What Would You Save in a Fire?
By Therese Walsh | January 14, 2025 |
My son lives in Los Angeles, and you’ll understand that while we’ve been watching the wildfires out there with horror for those experiencing immediate loss, we’ve also had heightened concern for our son. When he called to tell us that he’d received an evacuation order from the city, he also admitted he hadn’t yet packed a bugout bag. He had no time to listen to our volley of suggestions—“Don’t forget your passport!”—he had to move.
Ironically, two months prior, while moving into a new apartment, he lost a bag filled with—in his words—“everything I’d grab in a fire.” It was excruciating for him to digest the loss of these items, which were not of the passport variety. A denim 80s Guess jacket that belonged to his dad. A painting made by a loved one. The worn skateboard that saw him through college.
Chaos on the outside can cause chaos on the inside, of course. And so after that loss, he misplaced things he never normally would have, including a credit card. His mind had been elsewhere, you might assume, though he’s also wondered—only half-jokingly—if his new apartment is home to a poltergeist.
When the fire came, it was with this additional context. He knew that what you save in a fire goes beyond practicalities like “passport” and even beyond sentimental replacements, like the new old Guess jacket we’d given him for Christmas—a replica of the one he’d lost. And only he could decide what was worth saving.
So how do you decide what’s worth saving when you have limited time and space? And what, if anything, can you deduce from this when it comes to creating characters for your novel? Is there a way you can push your characters to reveal themselves through choices forged in fire?
Choices Forged in Fire
Moments of crisis can become a powerful lens that reveals character in a way few other situations can. That’s because the pressure to choose has a way of calling everyone’s bluff—revealing core values and hidden attachments beyond the easier-to-explore surface of character. It calls the author’s bluff too, as pushing a character into the fire can illuminate for you what’s important to them.
Imagine your protagonist faced with a literal fire, given only five minutes to choose what to save. Now ask yourself:
- What’s the most revealing item your protagonist could choose to save? Consider how this object might embody their core values. A childhood memento, for instance, might reveal their longing for simpler times, while a professional award could signal their identity being tied to external validation.
- What does their version of a “Guess jacket” look like? What’s the thing they have to grab, not because of practicality, but because it anchors them to their sense of self? This could differ from the item above by reflecting a more emotional value.
- Can a character’s attachment to certain items become a subtle way to hint at deeper, hidden layers of their story? Think about the items they save not just as props, but as extensions of their psyche. A battered book might symbolize a love lost or abandoned dream, while a broken watch could hint at their fractured relationship with time or father’s legacy.
- What do they leave behind? This can be as revealing as what they save. It might be something taken for granted and only missed later, or it could be a purposeful choice—something they consciously leave behind and feel no regret over. All choices can illuminate different facets of character and story.
- How might the choice reveal a deep pain? What unresolved conflicts might come into sharp focus in moments of urgent clarity, when the need for immediate action strips away all pretense? Perhaps a character saves an item that embodies an unresolved trauma, like a photograph of someone they’ve lost. These moments can offer profound insights into a character’s inner struggles and motivations.
- How might your character’s choices in a crisis highlight their arc over the course of your novel? The decision to save one thing over another can mark a turning point. At the start of the story, they might cling to symbols of their past, but by the end, their choices might reflect growth—or their inability to let go. This progression can provide subtle yet powerful evidence of their journey.
- What happens when they lose the item they’d save? Sometimes, what a character would save is exactly what the story needs to strip from them. Do they learn they never needed it in the first place? That it was holding them back? How does the loss reshape them, force them to grow, or challenge their self-perception? Losing an irreplaceable item might push a character toward a pivotal decision, revealing vulnerabilities they’ve tried to hide and driving them to confront long-avoided truths.
- How might the chaos of loss create ripple effects in their life? Chaos rarely appears, changes one thing, then disappears. Fire spreads. How might that look in your character’s world? Might one loss lead to another? Could this loss disrupt their foundation, leading to further mistakes, conflicts, or revelations? Perhaps the initial loss unravels a deeper issue, compounding the chaos and pushing the character toward transformation or collapse.
Lucky—but Not Unchanged
The fire that forced my son’s evacuation was contained with relative speed after consuming 43 acres of land and without reaching his apartment. He was able to return within 24 hours. Lucky. He was lucky. And surely he has a more profound gratitude for what was spared than we think about as a rule.
