Rambling about deadlines

This deadline thing has been working pretty solid for me. I pushed out two poems last night (although I really only like 1 of them, but hey, whatchya gonna do?) despite some serious happenings.

I miss sharing my new poems in this blog. I've been contemplating content that I can share besides my inane babbling. Rachel and I have been discussing the merits of YouTube poetry (as Steve and I have discussed). It's a thing I might end up doing. I feel like I need to clean up my account so that it's less more professional and less personal, but I just can't get rid of the videos on there. Am I a media junky? Maybe I need to just start a separate yt account. Or I could make my brother's graduation "private", I guess. It's been years, but I'm still so proud of that booger.

How do you feel about prompts? Useless or useful? When I was reading Jeff Goin's You Are a Writer (So Start Acting Like One) he talks about how important it is that you focus on the meaty (my word, not his) writing and not waste your time on things like prompts or other distractions. I think that's a little severe. Personally, I lack the ability to focus that intensely. Look, it's ADHD, I have problems with shinny squirrels. Give me a break. I found that allowing myself play time (prompts) gets my juices flowing and sometimes those prompts become a real thing.

Thoughts on a getaway or retreat or writer's shack!

I want one! Somebody, how do I make a writer's shack? And by how, I mean make one for me; because I'm useless with a hammer. And by useless, I mean that I'm lethal. I do mean that. Seriously, how amazing is Dylan Thomas' writing shack? Amahzing.

Have you ever done a writer's retreat? I've always wanted to. If I owned land in the country, I would run my own writer's retreats. As is, I think it's a wee bit out of my price range. There was even a point where I started planning one with like-minded friends. I'm rethinking this. I might come back to it. There are cabins I really like, that aren't that expensive, that I could probably convince some friends to go in on it with me.

Just thoughts for the night.

3 poems down and feeling a bit full of myself

Good evening, friends and foes. How is your candle burning?

I didn't quite meet the deadline I set, but I had the wrong date for the workshop, so I guess it evens out. I just finished up my third poem and I'm pretty proud of myself for keeping up with this. Yeah, buddy!

I got a text from a lady rabble rouser in our workshop today that made my heart burst into a thousand sparkly hearts. It read something to the effect of (and I'm paraphrasing) "I've been writing a lot, lately! This workshop is really kicking me into gear." Me too!

When I started kicking around the idea of starting a workshop, it was a desperate attempt to impose some accountability and hone my craft with like-minded folks. Since I left college, it's been a struggle to make myself stick to some kind of writing schedule. "Muse" can only take you so far, kids. I'm not a huge believer in consistent inspiration, but an avid follower of the idea that we should write, write, write until our fingers fall off. Even (and especially) if it's crap. Writing is not like riding a bike, and if you don't use it, you lose it (I swear, no more cliches). The workshop took many forms before I finally just bit the bullet (woops) and made it happen- and it continues to grow organically with our needs and goals. I'm pretty proud of all the women I've written/critiqued with; proud that we're sticking to our guns (rut ro, another, I lied).

I just have to keep telling myself: I will get published, I will get published, I will get published, I will get published.

Happy Tuesday!
-K

Poems shmoems and butterfly wings

Hello!

We meet again, fateful reader. I would say faithful, but I think we both know that this is an on-again off-again relationship. Look, no judgments. We both have shit to do. We're both busy people. I get that, you get that. We're all good.

My mother and I were going through boxes in her basement to get stuff together for a yard sale on Saturday. Let me tell you, good reader, it was a blast from the past. It was like digging through my childhood. I found a poem that I wrote in elementary school. I would have saved it and shared it with you in it's unabridged form, but there were ziplock bags of butterfly wings in the papers and I freaked out and threw them in the trash. Allow me to offer you the abridged version that I remember:

I'm free, I'm free
I'm free, I'm unbound
I'm free, I'm free,
I'm free, I'm meaningless.

I read this poem to my mother. It was very difficult to read while laughing so hard. My mother giggled, and as I finished, her face flashed mild shock.
"God Kirstin, you were dark even then!"

It didn't help, I'm sure, that I was gesticulating wildly while I read. I'm free (throws arms wide), I'm free! (throws arms wide), well, you get the idea. Perhaps I wrote this about the beginning of summer? We will never know.

Look kids, this is what happens when you eat Gothios for breakfast and read books. You get all of your bad poetry out in elementary and middle school. It's important to get that out of your system. Write all the dark-black-void-of-my-heart poems you can so that you can move on. It is an integral time period in a developing poet's life.

