No Words

I've got no words.

I'm three pieces behind, and yet all I have mental energy for is sitting on my bed watching hours and hours of hockey. I can't even begin to write this without feeling a kind of anxiety and frustration that is fairly nameless, my words eaten up in the blackness of my brain.

It's fucking baseball. (I don't normally curse on here.) It's not like I'm over here crafting the greatest speeches the world has ever seen. It's baseball. It's a piece on MLB and social media; a piece on the Texas Rangers minor leagues; a piece on Jurickson Profar. It's nothing earth-shattering, nothing mind boggling, nothing that should be causing me this much pain and heartache.

Writing is who I am, though, and if I cannot write, I am a failure.

I've beaten this particular drum before, attempted to exorcise my demons through written word, forcing myself to put fingers to keyboard despite my complete numbness towards creation.

It's extremely easy not to try, as I wrote earlier this week, plagiarizing myself in my utter lack of creativity. It's easy to curl up in a ball of non-being, losing myself in stupid tweets about hockey and an utter indifference towards my responsibilities.

Though, who would want me to write right now? My words are insipid and uninspired, my ideas flabby as my body, and I delete far more than I can. I've had so much coffee, and yet I still feel exhausted. Nothing works.

I've got no words.

On baseball, burnout, and the lure of giving up.

We all know the sporting cliches, the words and phrases supposed to pull from us the very last ounces of reserve. Give until you have no more, then find that last bit and give again, yes?

That sentiment is true other places than sports, as I’m sure everyone would agree. We see it in the workplace, we see it in school, we see it in life itself. The only problem with this is: When do you stop? When is okay to not juice the last few dregs of your soul, of your mind, of your heart into what you’re doing? When is it okay to look back and take a break?

Or can you ever?

Baseball is as big a part of my life as some people’s significant others surely are. Now, I don’t say that in a cheeky “baseball is my boyfriend!” kind of way, because that’s not who I am. For me, it’s just an immutable fact, like “my eyes are green” or “my wrists are screwed up.” Baseball is a part of my being, which is why being at a place where it’s hard to write about it, even harder to work up any real and true passion for it hurts.

I’ve been burned out before. In some ways, I still am: I played flute for eleven years, making it my major and my life, and walked away after I graduated. It’s now been almost a year and a half since I walked across that stage, and I’ve been able to play flute with a real sense of peace maybe four times in these last few months. It’s hard to have to be perfect.

I don’t mean that in some kind of self-indulgent way. I’m well aware that “perfection isn’t a destination, but a journey,” but that journey is what’s killing me. It’s nearly impossible to be good, much less great, at everything, but what else less is worth anything? If I’m not close to the best at this writing, at my “real job,” at everything but the parts of life that don’t leave physical evidence, then what am I?

Of course, it's really easy to contemplate the easy way out. If you can't be the best at anything, then why try? Just float along in a sea of mediocrity, never trying to be good, because failure only happens when you try. 

That's where I am right now, to be quite honest. At the intersection of doubt, exhaustion, and frustration, knowing what I don't know but not having time or energy to learn it. 

I may not write very much this year, and it kills me inside to realize that. Because what am I, if not a writer? 

writing exercise

Writer's block is deleting every sentence you start, because the words just aren't there and you aren't making any sense, and nothing you ever put to paper will ever be good enough ever again. 

It's writing the previous sentence, deciding you need coffee, getting distracted, and never actually getting back to either the piece, or the coffee (or the third thing.) 

It's being so utterly frustrated that you consider giving up this "writing thing" entirely, because who are you to want to write something good and interesting and fascinating (much less published)? 

It's having an idea, but not the brainpower to explore it. It's not having an idea. It's having an idea, only to find out that someone else wrote it far better than you ever could have, and again, you consider the various options for escape. 

It's spending hours dithering over what your perfect Spotify playlist to jar your brain out of its deadened mode is, and then giving up and actually doing your work. 

It's having to actually work, at a job, because no one pays writers anymore, and being so scared that the "grind" is going to exhaust you forever, is going to kill your creative soul, and render you bland and imitative. 

It's writing a list of one-to-two sentence complaints starting with "it" because there's something else you want to write but maybe if you can just make yourself put words onto paper and not let yourself delete anything but misspellings maybe just maybe you'll re-awaken that hibernating voice that lets you put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and create. 

