A dispatch from the ashes.
Is it possible to find meaning in devastation?
Today it’s raining in Los Angeles, but two months ago, my city was on fire.
I have this urge amidst tragedy to immediately place it into context. I’ve always been amazed by people who are able to process massive changes as they’re living them instead of having to wait for hindsight to arrive.
When parts of LA went up in flames, I tried to make sense of it. And I failed.
“Phoenixes rise from the ashes,” I muttered to myself as my coworker hosed her house down to protect it from the fire that was slowly eating every structure in her neighborhood.
“‘A book, too, can be a star, a living fire to lighten the darkness,’” I quoted Madeleine L’Engle as I dug through donated (and very dirty) children’s books at a volunteer event and decided which ones were clean enough to be distributed to families.
I was trying to calm my anxiety while a massive fire raged ten minutes from my apartment. I was grasping for the story of it all. For the beginning, middle and end, even though the end wasn’t (and still isn’t) in sight. For a way to place myself and my friends and my family into this madness that, in some way, would make it make sense.
A fire - urban or wild - is a strange kind of disaster because it lasts for days. I was grieving from the moment it began, and then I was sitting in that grief as the fire continued to spread. It’s the worst kind of helplessness, knowing even more will be lost and not being able to do a thing about it.
Days passed. Evacuation mandates were placed and lifted. N95 masks were sold out everywhere (again). Google Maps reminded me constantly that roads in my neighborhood were closed.
Every crisis probably feels historic to the people who are living it. Maybe in five years I’ll look back and this will be one of many fires - terrible, yes, but a sign of a new normal as our country faces more natural disasters every year. Or maybe the Eaton and Palisades fires have changed everything. Maybe people will flee Los Angeles in droves. Maybe my city will become a ghost of itself.
Except already, LA isn’t a ghost. If anything, it’s more alive. As our country’s leaders (and my grandpa) were implying that California deserved everything it was getting, none of us were paying attention. We were handing out water. Donating to fundraisers. Performing ash outs. Now that the fires are extinguished and we’re not checking the Watch Duty app every day, people are allowing themselves to think about the future. There are efforts to gather and distribute seeds to replace native vegetation. Two friends who lost their house are planning to have their wedding on the empty lot where they used to live.
Recently my partner was reading a book of interviews with Nick Cave, and he read me this line out loud:
“Most of life is spent putting ourselves back together.”
Meaning isn’t always profound. Sometimes you find it just by opening your eyes and seeing - really seeing - what’s in front of you.
P.S. Some updates on THE GLITTERING EDGE. <3
My US publisher is currently running a giveaway of 20 ARCs of TGE over on Goodreads! You can enter any time before 3/23/2025 to win.
The School Library Journal shared a lovely review of TGE. It’s not posted on their website yet, but I shared it on Instagram yesterday. Here’s my favorite part: “An intense debut that refuses to pull punches, this tangled web of magic, mystery, secrets, and lies stars angst-ridden teenagers, The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina-esque aunts, and the omnipresent small-town rumor mill, sure. But it's also a cunning commentary on the expectations placed on youth in a world fighting against them every step of the way."
🤍