Member-only story
I suspect I’m not the first to inform you that Los Angeles is strangled by flames that spark wider than our fire departments can keep up with. News streams images and statistics about decimated architectural wonders owned by L.A.’s Uber-wealthy. My mind’s too preoccupied with the survival of those I care about to query for literary representation of my novels (about them here).
My heart swoons seeing so many brave people battle flames close enough to singe their ears and eyelashes. My condolences to anyone beset by crisis. There’s meager reporting on unhoused renters who don’t earn enough to pay for homeowner’s insurance, let alone lose days of work. There’s a smattering of coverage of rescued pets, but nothing on wildlife that’s fled or fried, zilch on our iconic palm trees and greenery that’s now rubble. I’ve lived, worked, and hiked in Los Angeles County, loved it all, for many many years. Much of it is gone…
Speaking of my heart, it skipped a few beats some hours earlier, when my phone shrilled with an evacuation alert. Like a nasty trickster, a few minutes later, the government agency apologized for sending it in error. No one can predict whether such a notice might be real later.
Thank goodness my husband and I own a house to lose, one that we’ve offered to friends who’ve lost…