So, this is my literary blog, but sometimes real life imitates art too closely. I recently started a story that involved a house fire, and look what happens:
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2008001441_fire17m.html

That was our apartment, and the Chris Sumption mentioned is my husband, the artist Chris Sumption.

We both, along with our two cats, Molly Bloom and Paul Atreides (and my laptop), made it out fine, with a touch of trauma and drama. We stayed with a good friend for a few days, but since we have no idea what happens next or how long it will take, we rented a room for the rest of the week in an extended stay hotel down by the airport. We can get back into the apartment this week sometime for more things, but it’s still unknown when/if we can live there again. Looks like all we sustained is smoke damage, though.

So, now I know. This is what happens after a house fire. Your cats hide in the cabinet under the bathroom sink in the strange places you end up, bobbing their tiny heads at the myriad of new smells. And you wind up in a sundress embroidered with octopi, even though it’s barely 60 degrees out, because you thought to grab, only, all the wrong clothes. Then you wind up trying to make sense of it by reverting to the coping strategies ingrained at fifteen, which pretty much involves listening to Joy Division on your Rhapsody.com account and smoking cigarettes out the window.

Is it too trite to start a new story that involves winning the state lottery?