Whether it’s a fire, a flood, or a metaphorical blaze like a shattered relationship or career implosion, asking your characters what they’d save can be rich story fodder. And once you have a handle on those answers, you can use those key items and whatever it is they represent to weave in layers of meaning that enrich your narrative.
What would you save in a fire? How might those insights about yourself be superimposed upon your story and characters? Considering your work-in-progress, is there a way to create—if not a fire—a moment of urgency that forces your character to make a revealing choice?
These are chaotic times. Stay safe, friends. And if you’d like to help those affected by the fires in LA, click HERE for a list of options.
Therese Walsh (she/her) co-founded Writer Unboxed in 2006 and is the site’s editorial director. She was the editor of WU’s only book, Author in Progress, and runs the Writer Unboxed UnConference.
Her second novel, The Moon Sisters, received starred reviews and was named one of the best books of the year by Library Journal and Book Riot.
Learn more about Therese on her website, and sign up for her newsletter to be among the first to hear about any new projects.
Wonderful insights, T! Sorry about the difficult means through which they were gathered (forged in the crucible of anxiety?).
I think the basis of this–items kept safe and held dear–is a little bit easier to grasp and use in a historical fantasy setting like mine. I mean, one has fewer items, and each one kept close has to be transported in a time when transportation is anything but easy. Mostly they have to be worn or carried. So they’re likely useful or very small. Kind of makes sense that an expensive and necessary item for a warrior, like a sword–likely inherited–would matter so much.
I tried a “dual inherited heirlooms” approach with my antagonist in book 3. One of them he cherishes enough to wear, and another that he thinks reflects well on him and his heritage, and hence gave away (showing off). We’ll see if they ramp up the meaning for readers. Might not. One of them becomes a plot device, so there’s that. As long as these “meaningful items” don’t end up distracting!
So glad to hear Liam is safe! Thanks for sharing the resulting lessons!
Ooh, V, just realized you have a great nod to this idea at the start of Severing Son — when father throws son’s woodwork-in-progress in a literal fire. That the art represents Vahldan’s identity, and that he struggles throughout the course of the series to remember his core self, makes for a nice example!
What a stunning and powerful post, dear Therese. It couldn’t be more perfect for Writer Unboxed, for now; for all of us who are struggling to take in yet one more unfathomable thing.
My own offering comes from real life (and is something I am now ready to work into a novel), though it had to do with a mudslide that destroyed the house in Beverly Glen Canyon where I was living as a young woman. (Guess that now qualifies this as historical fiction.) It was something I did not save. I left it behind because I didn’t understand its value. And that “failure to save” has haunted me ever since …. as I said, now ready at last to use it in a novel. Thus, your post came at just the right moment for me. Thank you.
Barbara, that does sound like rich fodder for a powerful novel. The things that haunt us are almost protected by our minds, aren’t they–waiting for the right moment to emerge and reveal their value. It’s interesting how life has a way of aligning our readiness with the stories that need to be told. I’m certain this part of your journey will inspire something profound. Write on, friend!
That was my Thursday. Been there, grabbed that.
(Short version: the thumbdrive with my books, the desktop computer itself, my paper folder of the songs I’ve written, and then just heaps of clothes. Then turning around because I’d grabbed my phone but not the charger, and finally stopping at a friend’s house and being GRATEFUL to find out it was a false alarm.)
It’s quite an experience, to suddenly think everything you have could be *gone.* I had a lifetime’s worth of books waiting to burn there, but also the surreal feeling that they were all there because I’d read them so many times that they were already part of me. Luckily I never had to find out what it meant to really lose them.
But maybe the closest to a “Guess jacket” I’ve ever had, after my own writings and songs, was a bookmark. A little, ragged bookmark that had a tassel on it ages ago, when my mother wrote “Here’s something Ken can use every day” one Christmas. The worst car accident I’ve ever been in had me fully recovered soon, but I still miss how that bookmark vanished in the wreckage.
Ken, I’m so sorry you were faced with this literal choice. That realization about the books is incredibly profound: “They were all there because I’d read them so many times that they were already part of me.” It’s a beautiful reminder of how stories shape us, long after the physical pages are gone. And that bookmark–what a quietly powerful emblem of memory and connection. In a way, it’s still doing its job, holding a place in your mind where it can never be lost.
