Entry #5

I imagine I hear the printing press -- kuh-tchng ... kuh-tchng ... kuh-tchng -- cranking out copies of I. Joseph Kellerman by the hundreds of thousands. Tens of thousands? Well, okay, just a few hundred for now. But, hey, it's a start, right? My publisher tells me that the first batch of advance copies will be ready "soon." I'm excited, of course, but nervous at the same time. Will the cover look amateurish? Will there be errors? I checked three consecutive versions of the PDF "galley," sending back a detailed list of formatting problems each time, and each time finding new errors that had been created when the previous errors were corrected. Will they get it right at last?

And then what do I do when I actually have a book out there for all the world to read? Over the past six months or so, I'd become pretty gung-ho about marketing the novel I spent the better part of two years working on, but now I feel overwhelmed by the task. Where do I focus my attention and energy and, ultimately, money? Even time costs something, and, while I have more of that to devote to my endeavors than many other people do to theirs, it's not like Steve and I have gobs of green to spend on the promotion of my book. Quite the opposite, in fact, especially since our latest setback. This isn't exactly part of my "adventures as a writer," but here's the story anyway....

In the middle of the night on August 26th, Steve and I were awakened at the same time by the sound of water dripping into water. The power had been out for a few hours, and there had been some lightning and rain earlier in the evening. Another storm had moved in perhaps thirty minutes before my husband and I suddenly sat up in bed.

"That's strange," I think I said.

And, after a pause, I think Steve said, "Yeah."

So I took the flashlight off the nightstand, turned it on, and shouted, "Oh my God!" (or something to that effect) as my heart lept into my throat. The room was filling with water.

Steve and I scrambled to our feet, and a wave burst through the door when he opened it just a crack. No sooner had he grabbed Mindi, our fat, 16 year-old, diabetic cat, off the floor and I grabbed our 24-pound dog off the bed, than we were knee-deep. Somehow, Steve managed to slip on his sneakers, but I was barefoot, carrying Sassy as we pushed our way out the door, then several hundred feet to the hill, where we scrambled up the muddy slope. I didn't feel the cactus spines I was stepping on. Not at the time. Adreneline has an amazing way of masking pain. As the lightning flashed, I saw what looked like a grand special effect from a movie set. This couldn't be real!

We rushed along the hillside, in the direction of the property owners' house (we're the caretakers, you see), and saw the beam of a flashlight inside. I stayed with our two soaked and frightened animals, while Steve crossed the river that had once been the driveway and lawn, to help the Hulls. Not knowing how the rear wall of their flooded house would hold up against the force of the water, Steve insisted they come out. Joe grabbed Charlotte as she lost her footing in the current.

The Hulls and two of their four dogs made it across to the hill. I then asked Steve if he could get to the pickup at the bottom of the slope, and grab the tarp I believed was in the truck bed. He was able to do that, and the four of us and three animals huddled beneath the tarp, as the deluge continued. The storm was directly overhead. As the lightning revealed our surroundings every few seconds, we could see that the water had risen further. We could also see the other two dogs, standing on a small bit of exposed land by the house.

I don't know for sure how long we were on the hillside. I was shaking uncontrollably, although I wasn't cold, and heard myself continually saying, "It's okay, it's okay," while petting my shivering dog and howling cat. I felt sick. Joe and Steve were chatty, even joking to try to alleviate their own stress. But I wanted to talk about logical things, about what to do next.

Once again, Steve crossed back over to the house to try to rescue the other two dogs. While he was over there, he went inside and picked up the phone. Incredibly, it worked. He dialed 911 and told the dispatcher what was happening and where we were, not that anyone could have gotten to us at the time. The dispatcher said there had been other calls about flooding, further west in Morristown.

Steve wasn't able to find the other two dogs, but to cut to the chase, they survived. Zach, the young black lab, we found later that night, after the water had receded enough that we could return to the main house. Fuzzy old Sam I found just before daybreak, when he made his way back from ... somewhere. He must have gotten swept away but managed to get onto higher ground. He was one exhausted mutt.

In the end, the four of us and all of the animals -- 5 dogs, 4 goats, 3 cats, 3 chickens and 4 parakeets (who appeared to have slept through the whole thing) -- are fine, but we and the Hulls have lost many of our belongings. Yes, I know, just be grateful that we're all okay. And I am! But, still, this stings. All the photos. The books. The drawings and paintings that were ruined. The huge amounts of mud and debris the water left behind. And the anxiety. I'm in Sedona right now, at my inlaws' house two hours north of the flood zone, and I'm nervous about going back to the property. I think I'll give it a few days ... or so ... before I return.

In the meantime, Steve and the Hulls are dealing with the cleanup. A crew is there with heavy equipment and extra muscle. Everywhere we look, there's a huge mess. The power of that water, which in places was twelve feet deep (or high rather), was even more obvious when the sun came up. Boulders moved incredible distances. Pipes unearthed and broken. Trees uprooted and electrical wires on the ground. For two days, there was no power or water at all. Now there's a little of both, but no water pressure. We'd had to wait until outside help could fix the half-mile driveway enough that we could get out; there were six-foot-deep gullies between us and the main (dirt) road. Amazingly, our truck and the Hulls' pickups weren't damaged in the flood. We got out at 6:30p.m. on the 27th.

So I'm here in Sedona with the pets, washing loads of muddy clothing and linens, nursing my sore feet, and sorting through hundreds of damaged Appalachian Trail slides, while continuing to work on projects and take care of non-flood-related business as much as I can. Steve, bless his heart, is handling the salvage and disposal operation at our saturated, mud-filled house. He'll be back up here tomorrow.

Anyhow, those are some of the details of the past few days. I seem to have this need to tell everyone I come in contact with about what happened, as I still try to wrap my mind around reality. Here, where things are so clean and serene, the flood seems like a bad dream. And it's one that's kept me awake for most of a third night in a row.

Hey, but maybe this most recent challenge means that something wonderful is just ahead. Maybe the next phone call will be from Oprah, who'll kvell over my book and insist on doing a commercial for I. Joseph Kellerman, as she did for Caine River. Or maybe it'll be Steven Speilberg, wanting to immortalize Dr. Kellerman and the gang on the silver screen. I've already got most of the characters cast, so his work will be that much easier. Or maybe I'll go to the mailbox and, oila! A five-digit royalty check. (I'd say six-digit, but that wouldn't be realistic, of course.) I'll even settle for a glowing New York Times book review or the Pulitzer Prize. Ahhh, isn't imagination a wonderful thing? In fact, I think I'll go take a shower (one of my favorite places to daydream), imagine myself a bit thinner -- TV adds ten pounds, after all -- and practice my interview with Oprah.

--Deb