When I was a kid there was a big roller coaster at Six Flags in Kansas City called the ScreamRoller. It was the first upside down loop-di-loop I ever rode. I remember finishing my first ride on it and being amazed that upside-down wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the ninety degree sideways turn- when you found yourself looking over your shoulder at the ground a hundred feet down. Thinking about it now, I have to wonder if that was more frightening because it was a more familiar sort of fear. Perhaps the brain registers the danger of falling from that position more readily because that’s the usual way to fall, as opposed to dropping straight out of the sky onto the top of your head…
Whatever the root of this insane logic, it has never kept me from doing it again.
And again.
Fortunately for me right now, I have spent most of my life a roller-coaster junkie. My adult favorite is Space Mountain at Disneyland. There’s just something so exhilarating about stepping onto the platform at the end of a ride after willingly hurtling yourself through darkness and space- having no idea what’s waiting around the next bend-- and even before it’s over, you know that if the damned line wasn’t so long, you’d go right back and do it again. You take inventory of your body parts- all present and accounted for. Good. What else can I do that will shake up my guts like that did? Hmm…
I am riding the SpaceMountainScreamRoller of my life these days. Only in this fun park they disguise its true nature; they dress it in a suit and tie and call it the Publishing Industry. Instead of happy faces and mouse ears, the ticket takers work at the post office. They’re excited about your ride, they lick stamps and strap you in safely. Then ,up you go,into the darkness-- and up still further; a request for the partial, a request for the full, your hopes are mounting, breath comes in gasps--the contract is within reach--then WHOOSH! To the bottom again. The letter arrives. “nothankyounotrightformebestofluckinyoursearchforrepresentation.”
Staring at the listings in The Writer’s Market, I am struck by the same cruel irony I felt trying to find a part-time summer job when I was an undergrad. To be a waitress you need waitressing experience. Or know someone in the business. To get published, you have to have publishing credits. Or know someone in the business.
My eternal undying devotion and gratitude to the two women in this industry who have stepped up to the plate to help me in this thrill-ride so far. The simple knowledge that they have seen my work and believe in it and me is sometimes the only thing that gets me back onto this potential hurtling death-trap. Their confidence in my story is my seat belt and my safety bar. I wish there were more out there like them. More who are willing to step forward and say; “This is good stuff. Let me see what I can do to help.”
I never was a waitress, by the way. I may be the only person on earth with an advanced degree and no food-service job history. But I will be a published author.
I’m looking for my roller-coaster ticket again. It’s here somewhere.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Pedestrian X-ing
“I have lost friends, some by death, others through sheer inability to cross the street.” - Virginia Woolf
I have never been afraid to cross streets, real or metaphorical.
One legend that has been oft-repeated in my family is the story of my dad walking me to a play date with a friend when I was two or three. We came to an intersection, he instructed me to stay on the curb, and squatted down to show me how to look both ways. In the middle of the lesson, he glanced at my feet. One round-toed little Ked had sneaked down into the street. I looked at him with guileless eyes, and he knew he was in trouble. As a toddler I was already daring anything - be it traffic or my dad’s lesson- to stop me or even detain me momentarily from reaching my destination-- in this case a friend.
I’ve had some rather crucial “Street-crossing” phone calls this week. One was made by me, the other to me. Both marked important changes in long-term friendships.
The call I made was to Minnesota, to the residence of the first man I ever told “I love you.” This relationship is one of my most prized- both because of the length of time involved, and the nature of its beginning. It is unusual to have any communication drought between us and I had been chalking it up to normal busy-ness for awhile, but the truth is I had been concerned about it for some time. So when he missed my birthday, I picked up the phone. He wasn’t home, and I had an uninterrupted hour of phone time with his partner.
My “favorite gay ex-boyfriend” (FGEB) is finally, some twenty-five years later, pursuing his MFA in Theatrical Design, and has a show opening this weekend. The show, incidentally, is Peter Pan, one I have heard derisive guffaws from him about for several decades now. I can’t say for certain, but it may well have to do with the whole idea of clapping your hands if you believe in fairies.
And I say that with all good humor and love.
So partner and I had phone time. And I learned that the reason for extended silence from the land of 10,000 lakes has not been simple busy--ness, but that there has been some real trouble in paradise, and it is likely trouble of the irreparable kind. Which makes me very sad.
FGEB sang at my wedding half a lifetime ago, I flew up to read “Desiderata” at their commitment ceremony in 2000. I love them with every fiber of my being, and will be devastated by this split. I will maintain a relationship with both of them no matter what happens. I have been walking happily down the sidewalk with these two men for nine years now, and we have come to an intersection.
