Frustration

I'm a bit frustrated right now.

At this specific moment in time, I don't know what to do about it. So, I'm venting on my blog.

I can't find the title to my car. I own it. I bought it 2 years ago.

My plates are not current...they expired about 2 months ago. I didn't realize this until recently because...well, it's a long story.

So, I took my car in to get checked and registered, but I realized I needed to register it in Oregon because that's where I live now. (I bought the car in Utah and re-registered it in Utah last year.)

They can't register it without the title.

I don't know where my title is. Why? Because I'm irresponsible. In my defense, I know nothing about cars. I bought the car after my mission, right when I moved to Utah. I'm sure Chuck told me not to lose that piece of paper, but I don't remember. I do remember having it for a long time...keeping it in a box of a bunch of other loose papers that were important for one reason or another.

I've hauled that box around with me to many different places.

I can't have been stupid enough to throw that piece of paper away, because it's thick, and colorful and has important information on it.

But I can't find it.

When I came back home, my mom and I went through my stuff and downsized, repacking things. I've been through the "things" and still can't find it.

It takes forever and a day...plus money to get another copy of the title. Meanwhile, my temporary license is almost up. You're allowed two temporaries in a year...but what if I buy a new car before the year is up...and I need the second one then?

Or, what if I can't get a copy of the title before the second one runs out?

I need my car. I work. I need to drive to work. But I don't want to get pulled over for having expired license plates. I prefer not to brake the law when at all possible.

So, I'm frustrated. And at this point, I just don't know what to do, because I seriously couldn't have been idiotic enough to throw my title away, so it HAS to be somewhere. But where? And maybe I am idiotic enough...because I really had no clue how important it was anyway. I know...dumb. But I'd never owned something that grand before. Prior to that, I would just buy something, and it would be mine. The end. No proof needed.

Well, now I need proof. And I don't have it.

Blah.

The honest truth

This is a long post. If you have any interest in my thoughts about writing a book, death, cemeteries, and my dad...then keep reading. If none of that interests you, I suggest you just stop right now. No point in waisting your time. Honestly...it's long.

I have had thoughts, for a long while now, about writing a book. I blogged about it here only a few months ago. I had thoughts long before this, but I could never bring myself to carry out those thoughts.

Sure, I've made attempts. I've started writing...randomly, about many different things. My life. Made up stories. A boy and a girl. I usually get as far as a couple of paragraphs and think, "What the heck...this will never amount to anything. I'm done." I have many MANY saved Word documents that consist of a couple paragraphs, here and there, of the beginnings of a wished-for novel.

Well, today I believe I've had a breakthrough. This breakthrough has been coming for a while now. With thoughts and ideas coming here and there...stewing within me, coming out in my private journals.

Death.

I am going to write a book about death.

Here's the thing. I'm not a fiction writer. My strength is creative non-fiction. I thrive at that style of writing. People who do not understand the world of writing and literature sometimes think that the term "creative non-fiction" is ridiculous. That the two ideas contradict each other. But, let me tell you, creative does not mean "made up." That's what "fiction" means. We all create...in a realistic way, on a day to day basis. I have a very hard time with fiction. Maybe one day I'll get there, but for now, I'll stick to what I'm good at.

By the way, journalists are perfect examples of creative non-fiction writers. Good journalists create a text that is engaging, interesting, entertaining...yet, everything they write is true. It's all real. None of it is fictitious. If it is, they set it up as so, and if they don't...they're taken to court.

Anyway....back to death.

My book won't be in a "Once upon a time..." format. Nope. It's going to be a creative non-fiction book. And, it will quite possibly be in a loose journalistic form. But, it will be a book...not an article.

Why death?

Well, there are a couple of things that have lead me to landing on this topic.

First, my love of cemeteries. I love cemeteries. I like to go to cemeteries to think, ponder, listen, look at nature... In Rexburg, it was my happy place. That, and the Snake River. But, I'd go to the Rexburg cemetery by myself and with friends...the friends who didn't find it completely creepy anyway. Mostly just one friend, but I did take a trip out there with some roommates once too. The friend and I would stop at Horkley's, get a couple of drinks...sometimes a box of donuts and head out to the cemetery. We'd pick a shady spot, lay out a blanket...talk, look at the sky through the trees, watch the wind dance through the tall grassy field and notice the shade crawling further and further over the ground, touching every headstone while the sun got lower and lower.

