Essay: John Wirth: After the fire took my home, John Irving’s books became one

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I climbed out my daughter’s bedroom window and quickly made my way to the roof. I sensed something was wrong before I actually saw it, and then it came into view. It was just around the corner, only a block away, yet it had traveled five miles in what felt like the time it takes to watch a few episodes of a TV show. The fire was a terrifying red-orange, huge and powerful, and it was rapidly destroying everything in its path – homes, schools, churches, businesses, cars, even bushes and bikes. Driven by winds of over a hundred miles per hour, it was accompanied by swirling smoke that blanketed our town.

As a writer, my imagination is how I earn my living. It’s what drove me, at 25, to Hollywood – clutching a screenplay and a well-worn copy of John Irving’s “The World According to Garp.” Irving is the reason I wanted to write in the first place, and I’ve loved his books ever since I first discovered “Garp” when I was young. It still amazes me that he wrote such an incredible novel at just 36 – I felt like I was barely growing up at that age! I’m still completely fascinated by how he writes, and when I arrived in Los Angeles, all I wanted was to craft a single sentence as powerful as anything in “Garp,” and maybe, just maybe, make something of my career.

Even after forty-seven years, I still wonder if I ever truly wrote that sentence. But I did build a career in television, writing hundreds of scripts and weathering tough times like strikes, the pandemic, and periods of being out of work. I managed to do well enough to buy the house in Pacific Palisades, and now I was standing on the roof, watching the approaching fire.

We grew up raising our kids in that house, and it filled us with joy to see them now bringing their own children over almost every weekend. We spent those visits going to the beach, cooking together, and playing games like Uno and Slapjack. We’d also go to the park, and I loved continuing the tradition of measuring their heights on the wall inside the toy closet – a spot where I’d measured their mothers’ heights years before.

Despite watching the fire rapidly approach, I couldn’t bring myself to believe it would actually reach our house. I refused to picture the flames breaking in through the windows, doors, and even the floor, destroying everything and endangering my family within hours.

Driving away from the fire that Tuesday, I truly believed things would quickly return to normal – that we’d be able to clean up the house and go back to the life we loved. The last thing I saw as we left was the sign over the door: “Gigi and Ump’s House: Established April 25, 2018,” the day our first grandchild arrived.

I know our house isn’t the first, and won’t be the last, to be destroyed by fire. It’s a terrible club to be in, and I’m sure many others have gone through the same thing. Fire is a part of the world, and it’s happened countless times before, yet life always finds a way to rebuild. Now, I lie awake at night wondering how we will rebuild. We’ve been completely devastated, losing everything we owned. But I believe we’ll find the strength to get back on our feet and start again. That’s just who we are. My wife is incredibly resilient, and I’m with her every step of the way.

California

The recent Eaton and Palisades fires highlighted how susceptible Los Angeles is to wildfires. The Los Angeles Times is reviewing the past year’s events, examining how officials responded, and arguing for improved preparation in the future.

The week after the fire, we brought our daughters back to see the damage. As we drove into Palisades, all four of us started crying, trying to grasp the extent of the destruction. The town looked empty and black – businesses were gone, and entire blocks of homes had burned down. Even the mountains behind us were bare and blackened. These weren’t just houses; they were homes we knew, places where we’d spent time with friends. I parked near where our house had stood for eighty years. We got out and just stared, speechless, at the huge pile of gray ash. The only thing left to mark the spot was the painted house number on the curb: 1160.

Seeing my children completely devastated by the sight of our home reduced to ashes broke my heart. It wasn’t just the loss of a house; it was the loss of their childhood home, and a piece of them went with it. Standing there, looking at the empty space where they’d spent their lives, held their belongings, and created their memories, they were heartbroken that everything was gone.

When the fire started that Tuesday, my wife smartly gathered our family photo albums while I rushed to my office, which I affectionately called “The Dog House” – it was built above the garage. I could practically feel, smell, and hear the fire raging just a street away. Inside, I looked around at the space I’d created for myself, a place I’d spent countless hours. Growing up as one of ten children in a blended family, I never had a room of my own until I realized I could build a second story onto the garage and finally have a space that was completely mine.

That room held everything I’d collected over the years – memories, creations, and a lifetime of work. I’d spent countless hours there writing, editing films, making music, reading, and dreaming. More recently, I’d even shared that space with my grandsons, introducing them to the stories and characters I’d created.

Honestly, staring around my place while the fire raged nearby, it wasn’t the things themselves, but what they meant that hit me. My computers, my music… they were just objects. But then I saw the old furniture I’d picked up in a dusty L.A. shop half a century ago, the rug my wife and I found in New York, those family photos… suddenly, each item became a little memory. There was a Doors photo taken under the Santa Monica Pier, a gift from my line producer after last season, and even a simple carpenter’s ruler my grandfather gave me when I was a kid – the last time I ever saw him. It wasn’t about losing possessions; it was about losing pieces of my life.

My bookshelves were home to a book collection I deeply treasured – hundreds of signed, first-edition novels that I’d spent years gathering. Each book came with its own story of how I’d found it, whether in small, local bookstores or larger antiquarian shops around the globe, and later online. I didn’t just love reading these books; I loved thinking about them, looking at them, and simply having them around me.