And now for something completely different!

I'm one new poem down. It's killing me not to share it. Turns out, I really like doing that. Sharing. Hoping to have another one under my belt tonight. In fact, tonight is devoted to poetry, poetry, poetry. Hopefully my (horrible, no good, very bad) allergies agree with me.

Optimistic. I was reading an article that my former English Proff posted about how people drown and I suspect it may work it's way into a poem. Drowning is really creepy, you guys. One of the most depressing writer-suicides (in my opinion, and excepting Sylvia Plath, who obviously wins every depressing award of all time), was Virginia Woolf's. Rocks, pockets, into the River Ouse. Peace-out.

It's quiet. That's what the article said. From an observer's perspective, there isn't thrashing around or screaming, you just bob in the water until you can't hold yourself up anymore, or you don't get enough gasps of air, and then you drown. Quietly. Maybe you scream into the water. You are trying so hard just to get your head to the surface, to gasp for air, that you don't have the time or energy to holler for help. I wonder if your mind is quiet during this struggle, or if it's deafened with noise, if you hear your heartbeat like a scream. And then there's this.

At some point during your childhood or adolescence, somebody has asked you this question:

Would you rather die by fire, ice, or water?

If they haven't, allow me to ask you... would you rather die by fire, ice, or water? My response, without hesitation, has always been ice. I like the idea of falling asleep. The idea of my flesh melting from my semi conscious body, or the futile, quiet underwater struggle doesn't appeal to me. I have since learned that the smoke will, most likely, asphyxiate you before you die by fire. Maybe I'll amend my answer, at some point.

Also, just in the off chance that my parents are reading this (hi, mom!) this is just morbid, idle speculation. I have no intention of dying by fire, ice, or water. I am immortal. I have inside me blood of kings. If I die, remember, it's because there can be only one. I give my power to Adrian Paul in the form of sweet, sweet lightning.

xoxo,
K

Feeling ambitious, and other various nonsense.

Good afternoon, readers!

We had a very productive work shop tonight. Abbey, Rachael, and I made a goal to submit to two writing contests by the end of the summer. I feel really good about this! I will have to write 12 new poems! Unfortunately, I can't publish them here, so that they meet the basic requirements. I normally write that many poems in a year, not a couple months, but I think I'm up to the challenge! I'm excited to work for a goal, excited about the prospects of being published again, and excited about pushing myself to put out that level of content (hopefully quality).

We also decided to do a reading in mid-September, to showcase our work. Keep an eye out! It will be a reading and picnic in the park (a twirling maenad picnic, if Abbey has anything to say about it!) I'm going to start working on a flyer as soon as possible.

I'm so excited.

I'm also working on my first poetry compilation, which I imagine I'll self-publish, called A Record of Night: 14 poems. This compilation will contain several of my favorite poems.

I've also been reading You're a Writer (So Start Acting Like One) by Jeff Goins. It's inspired me to keep the ball rolling, as it were. There were several tips that I'm not buying whole-sale, but the book has been really good, regardless. I don't know if you've noticed, but I changed the layout of my blog, Facebook, and Twitter to the same imagery and the professional photo taken by Pam Roe (an amazing photographer, who I definitely recommend. If you want her info, shoot me an email and I'll send it to you).

One of the things that Jeff talks about really resonated with me. He talks about self identification: do you identify as a writer? Why? Why not? And I realized that the only place I self identified as a writer and a poet is here (and a little on my twitter). He suggests that you (me) own the label. Rock it. So last night I went through all of my social media and updated my profiles to reflect my writerly bio. When I got to Facebook, I started listing all the projects I've worked on, or currently work on, and I had a moment of "Woah! I really am a writer! I guess that's a true thing!"

So I'd like to introduce myself. Hello! I'm Kirstin. I'm a writer.

Beware, there be sexy talk in the waters?

My friend and comrade writer, Steve, dared me to write a poem about my least favorite word. This poem is light hearted, but the dangers of void are not to be ignored. It is a nebulous word that lacks hands, feet, and concrete to stand on. I have never met a poem that uses this word in a way that I like. /rant

Pillow Clutchers

“Oh, Oh Void!”

She thought-

Ran her

fingers down

the shadow’s

knotted spine-

Must be

what an

atheist screams,

when they

clutch the pillow.

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.