Creepy? I don't think so. In fact, the thought of "creepy" never crossed my mind until my friend told me that her mother thought our "hang out" spot was a bit disturbing and odd. Then...when my roommates and I wanted one last bonding moment, I suggested, "We could go chat in the cemetery...." Most of my roommates didn't mind the idea...they were intrigued by my special spot (probably intrigued that I picked it as my special spot and wanted to see why), but one roommate absolutely refused to participate...wouldn't even discuss it. She just thought it was the weirdest thing...disturbing...didn't even want to think about spending unnecessary time in a cemetery. Since then I've asked around.... I guess a lot of people find me and my love of cemeteries strange. So, I don't talk much about it. Well...except now I'm writing about it on my blog. Maybe all of this will go in my book. :) Anyway.... I have a connection with cemeteries. I feel the peace it has to offer. The closure. The connection. I'm sure it all has to do with my dad.

Two, I don't mind hospitals. You know what? I think I'm going to use this as a moment of confession. Over the short span of my lifetime, I've made people believe I don't like hospitals. I can recall telling several people, "I hate hospitals." "Why?" people would ask me. "I had to spend a lot of time in hospitals when my dad was dying," I'd say. Well, in all actuality, I like hospitals. I like them. I think I just said I hated them because I felt guilty for liking them...like I shouldn't like them. But, I do. They, too, are places of peace to me. I don't know how to explain that. I really don't. I can try....but I don't know if my explanation will do my feelings justice. The hospital was never a bad place for me. Never. The moment the hospital became a big part of my life was when my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor. One night he had a terrifying seizure...the next time I saw him he was normal again, in a hospital. Sure, his head was shaved...I don't know if at that time the left side of his body was paralyzed yet or not...but in my mind, he went to the hospital, and they fixed him.

Then, on our long trip from Frankfurt, Germany to Portland, Oregon (after my dad was diagnosed) we had to stay a few nights in a hospital. I remember sleeping in the hospital bed. Watching the hospital T.V. while we waited for another military flight to connect us from wherever we were to Portland. I loved it. I hated the military airplane. The food was horrible. It was loud...and we were sitting backwards while the plane was flying forwards. The hospital was refuge from the awful airplane ride.

Then, every time we went to the hospital to see my dad, we'd get told he was learning how to walk again...or use his arm again...learning how to get better...be my normal daddy again...taking medicine to make him feel better. Are you kidding? The hospital was a good place! My dad didn't die in the hospital. He died in a hospice home. Now, when I walk into St. Vincents hospital, I get a warm feeling. Feeling of memories. Memories of my live dad. Memories of childhood. I like hospitals.

Three...a conversation I had with my mom. (Remember...these "1 2 3" points are thoughts, reasons, ideas...leading to my choice of death as a book topic.) This year I've really gotten into the show "Grey's Anatomy." I watched episodes 1-6 on netflix, and now I'm caught up to the current season, which I watch weekly. I was also a fan of "E.R." and a big fan of the Lifetime show "Strong Medicine." Sometimes I talk with my mom about the medical topics of "Grey's." I don't remember what the specific story line was, but my mom said something like, "That's why I don't watch those shows. It hits too close to home. Far too familiar. It gives me a sinking feeling inside." This got me thinking. "But Mom, why do you like the crime, investigative shows?" Her favorite is "The Closer." "People die in those shows," I said. "Yeah, but someone always catches the bad guy. It's always resolved. It isn't always resolved in hospital shows." True...the hospital shows are centered more on the death. The murder/crime shows are centered more on the investigative side. This furthered my thinking. "Well, would you like those shows if you had a child or loved one murdered?" "Probably not." She said.

Which leads me into my fourth push into this subject. Today I listened to a podcast from "This American Life" about death. But not just any kind of death. It was a show dedicated to the family members of victims of murder or suicide. Their story. What they think. In this podcast I learned of an activist group consisting parents of children who've been murdered...and they group together to try to ban T.V. shows about murder investigations. They feel the shows are insensitive and inappropriate. My mom dislikes hospital shows, because of her experience. Some people dislike murder investigation shows because of their experiences. Which is worse? Which is harder?

That thought pushed me into another book-provoking thought. It lunged me back into the constant battle I had with myself as a child. The comparison battle. "Should I even feel sad? It was just my dad who died. I'm a girl. So, I should be thankful it wasn't my mom. I shouldn't seek understanding or sympathy...cry about my dad. I'm not a boy. It's harder for boys when they lose their dads. What I feel doesn't matter much. I was young. I'm a girl. It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't be that hard."

Death. It happens at all times, to all people, in all sorts of ways. I want to write a book that explores all sorts of death...from the perspective of the people left behind. What it does to them. A small boy who loses a mother to a long-term illness...watching the mom die slowly. A teen girl who loses a father in war. A grown man who loses a sister in a car accident. A mother who loses a toddler to drowning. A father who's wife has a miscarriage...or stillborn child. Parents who are still living, in their 80s, but have seen two sons pass away long before the sons should have. A best friend of someone who committed suicide. I want to explore it all. Why? Because people need it. This idea has taken hold of me and will not let go. Because of my experience, I'm always fascinated by other people's stories. How did they handle death? What's been the hardest part for them? What's been the easiest? That always makes me feel better. Think about it. When we go through a break-up...what do we like to do? We like to wallow and listen to break-up songs....watch sad movies. Our hearts ache and we appreciate that someone else can put our feelings into words. We can listen and cry and heal. I think it's the same with death.