I know the winds are kicking back up over the next two days in LA. Stay safe!
My heart goes out to everyone in the path of this mammoth fire, and to you on behalf of your son. My example comes from a catastrophic house fire we experienced 14 years ago.
On December 1, 2010, we were woken by the blaring of our smoke detectors. The basement was fully engulfed in fire from our heating system. We fled the house barefoot and in our pajamas. I think the only thing I took were my glasses and my cellphone as they were both beside my bed.
We were unbelievably lucky. All four of us and the dog were unharmed. And because this wasn’t a community tragedy, we had the support of our community as we grieved what was lost. We were also able to rebuild and were back in our home 10 months later.
All these years after, I still separate my life into before fire and after fire.
As for what I regret losing? The only thing I still mourn is the loss of the box with all the letters Neil and I had written one another during our long relationship before we married. That box also had old journals from my childhood and my very early short stories and poetry.
If there are lessons I learned after our experience, the most important ones are these: allow others to help, and grief and loss take more time than you realize. The shadow of some losses stay with you long after the events that cause them. And be kind to yourself.
Lisa, thanks so much for sharing your story. The way you separate your life into “before fire” and “after fire” speaks to the profound impact of that moment. If you’re willing, can you share how “after” Lisa is different from “before” Lisa?
I recall your FB posts during the catastrophe. Even then, you were the Lisa I’ve come to know–steadfast, resilient and grateful. <3
Thank you, Therese. What has changed? My relationship to things is definitely different. While I still want to surround myself with objects of art and beauty, I know that things can be lost/damaged/destroyed and I’m far less precious about them. I use the good dishes. If they break, they break, but not using things that are meant to be enjoyed and used is a kind of spiritual hoarding.
I have prioritized experiences and emotional connections with the people in my life. Part of that is the realization that we could have died in that fire. Part is being in my 60s now and understanding how precious life it. And I’ve learned to value my creative soul and that prioritizing my writing and my art is not selfish, but necessary.
And I’m still working on accepting help from others. That may be the hardest change for me, as I’m the one who *gives* support. What I’ve come to is that not letting people help is denying others the grace that comes with giving. I’m better at it now.
Thanks so much for sharing this, Lisa. Liam, too, has embraced a new philosophy about *things* and their fleeting nature in the grand scheme.
You’ve seeded my imagination with the idea of “spiritual hoarding” — thanks for that. I wonder if most characters are guilty of some form of it — holding onto something they don’t want to release or risk. Hm.
And this is beautiful: “What I’ve come to is that not letting people help is denying others the grace that comes with giving.” Thank you.
Theresa, your posts always inspire me and make me reflect. This one moves my heart. I can only imagine your thoughts/words not expressed here regarding the impact of this fire on your son and so many others.
Lisa and Theresa, if we live long enough I think we all experience a watershed something that separates our life in a similar way to your “before the fire” and “after the fire.” For me it was a loss. And then the question becomes, how does this change me? What choice do I make for the hereafter?
Theresa, wishing your son and all in LA safety. Nice that you’ve found a constructive way to use these emotions and get us all writing.
Thank you for your kind words, Rose. I think you’re right about those watershed moments–in fact, I think if we live long enough we survive several such “fires.” It would be interesting to explore how our relationship to these events changes over time–if we harden to them, grow more resilient, grow wiser, etc.
Write on.
We had to evacuate when we lived in California. I was always the first in the cul-de-sac to to start loading up my red van with my computer and other precious things that could not be replaced. Our neighbors always insisted that the fires never reached us….until they did, and the police made all of us evacuate. And were were fortunate, the fires that year did destroy homes in our area, but we were allowed to return the next day…untouched.
I LOVED living in California. Loved everything about it…except the fires. Now we have snow in Illinois. Life is various…and my daughter and her family, my brother and his, like your son, are untouched. Blessings.
Beth, I’m glad your home remained untouched by that event. Are your daughter and brother (and their families) still in CA?
I think one of the greatest strengths of the creative mind is its ability to anticipate how life’s story might unfold. That skill helps us stay prepared for life’s various fires. It’s a gift and a survival tool, and I’m glad yours ultimately helped keep you and your family safe.
