LAST YEAR, AS THE TEMPERATURE IN OAKLAND, Calif., soared and the outside air appeared gray, I decided upon the revolutionary act of cracking open a window overnight. At midnight I woke to smoke inside my apartment, a snowstorm of ash swirling into my room and coating every surface in delicate lacy patterns, a potent reminder that very close by, homes, animals, forests were burning.
The evacuation advisory came early the next morning. Residents of the Bay Area, or at least those privileged enough to have cars, put essentials in their vehicles and got ready to seek shelter elsewhere. I gathered up my passport, a change of clothes and, to my husband’s chagrin, enough journals to fill the trunk.
I’ve been an obsessive journal keeper since 1986, when I was 13…