When a writer goes radio silent. . .

Is it because her computer died, her network went haywire, she has nothing to write about, or because she is a magnet for mishap?

My father claims that if I didn’t have bad luck, I would have no luck. I am inclined to agree. About a month ago, disaster struck at about midnight on a Monday night/Tuesday morning.

The smoke detectors woke me up and sent me flying through my house like a mad woman. I ran up and down stairs while the shrill sound of those alarms rang in my ears, telling me there was a fire somewhere. I just didn’t know where.

While the cats bolted for the highlands, I searched every nook and cranny of my home for fire. It wasn’t until I looked in the basement twice that I noticed smoke coming in from between the garage door and the door frame. When I finally managed to get the door unlocked, I swung it open and was greeted by a wall of black smoke.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I was not supposed to open the door. But when you are in a panic you kinda don’t think like a sane, rational person, you kinda go with whatever will prevent you from losing your home. You see, the garage is directly under the main part of the house.

My first response was to gasp and suck in the toxic dust…which would later prove not a good thing. I tried the light switch and nothing happened. I thought the power had gone out. Nope, that’s how thick the smoke was. I reached around and hit the garage door buttons. One of the doors went up and that’s when I heard but still could not see the fire.

I turned and ran back upstairs to the third floor for my cell phone and on the way back down dialed. As my bare feet hit my back deck, I was screaming into the phone, “Fire! House is on fire!”

“What?” the groggy voice asked on the other end of the line.

“Fire! My house is on fire!”

Then I heard CLICK and the line was dead.

No, I did not dial 911. I called my neighbors, my heroes. AGAIN. They called 911.

It wasn’t until I rounded the corner of my yard that I saw the 8-foot flames then heard my neighbor Kenny hollering for me as I ran into the garage, opened the other door and tried to pull out anything flammable and explosive. Gasoline cans, push mower that was already burning, riding lawnmower, snow blower, etc.

Kenny was helping me pull stuff when I looked up and said, “Hose!”

I ran and got the hose, which of course, was attached to a plant chemical. Sheesh! I managed to get that off and handed Kenny the hose.

I won’t give you all the details, but suffice it to say in spite of 8 foot flames and smoke as dark and thick as mud, Kenny, Donna, and I got the fire put out before the fire trucks, EMT vehicle, fire chief, and police cars arrived with sirens blaring and lights flashing.

My lecture for the evening came from a firefighter who asked, “Who called 911?”

I pointed a finger at Donna. “She did.”

“Who did you call?”

“Her.”

“Next time, little lady, you dial 911 first.”

“Um, she is on speed-dial and you never even crossed my mind.”

The firefighter gave a little chuckle then sobered and narrowed his gaze on me. “Next time dial 911 first.”

“Yes, sir.” I wanted to salute him, but I held back.


Physically I am fine. My neighbors and I all burned our hands, but those healed quickly. Ice is an amazing medicinal treatment. That and a cold beer bottle. The smoke inhalation affected my lungs for a period and made my voice sound a little like Kathleen Turner, but alas, that sexy, raspy voice has gone away.


For those of you wondering, “Where the heck did Denise go?” Now you know.

Thank you for the phone calls, the emails, and the notes. I appreciate everyone’s caring and concern. Please know that I have not fallen off the face of the earth, that every day I want to write, but this little calamity has kept me busy.

Instead of life imitating art, art will imitate life. Think of the fodder for my fiction.