Write on, Beth.
Therese, wonderful post, though I’m sorry about the reality that has inspired it. Poor governance. I lived in CA for a couple of years and hated it. I’m glad your son fared well. I’ve never had to experience such a traumatic event as losing a home but given we’ve moved around a lot and I still remember needing to choose what I could carry in my suitcase when we moved. I gave away my little treasures–a leaf and feather collection, my doll, my books. I brought with me clothes, pictures, my grandmother’s Book of Common Prayer, and the Scrabble that my brother had gifted us. Except for the clothes, I still have these things. We are more in danger of flooding here, living in coastal SC, but what’s most important to me are the irreplaceable family photos. Thank you for these lessons.
If you’d felt the winds last Tuesday I’m not sure you’d sum things up as down to “poor governance.”
Those winds were fierce. Liam sent us some video taken from just outside of his apartment, where palm fronds were dropping onto a line of cars.
Thanks for your comment, Vijaya. It’s interesting that you willingly parted with things that were “little treasures.” I imagine you could’ve brought those small feathers with you, tucked them into a pocket or a bag, which makes me wonder if you gifted them to be remembered — by a place, a person, a community. There are so many textures to what we keep, what we give away, and why, aren’t there?
I hope your area stays safe. Write on.
I wanted to chime in with the others who appreciated this post! I evacuated last week and was confronted by this question (I forgot some things I’ll remember next time, and also ended up being lucky), but it’s also great writing advice to engage with these questions for your characters.
It’s great to see you here, Nathan. I’m glad you, too, were lucky. Hopefully, the evacuation was a dress rehearsal for a show that will never again take the stage for you. Stay safe, and write on!
Having been through a flood where I lost everything because I only had minutes to leave. I took what I could throw in (it was 2 AM) and the kids and –well the husband I should have left behind (and who became and ex 6 months later)–finally got up and came with us. All that was left when I went back to the house was a few things I had stashed away for the baby I was to deliver in less than 30 days and the things my mother had made for my older kids. Everything else was cleaned out by looters. I was renting, so the owner had to take care of the mess. I ended up in a small house, but I had nothing–no furniture, not dishes, not pots and pans, no stove or refrigerator–nothing other than a job. And no help from FEMA or any other agency.
I have that in a book that I’m working on where the protagonist loses everything and is starting over from scratch. I put how I felt with all the helplessness, horror, fears, and despair when all that you have left is your car and what you are wearing.
That sounds terrifying, Barbara. I’m glad you’ve found a way to turn such a harrowing experience into art. Helplessness, horror, fear, and despair are universal emotions, and I’m sure your protagonist’s journey will resonate deeply with readers. Wishing you all the best as you continue with your book.
Therese, I’m so glad your son is okay, and others who have chimed in here and my own friends and family there. My heart goes out to those who have not been so lucky.
Thank you for turning out minds back to writing and how we might put this most recent chaos to use–how prescient you were to have that as the theme for the last Uncon! Your provocative questions here have sent me back to my MC and other characters, opening a new window on them–and on myself and the things I still cling to.
Thank you, Barbara! I’m so glad your family and friends on the West Coast are safe.
It’s certainly a chaos era, but it’s always rewarding when we can turn chaos into fuel. I’m thrilled that today’s provocations have sparked some fresh ideas for you!
I’m already brewing ideas for the next UnCon theme, and I hope it’ll feel just as “prescient” as the last.
Glad your son is okay – that is hard to deal with, an evacuation order.
I don’t have a fire in the first novel of my mainstream trilogy, but I do have a main character who is disabled suddenly having to react to a man trying to knock her front door down – knowing that even if she escapes, he will be able to search her home and destroy anything he wants to if he gets in. And that he will be angry.
The decisions she has to make under that kind of extreme unexpected pressure are, uh, interesting – she ends up questioning the whole basis of her former training as a physician – ‘First, do no harm.’ – among other things, and whether she has the capacity for self-defense. Under stress, some people like my character seem to hyperfocus and do things they normally can’t or wouldn’t – and other people panic.
In either case, the aftermath is ALSO quite interesting to explore: did your son decide to pack that go bag and think about what he will do if it happens again – or did he feel he escaped the whole thing, and become unable to deal with it right now? Disasters can come in series, each testing the mettle in different ways.