#BellLetsTalk

Depression is a multi-hued thing.

It's also something that is still impossible to talk about without fear of recrimination, retaliation, or misunderstanding from those in charge of your life and well-being.

I've struggled with depression my whole life. It was unnamed and destructive in high school, named and slightly more handled in college, and now it's something that's a part of my life, not in charge of it (most of the time.)

The hardest thing, every time, is to start the conversation. It's difficult to turn to someone and say "I'm drowning in my own mind," and not have it feel like an admission of weakness, an admission of failure, and those feelings can just contribute to the downward spiral (or at least they do for me).

So this is me, starting the conversation. If you struggle with depression, with bipolar, with anxiety, know that first, you aren't alone. Second, a single step is a still a huge leap, and I (we) am (are) here to listen.

-Kate

end of year

It’s the end of yet another calendar year, a time traditional for reflection and thought. I, of course, have never liked my reflection, and have been accused of little thinking.

This year’s been one of changes, one of learning to stand on my feet, one of learning to grade fastballs and curveballs both physical and metaphorical. It’s been a time of sadness and of hope, of joy and sorrow, of late nights in parking lots and early mornings for no pay. It’s hard to put these things in writing without looking the absolute fool, for everything that feels so strong inside my head looks dimmer in the light of day, but now I’m on this writing roll so you can stay (or you can go).

This isn’t your traditional piece, because I’ve never been your traditional writer. People do lists, they do tweets, they do jokes and lines of feats and I’d rather talk about my failures but failures can outline success.

Of course, at this time of year no one wants to hear about your failures. We’re all too busy pretending to be happy to be reminded of our mortality, and that’s fine! So this year was full of blessings and surprises, equal to the bleak reminders, and I swear some day I’ll stop trying to write in rhythms only I can hear.

To break from my structure: I wrote pieces I was proud of, pieces I could leave, and I learned a lot about myself from writing about other people. Baseball’s great to have, because its stories are our own, and we put them there, and getting the chance to write about it in its many forms was great. I’ve written locally and nationally now, something that not many people get to say, and now, I begin to get to my point.

All my life I’ve wanted to be famous. That’s a bit stupid to say, especially in this climate, especially as someone with a bachelors in music, applied flute, who writes about baseball. It’s not really fame I ever wanted in truth, just remembrance, just the thought that maybe someday someone will remember my existence. This year has been about un-learning that. Growing up, and learning that it’s a slow process. Writing isn’t defined by how many followers one has on Twitter, or who recognizes you at the ballpark, or who knows your sense of humor, or who comments on your pieces. Being isn’t about how many people know your name, or like your photo on Instagram. It’s about knowing that you, yourself, exist. That your writing, itself, is to the best of your current ability (not your past or your future) and that you can let it go out there and fend for itself in the wide world. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t change some of my pieces. There’s quite a few I look back on, things I wrote after Christmas 2013 about Wilmer Font or Luis Sardinas, things I would edit within an inch of their life, now. But that’s what growth’s about.

Sometimes I find myself wishing that one of my articles would show up in someone's end of year list, that something I wrote impressed someone else enough that they felt that other people needed to read it, but maybe next year, right? After all, though fame is stupid and fleeting, appreciation isn't, and goals, well, goals are great for setting.

I’m hesitating over even publishing this, as it’s slightly dumb and part-if-not-all-ramble, but hey, it’s Christmas. And that’s what we do at Christmas, isn’t it?

(End of year thanks, with all my heart: Erik Malinowski, for being the best mentor anyone could ask for; Jen Mac Ramos; Levi Weaver, for giving me music that kept me alive on the long drives back from Frisco; Or Moyal, for giving me a chance to find my words; Katy Clarke, for Corner Bakery dinners and press box jokes; Russell Carleton, for listening to my rambling even when I make no sense; Jason Wojciechowski, all of Baseball Prospectus but particularly Nick Faleris, Bret Sayre, Ryan Parker, and Sam Miller; the fine folks in the EDSBS commentariat; Scott Lucas and Tepid Participation, for answering my stupidest of questions; Nathaniel Stoltz; Melisa Oporto and Graham Jenkins, for hockey; and Holly Holl, for helping me out when I make stupid decisions.)

Are/Aren't

We're damned if we are and damned if we aren't.