I had saved greeting cards from my wife, children, grandchildren, and friends over the years, and they were spread out on the floor. The day before the fire, I unexpectedly decided to go through that box of cards. I’m grateful I did, because it allowed me one last chance to read the heartfelt messages inside.

A poster for “Three Days of the Condor,” signed by Robert Redford himself, used to be a focal point on my wall. I had stacks of my scripts – many of them autographed by the actors who performed my dialogue. An old trunk under the table held everything from my terrible early poetry and legal will to TV show keepsakes, alongside the books I was reading at the time.

Seeing the fire so close and really looking at all my belongings, I just stopped, paralyzed. I had no idea what to save first. I needed more time – and a moving truck – to think clearly and decide what was most important. It hit me that everything here would be gone the next time I returned. And I realized with a shock that I hadn’t prepared for this at all.

I was scrambling to get out of there, and my gaze swept over my John Irving collection – books I’d carefully gathered ever since I discovered his work with “Garp” when I was younger. I started with that one copy and slowly built it up until I had almost everything he’d written, except for “The Last Chairlift.” I’d been hunting for a signed copy of that one since it came out, but couldn’t find one anywhere. I raced down to the garage, grabbed a couple of tote bags, ran back upstairs, quickly packed all my books, and drove off with just the clothes on my back, my wife, our dogs, and, of course, my Irving novels.

Sometimes I wake up upset, picturing the fire and how it destroyed that room. I often wonder how it started – did it come in through the windows I’d carelessly left open, or did it begin on the roof? I keep imagining the flames consuming everything, melting the stained glass, and ultimately destroying my precious books.

After spending three weeks living with my daughter, her husband, and their kids, we finally found a rental in Studio City. Just a couple of days after moving in, we took the dogs for a walk and discovered one of those charming Little Free Libraries – the kind book lovers build and share in their front yards. I always feel drawn to them, eager to see what books I might find.

I was stunned to find a first edition hardcover of John Irving’s “The Last Chairlift” standing upright, cover facing out. I have no idea how it got there, just like I don’t understand the good fortune I’ve had with my writing, my successful marriage, or even the devastating fire that destroyed my home. But there it was – a welcome comfort to the lingering emotional and physical wounds. The book seemed to arrive at exactly the right moment, in the room of the rental house where I work. It was, until recently, the only complete set of books I owned, standing alongside its fourteen companions.

Putting my copy of “The Last Chairlift” on the shelf with my other signed books, I recalled that a friend of mine had once been a student in John Irving’s class at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. I started thinking about whether she’d be willing to ask him – or his representative – if he’d sign my copy. It felt special, like the book was already becoming part of a collection, standing alongside the others as a treasured item.

I emailed a friend and shared what happened to me. It’s strange to think that losing everything led me to ask a friend to contact someone I deeply admire – a writer I consider the best of our time. The price I paid was high, and there’s no changing the past. But I’m determined to make the most of this unexpected chance. Irving had always believed in my vision, and now, even after everything fell apart, he’s still here with me.

It turned out my friend hadn’t spoken to Mr. Irving in a while, but she did have an old email address for him, though she wasn’t sure if it still worked. The next day, after a lot of hesitation and several attempts, I finally emailed John Irving and told him my story. I was incredibly nervous – I’d admired him my whole career and always hoped to write as well as he did – and almost gave up. But I pushed through, kept the email brief, and sent it.

It had been two weeks, and I was starting to worry. I kept hoping my email had gotten lost, or that he just hadn’t seen it yet. But deep down, I suspected he was upset that I’d reached out, feeling like I’d overstepped. I should have realized he values his privacy and that emailing him out of the blue wasn’t a good idea. I was feeling really desperate to connect, but also terrible that I might have come across as pushy – that was definitely not my intention.

Then came Sunday. I was enjoying a sunny afternoon with my grandsons when I received an email – a surprisingly well-written and kind one from John Irving. He expressed his sympathy for our loss and shared how deeply he understood our pain, explaining his own personal connection to the Palisades fire.

I sent the book off a week later, and two weeks after that, it came back with a personal message from John Irving: “For John Wirth, with my appreciation, John Irving.” As I write this, both “The Last Chairlift” and “The World According to Garp” are on the shelf behind me. Looking at them, I see a clear beginning and end – and perhaps the start of something new.

These books don’t replace the home we lost, and they can’t truly make up for it. But the stories within them, combined with my own memories of how I acquired them, somehow feel like home.

The settings in Washington Irving’s stories feel accessible, like places I can visit anytime. They remind me of my childhood home, which I often think about late at night. I’ll wake up around 3 a.m. and picture myself standing in the doorway, looking out at the porch and the world as it used to be.

John Wirth leads the popular AMC series “Dark Winds.” He’s a highly experienced television writer and producer, responsible for countless hours of programming. He also created the Television Writers Handbook for the Writers Guild of America, which later developed into the Showrunner Training Program. He’s worked primarily with AMC for the past fifteen years.

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2026-01-08 14:32