I’m glad it isn’t me – but the answer to what I’d save is probably: Everything we now have in the fire safe. Those things are only good for so long. (Plus meds – replacing them quickly is a horror.)
Yes, I’ve seen this, too–even lived it! There’s a real wild-card aspect to chaos, isn’t there? I’m not sure we can know how we’ll respond to it until we’re living it. Maybe it’s the same with writing characters–we need to give them the space to respond authentically, allowing them to reveal who they are in the process vs. pre-plan their actions and emotions for them.
I believe you’re right that disasters can come in series. Instability often breeds more instability–physically, emotionally, and psychologically–and the results can be fascinating to explore. That’s why I think chaos is such a powerful tool for writers.
Thank you for your kind words. I’m grateful my son is okay, and I hope that if he ever has to evacuate again, he’ll be even better prepared. But, of course, I hope it never comes to that.
Wishing you all the best with your trilogy, Alicia. It sounds intense, powerful, and deeply compelling. Write on!
Thank you, Therese. It’s compelling plotting – and making it feel real to a reader is work.
As a result, partly, of her former physician training and mentors, and partly because of having to deal with rearing children, divorce, and death while being herself chronically ill, Dr. Kary Ashe has managed to respond without panic (doctors who panic are pretty useless), but now has to also spend days crashed, recovering from forcing this response. It costs her a great deal physically and mentally when she has to pull herself together for a time.
Obviously, she can’t work at her original profession – doctors who can’t think and react for long periods of time when they’re needed are also pretty useless – but it’s there, buried, and she is getting adept at knowing what it will cost her when she reacts.
There’s a lot of power and courage buried in people who can no longer count on using it all the time – that MAY appear in a crisis. Knowing herself and her capabilities is huge – and affects her commitments for the rest of her life.
Background and backstory without info dumps is the writer’s part of the challenge.
Therese:
Your post has a lot of implications for how a character uses/lives in the past to cope with/avoid living in the present. Another question: what would a character do to recreate something lost in a fire, or return to see if it might still be found?
Interestingly, the situation faced by evacuees today mirrors the one immigrants in every age have faced: what to take — of their lives, customs, relationships, and beliefs — and what to leave behind.
Christine, fantastic prompt to consider if a character might recreate something lost. It could reveal so much about their values, resilience, or even denial. It reminds me a bit of This Is Us, where the characters wrestle with what’s left after a fire and how it shapes their emotional and psychological journeys. (Sadly, actor Milo Ventimiglia lost his LA home to the fires last week.)
I read an article just the other day about some of the items people pulled from the ashes–so many of them sentimental. If I happen upon it again, I’ll come back and add a link.
Your comparison to the choices faced by immigrants is especially poignant. Thank you for sparking these thoughts!
Therese, I’m thankful your son is safe, and hope he stays that way. I grew up in LA county and know well a lot of the places that are no more—so disheartening. My sister lives in Long Beach (my hometown), not directly threatened by the fires now, but she’s spent near full days in her house because of the smoke. So miserable for thousands. And ongoing hell.
I had the first-person POV character in my novel about the S.F. earthquake of 1989 save a tiny Minnie Mouse figure owned by his housemate, a gay man who died of AIDs, probably the character’s best friend in the city. He later throws it on a bonfire commemorating his friend’s life at a communal gathering, an offering of sorts.
I’d be tempted to grab an award from the National Steinbeck Center for a short story I wrote long ago, but the thing is heavy and made of etched glass, so not the most rational choice. But we creatures aren’t always rational…
Always good to see you, Tom.
It’s heartbreaking to think about the sheer amount of lost culture on top of the parks, trails, and, of course, homes. I’m glad your sister is safe, and that she’s actively avoiding that miserable smoke. The closest we’ve come here was the toxic smoke that drifted into upstate NY from the Canadian wildfires two summers ago. But what’s happening in LA is so much more immediate and overwhelming that it’s hard to even compare.
Thank you for sharing that poignant moment from your novel. The Minnie Mouse figure is a perfect example of how we hold onto and let go of what matters most–often when we’re finally ready.
And you’re right, we creatures aren’t always rational when it comes to what we’d grab in a crisis, but perhaps that’s part of what makes those choices so revealing.