And so, I'm going to write this book. I have a feeling that it will take a very long time. This is the very beginning. I'll have to track people down, interview, find people willing to talk about such heart wrenching subjects. It will take a lot of work to do it in an appropriate, respectable manner. But I want to do it. I need to do it.

So, I'm doing it.

American Idol

I'm super tired this morning. I guess that's what I get for voting for Lauren Alaina nearly 200 times. Don't ask me why, but I feel a bit protective of her. She better be safe tonight...or I'm done voting for this stupid show. :)

It's like lice.

You know when someone is talking about lice? All of the sudden, just as though that someone was dumping a bucket of the nearly-invisible vampires over your head, the words immediately make your scalp tingle, then itch, and before you know it, you're tearing your nails through your hair, wiggling your body, trying to rid yourself of the imaginary little creatures who almost certainly are not clinging to your hair. You know that feeling?

Well, I get that feeling every day while at work, except not about lice. I get it about my unknown career path.

It's the best way I know how to describe the feeling. Or, I could maybe compare it to hypochondriacs...people who think they have whatever disease they're reading about, or watching on T.V. That might possibly be a better way to describe it. But I discovered that a true hypochondriac is someone who thinks small symptoms are huge illnesses, not necessarily someone who thinks s/he has every disease s/he encounters. But anyway...I digress.

My work doesn't take a lot of brain power. While the data I'm dealing with is interesting, it really takes little thought, which allows me to listen to whatever I choose to let stream through my headphones.

At first, it was music. I fell in love with Pandora Radio and would constantly listen to my Ingrid Michaelson station. As I listened to each song, I would think of my own songs, my own lyrics, melodies...what I could use as backup instruments or beat patterns. I began imagining myself on stage, with small crowds at first, then larger and larger numbers, building a fan base. I imagined one of my songs coming up on the Ingrid Pandora station. I would think about new lyrics, rhymes, life experiences I could shape into interesting songs. I then started thinking of ways to possibly become a professional singer/songwriter. Move to Nashville? Start gigging around Portland? Join a songwriter's club? Put my music on youtube and myspace? Try out of American Idol and pray they found my timid, not so powerful, average voice appealing and new...? The thoughts began to overwhelm me, so I moved on to Podcasts.

"This American Life" was introduced to me by my cousins, the husband/wife team of Tyler and Sundy Anderson. Tyler told me it's his favorite podcast, so much so that he'd jog to it rather than to music. He says his ipod, along with the interesting podcasts, is the best exercise equipment in which he's ever invested. So, I tried it out. LOVE it. I've even searched for similar podcasts, and found "The Story," which I don't like quite as much as "This American Life," but I do appreciate it. So, I've listened to these for the past little bit. These podcasts have affected me in the same exact way as the music. I begin to obsess over journalism. Now, this one seems a bit more realistic than becoming a successful singer/songwriter, but when you look inside my brain and see exactly what I want to do and what I want to become, you'll see that it's not quite that far off from my singer/songwriter dreams. I've begun dreaming up topics I can create my own magazine off of...or my own radio show. And the radio show thing is crazy...because I have no experience when it comes to radio. But, the dreams are trickling into my brain, one by one, as I listen to these fascinating stories about real-life people and situations. My brain got worn out from all the endless possibilities.

So, today I tried a new station. Short Stories, read and recorded by actors in front of a live audience in a little theater in New York. Classic short stories, excerpts from longer novels, new short stories...all read by professional actors. I'm sure you've guessed it. My mind began wandering in the direction of being a novelist. What short stories could I write? If this lady could write about a woman on a bus, I can surely find something to write about and make it interesting...send it off, get it published in a specialty magazine. Dreams of making it big as a writer began to crowd my brain today, to the extent that the minuscule attention my work does require was put to my own imagination which nearly caused me to forget where I was.

So, you'd think, with all these thoughts pushing each other around within the small space my brain has to offer them, I'd want to leak them all out into a plan...act on them, pursue one of these three dreams (which all have to do with writing/storytelling in some form, I might add) in full force. But, as soon as I step through my front door, the thoughts all drop dead with exhaustion from bouncing off the walls of my brain all day.

So instead, I sit in front of my computer and watch Army Wives, desperately trying to kill all thoughts of "I could write a T.V. show like Army Wives" before they surface and become yet another obsession with no known avenue to pursue them in reality.

My brain is tired. And my scalp itches.