my life. I have always resisted a scheduled life. You could ask my mother or past roomates- as soon as I figured out how to read a book, I was up until 3 am on weeknights. In middle school, I pulled all-nighters just to finish a book, regularly. I learned the sound and distinction between my parents foot steps in the hallway. I created quick-stash places around my bed that were conducive to bookmarks. When I was reading, I was writing or drawing (but reading was easier to hide quickly). My parents knew... they aren't fools, but reading was (and is!) a valued hobby in my family of retired teachers, and the worst I would get was a finger wagging. Come to think of it, I think my dad did threaten to take away my book once and I smarted off about how he'd have to box up all of my books to be honestly effective. Look, I was a brat and I did (do) what I want.

Finding peace in a schedule that seems so simple for every other person on the planet, and so fucking hard for me sometimes feels ridiculous, but as I get older, I'm trying to teach myself to accept and honor my accomplishments, rather then focus on my failures. Or some shit.

So that's the context... here's the meat: I have been incapable of keeping a writing schedule. I try. I see my friends, friends who are fabulous writers (and published, too!)- I understand that a regular writing practice is integral to my success, to finally applying myself; but it's not easy, man. My very nature, diagnostically, is fettered with distraction and fuzziness. I am, down to my genetic code, easily put off. I could blame my genetic donors, but I think they're really marvelous people and that would be decidedly unjust and unfair.

Committing to this 8-5 thing has shown me that I do have the capacity to change. I'm hoping, this year, to add some new things to my schedule. Not giving up on either of these blogs has been a first step for me. Despite not becoming the glamorous, 2.0 blogster, just remembering to write in here once a month, forcing myself to come back, revisit, rethink, has been the best thing I've done for my craft since I left college (the second best thing: starting Wilde Workshop to get together and workshop with like-minded folks). Tangent aside, I'm not giving up, and I'm going to try to increase my consistency. Through sheer hard-headedness, I've managed to make it in the 8-5. If I can do that, I can make room for more writing.

Thank you for bearing with me. Thank you for reading so far. I know there are only like 10 people who read this blog... honestly, my stats probably only reflect me from different computers! Hah!

There may be more prose in here, in the future.

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