For anyone following in comments, I wanted to add a new quote from an article I’m only now reading in Smithsonian Magazine, which details the loss of art, including over 100,000 scores from musician Arnold Schoenberg. It goes on:
And there it is: how hope can seed even in the darkest moments.
Hello Therese. Very late to the party, because we’re in the throes of leaving our address of 40 years for a new one on the other side of the state.
No one can fully appreciate your state of mind, knowing your son was in very real terms at real risk. The responses to your question are varied, but as I think about it–what would YOU save in a fire?–I have a sudden reaction. In the moment, in fear and haste, I think anything at hand would suddenly become valuable to me, meaningful. This is what I took with me in a disaster, it embodies the moment, and we are connected. But it’s funny. In great haste, we’re packing up to move, and what’s the last thing I grab and throw in the last moving box? A worn dog leash. Not just because it’s loaded with memory, but because it would in some way be an inescapable wrong, a betrayal to leave without it or throw it away. I suspect that’s the sort of thing I would snatch before running for my life.
I love this response to the question, Barry. I’ve still got a collar worn by Maggie, our first black lab. We’ve had two labs since her. I know exactly what you mean. Wishing you the best for the move! Cherish the fond memories of the place, but remember: you’re taking “home” with you.
Good to see you, Barry!
Ironically, I also had a sentimental encounter of the canine kind the other day while trying to instill order on a chaotic garage. Our first dog’s worn collar was in no danger of meeting the fate of so many other items already in the trash or donation bin. Best friends always make the cut. 🐾
Good luck with your impending move. I imagine you’ll be relieved to be on the other side of it!
I am happy your son is safe and could return home.
This post has so much meaning to me right now.
Sending good thoughts your way, Kathryn!
I get Steven Pressfield’s newsletter (it’s excellent), and today he said that he and his wife lost their home in the fires. From him on Instagram: “Our house is gone but we’ll be back.” No mercy in the situation there, but an attitude that moves forward, if gingerly.
That attitude is worth something more than ashes. Such a hard time for so many, yikes.
Oh, that’s terrible for Steven. I’m so sorry for him and his wife. I agree with you about the value of their attitudes; they’ll lead them through this crisis–along with strong support network.
If you hear of any fundraisers for them, Tom, please let us know.
T, your posts always evoke so much thought–and emotion. This one especially hits a chord–plus it’s such a potent way to think about what matters most to our characters. I’m sharing in my newsletter.
Thank you, Tiffany! It’s good to know that crisis does seem to bring clarity–one gift from chaos. Write on, friend.
I have some close friends who live in the Los Angeles area, but fortunately didn’t have to evacuate. One works for a major television network and was saddened to learn that some of his colleagues lost their homes in the fires, especially in Altadena.
Here in Northeast Texas we have to deal with tornadoes and hail storms, which can be equally dangerous as wildfires. I have so many things I’d want to take with me, if I had to evacuate in a fire. I have an elderly disabled uncle and his cat living with me, so I’d definitely try to get them out of here. Among physical possessions I’d certainly take my parents’ urns, important documents, and my computer. But I also have over 1,000 books – some of which are valuable first-print editions.
My uncle and I discussed this issue the other day and contemplated if – at our respective ages – it would be worth the trouble to evacuate in such a case. Yes, that sounds cynical, but that’s just how we view it.
People who survive disasters are often told to be thankful for being alive. But when you lose everything you ever own, it’s almost a moot point. You can always replace a house, but you can never truly replace a home.
Thank you for sharing this, Alejandro. This is such a true comment on its face and also has much to consider beyond that:
“People who survive disasters are often told to be thankful for being alive. But when you lose everything you ever own, it’s almost a moot point. You can always replace a house, but you can never truly replace a home.”
What is left when there is next to nothing? Is that solitary flame of self enough? I wonder if it’s a question that could never be answered as a hypothetical but must be lived in order to know how you’d respond. I hope—for you, for your uncle, for us all—that we never have need to know.
Take good care, and write on!
“ the pressure to choose has a way of calling everyone’s bluff—revealing core values and hidden attachments beyond the easier-to-explore surface of character.”
LOVE this and your thought-provoking questions.
(Also glad the piece of your heart that lives in LA is doing well!)