If we're conventionally attractive, then we're bobble (or bubble) heads parroting what the men in the organization look up for us to say, and opinions are tossed out in favor of a disgusting grading system where men discuss whether or not they'd fuck us.

If we aren't, then our opinions and knowledge remain worthless in favor of accusations and personal attacks (which aren't just limited to the "aren't" but seem to be more prevalent), as well as discussions of what animal we look like, and how desperate an anonymous man on the internet would have to be to fuck us.

We have to wear tight dresses and heels when the men around us wear the same suit for the twelfth time in a row. We're expected to be non-confrontational and not respond to the mountains of literal shit that some of us get on Twitter, or even thankful that some man has deigned to grace our replies with his declaration of desire.

For the first six or so months that I was active in "Sports Twitter" (and a year before that when I only existed as a Baylor blogger), I either had no picture of myself on Twitter or a picture of my face covered by my phone or some other prop. Why would I? I saw no reason to open myself up to criticism of my appearance, judgement, and harassment. I've been lucky, so far, that I've not experienced the half (or even an eighth) or what many of my colleagues face. I haven't had overt threats or attacks made against me publicly, yet.

Of course, the important word here is "yet." I know – I accept? – that it's coming. I know that at some point I'll hit that level of success where the internet feels a need to comment on my appearance, to comment on my weight or my presence rather than the content I put out there. It's incredibly depressing to think that we've come to judge someone's success by the level of internet-torture they receive, but that's what it is. In order to be a successful woman in sports (and not just sports, but sports is where I'm comfortable), you have to take it on the chin and keep smiling.

If you stop smiling, don't worry. Some man will go out of his way to remind you.

Non-Linear, Non-Analytical

Every few weeks, I have this idea to write about baseball in a non-linear, non-analytical way, to relate the game to myself as we all do, as far removed as we pretend our emotions to be. I sit down, wait for my computer to decide that Blogger is a thing I'm allowed to open (it's mercurial these days, in the way that five-year-old Macs earn the right to be) and then stare at the blinking cursor on the bane of a writer's existence, the blank page.

I've loved baseball, the sport, since I was a small child. The Ballpark in Arlington (its only proper name, insurance companies be damned) looms large in the fragmented memories of my youth, flashes of Pudge and Rusty and all those names of baseballing yore, glimmers that I built my past upon. Even as a rebellious teenager I'd let myself enjoy baseball, though I'd be loath to admit I was a "sports fan."

This baseball thing has taken many forms. From childhood building block to teenage guilty pleasure to collegiate superstition – I watched maybe four Rangers games in 2011, because I was convinced that I was the reason they lost, which is something which maybe speaks more to my state of mind than to the state of the club at the time– baseball's been a constant, the way that loneliness or worry have been.

Now, baseball's newest form is that of "job," which sounds worse than it is. I love the sense of height that analysis gives me, the excuse to not talk to anyone and only focus on the game. I get a rush (and don't think anyone else doesn't) when watching talent manifest itself on the field of play and having a reason to watch baseball is always more than worth the hassle of getting there.

But this is all talking around the point I originally set out to make. I, like so many others, suffer from varying amounts of depression and/or anxiety. Sometimes, this is easy to forget, when I'm standing under a sunny sky, and sometimes it's so very present that it would be easy – nay, pleasurable – to cease existing, if just to get away from the undefinable weight of being.

Baseball, somehow, helps. (Me, at least.) It's hard to type that, to put that into black and white text, without it looking stupid and childish and, well, aren't you a little old for that, and isn't that a little simplistic, but no. Baseball helps. Maybe it's that I'm willing to throw more of my brain into baseball, giving myself less room to think about how I've never had any friends, I can't find a job, clearly I'm worthless and useless and things would be simpler were I to not which are all very real things that are slightly painful to put into actual words, and by hiding them in an excessively long sentence maybe y'all won't read them.

People ask me "Why baseball? Why throw yourself at something that is more of a fight, more of a struggle for you than for most?" Maybe it's because I like the challenge. Maybe it's because in some sense of deluded self-importance I want to matter, even through something as minor as a byline. Mostly, though, it's because it genuinely helps.

Baseball moves in its rhythms, its patterns, its set ways in which things can surprise you. It's the most unpredictable of the predictable, and if teasing out the sense from all the random noise is what gives life colors (even briefly), then cling to it I will.