When someone dies, there are so many things you don’t think you have to think about; and of course you have no capacity to think. This is the stuff I have been trying to think about.

The coroner’s office was closed for the Thanksgiving weekend, so for the first few days all we did was stumble around the house, numbly, waiting.

Then the shock wore off, and I realized there were things “To Do.” Trying to save my parents and sister-in-law as much grief as I can — and using tasks as an (in?)effective distraction/grieving method — I helped contact a venue to hold the memorial service, called the cremation home and coroner. Have you ever called the coroner’s office? It is surreal.

“Hello, and welcome to the office of the Sheriff, coroner division. Para espanol, oprima numero uno. If you are a member of the public and you would like to report a death, contact your local law enforcement agency, and they will contact the coroner. To obtain the address and hours of operation, press 2. To request copy of completed coroner’s report, press 3. To obtain a copy of a death report, press 4.”

But they are really quite friendly.

Then there are things like coffee. Do you know how many cups of coffee you would like for the service? We serve Fair Trade and organic coffee at $1.25/cup.

Microphone. Did you need a microphone? Don’t forget to rent a microphone.

Do we need a caterer or have friends bring food?

And a death certificate for each bank account or entity to transfer title.

And the dogs need to go for a walk.

My brother’s goddam dogs. He had two miniature Italian Greyhounds: Dasher (m) and Jayda (f). I have always thought these dogs were silly. And silly in the “Okay they’re kinda cute, but also pretty annoying” kind of way. They are small, and skinny, and very, very bouncy.

I’m a big-dog kind of girl.

But the night I went to my brother’s house, after I answered questions by police and called my parents — an excruciatingly painful 45 minutes — I looked down helplessly at these two creatures yapping at my pant leg.

…Aw, fuck.

So, I called my cousin, grabbed as much dog food as I could, and drove to my aunt’s house, where we found a rabbit cage. I tucked the dogs inside for the drive, and made my way home.

They whined the whole way home. Inside, I was whimpering, too.

Now, when we go for our daily walk, I talk to them as they sniff the foreign territory of my neighborhood. I tell them meaningless things, like the fact that I think eucalyptus smells good, to profound comments, such as how much I miss my brother.

Not fluent in English, they keep their heads down, still sniffing. But when we arrive back home, I sit on the ground to unleash them; and when they crawl onto my lap, nestle up to my chin, lick my hand and turn their big, searching eyes toward me, I know they understand.

Sometimes there is nothing to say. Sometimes there is nothing to write.

My brother died suddenly this past week.

He didn’t call Tuesday for my father’s birthday; I made a mental note to chide him when I saw him later that week. When Thursday arrived, I called to ask him when he thought he would make it to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving; maybe he could come a little earlier so we could have a little one-on-one time? No answer.

When he still hadn’t shown up to the family dinner, I really started to worry. I left Thanksgiving dinner and drove to his house. His car was in the driveway. He did not answer his door. The light was on inside.

I hopped the fence and banged on every door and window around the house, trying to break in, or get his attention. All I got were the dogs barking.

The police were called, and they found his body inside.

We still do not know the cause of death, and have been trying the best we can to piece together information. What we do know is that there is a perverse interruption in our lives, a manifestation of the unthinkable. There is nothing to say. There is nothing to write.

Except that I have found that I have to write. Writing has saved my life before, and I have a feeling it will again. So, despite my reluctance to 1) write about this very troubling and personal loss in such a trivial public venue as my blog, and 2) write about something so unwritable to an audience traditionally used to reading, let’s just say, more lighthearted fare — I am writing about this.

I have to. I have to chronicle this process of loss somehow, and Not Keeping Score is my chosen method.

Sometimes there is nothing to say. Sometimes there is nothing to write. And that is precisely when we must.

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An update on the progress of my novel for National Novel Writing Month, where I aim to write 50,000 words in 30 days:

Wordcount = 0!

That’s right… aside from a power-driven first day of 1100 words, which I subsequently erased with writerly desperation in the next, there has been no progress whatsoever in my attempt at a second fast-paced novel. I am now 16, 679 words behind schedule.

Instead, I have been doing freelance naming work, and, and, and… procrastinating. For some reason, doing things like cleaning out the cabinet under my sink has seemed strickingly more important than writing prose every day.

It makes me wonder about the mechanism for motivation, and subsequently, avoidance. Last year I charged ahead with my writing, every day chomping at the bit for the moment when I could sit down and write: every free weekend, in the morning before work, at night after work… while at work.

Now, when I have more time than ever (I have roughly 16 potential free, largely unaccounted for, hours a day), I seem to be incapable of sitting down at the computer to just write. Write anything. And yet, I have time for email, my blog…

Curious.

I’ve concluded that last year, with my first What-The-Hell-I’ll-Write-A-Novel-In-30-Days go of it, I had no expectations: I figured I’d get down 50,000 words of untalented fiction and I’d be fine with that. I couldn’t fail.

This year, I have expectations.

And that realization has allowed me to revisit a theme I’ve visited before: fear. Fear of failure, fear of change, fear of not meeting other’s expectations, fear of not meeting my own. Powerful stuff.

But why do we let our fear of something (writing a crap-ass novel…) prevent us from trying to overcome (…writing something…) that which we should fear (…writing nothing at all)?

Is that fear, or laziness?

I don’t know, but I do know that the key usually lies in exactly what we’re afraid of (known in other circles as “facing our fear”); I have to give myself permission to write a crappy novel. That will free me to write a good one.

I really liked a comment that a reader*[1] posted last year about fear: that “all creativity is driven fundamentally by our awareness of our own death.” In other words, I write because I know I’m going to die, so I better write NOW… because it’s awfully hard to produce a brilliant novel when I’m DEAD.

Truer words were never typed.

So I guess the only thing left to do now, is write. Fearfully, hesitatingly… even if horribly. I must charge ahead and “just do it” already.

…Even if it kills me.

*[1] Full disclosure: The person who said this is my boyfriend. However, he was not so at the time of this comment, and I liked it even then, so I’m still allowed to re-quote here without accusation of being biased.

and I’m giving it another go this year. Wanna join me? Click here.

And, in the meantime, while I’m trying to make 1,700 words per day and get over jetlag, I’ll be posting more stories from Vietnam.

Cheers.