We are standing at the curb. We stop and look both ways. We make our way across together.
The call I received was from my favorite cousin B. In this case, I suspect a change may be in the offing; a “hook-up,” for lack of a more accurate term, between my life-long love-hate, adversarial adolescent off-limits summertime crush--turned adult confidante, frequent houseguest and trusted ally, B, and one of the dearest female friends I have ever had. With his phone call, I sensed that feelers were being extended in my direction to gauge my response, not as his cousin, but as a far more primary relationship and one he is less inclined to disregard: his friend.
And by so doing, I see that he doesn’t want us to get run over either. He’d like to step off the curb, but wants to be sure I will cross this street with him.
Of course I will. Because when I say “I love you,” I mean it for keeps.
At the top of my MySpace blog is a motto I thought long and hard about before posting. It is one I firmly believe. I have lost many “friends” over the years to street traffic, because they were willing to forsake fundamental things they claimed they believed, who they had been, and all they stood for when they were faced with adversity. There inevitably comes a moment when people must stand up and define themselves- stand alone and name out loud the hill upon which they are willing to die. I have done it many times. I have written the manifesto, I have climbed up on the soapbox, I have declared my independence. I’m sure I will do it again.
“I am every age I ever was,” because I honor my experiences. And because I honor them, FGEB, Cousin B, and several others have lifetime membership in my friendship hall of fame, with all the rights, benefits, and privileges inherent to that distinction.
Which include crossing busy streets in construction zones on rainy, moonless nights.
Together.
I have never been afraid to cross streets, real or metaphorical.
One legend that has been oft-repeated in my family is the story of my dad walking me to a play date with a friend when I was two or three. We came to an intersection, he instructed me to stay on the curb, and squatted down to show me how to look both ways. In the middle of the lesson, he glanced at my feet. One round-toed little Ked had sneaked down into the street. I looked at him with guileless eyes, and he knew he was in trouble. As a toddler I was already daring anything - be it traffic or my dad’s lesson- to stop me or even detain me momentarily from reaching my destination-- in this case a friend.
I’ve had some rather crucial “Street-crossing” phone calls this week. One was made by me, the other to me. Both marked important changes in long-term friendships.
The call I made was to Minnesota, to the residence of the first man I ever told “I love you.” This relationship is one of my most prized- both because of the length of time involved, and the nature of its beginning. It is unusual to have any communication drought between us and I had been chalking it up to normal busy-ness for awhile, but the truth is I had been concerned about it for some time. So when he missed my birthday, I picked up the phone. He wasn’t home, and I had an uninterrupted hour of phone time with his partner.
My “favorite gay ex-boyfriend” (FGEB) is finally, some twenty-five years later, pursuing his MFA in Theatrical Design, and has a show opening this weekend. The show, incidentally, is Peter Pan, one I have heard derisive guffaws from him about for several decades now. I can’t say for certain, but it may well have to do with the whole idea of clapping your hands if you believe in fairies.
And I say that with all good humor and love.
So partner and I had phone time. And I learned that the reason for extended silence from the land of 10,000 lakes has not been simple busy--ness, but that there has been some real trouble in paradise, and it is likely trouble of the irreparable kind. Which makes me very sad.
FGEB sang at my wedding half a lifetime ago, I flew up to read “Desiderata” at their commitment ceremony in 2000. I love them with every fiber of my being, and will be devastated by this split. I will maintain a relationship with both of them no matter what happens. I have been walking happily down the sidewalk with these two men for nine years now, and we have come to an intersection.
We are standing at the curb. We stop and look both ways. We make our way across together.
The call I received was from my favorite cousin B. In this case, I suspect a change may be in the offing; a “hook-up,” for lack of a more accurate term, between my life-long love-hate, adversarial adolescent off-limits summertime crush--turned adult confidante, frequent houseguest and trusted ally, B, and one of the dearest female friends I have ever had. With his phone call, I sensed that feelers were being extended in my direction to gauge my response, not as his cousin, but as a far more primary relationship and one he is less inclined to disregard: his friend.
And by so doing, I see that he doesn’t want us to get run over either. He’d like to step off the curb, but wants to be sure I will cross this street with him.
Of course I will. Because when I say “I love you,” I mean it for keeps.
At the top of my MySpace blog is a motto I thought long and hard about before posting. It is one I firmly believe. I have lost many “friends” over the years to street traffic, because they were willing to forsake fundamental things they claimed they believed, who they had been, and all they stood for when they were faced with adversity. There inevitably comes a moment when people must stand up and define themselves- stand alone and name out loud the hill upon which they are willing to die. I have done it many times. I have written the manifesto, I have climbed up on the soapbox, I have declared my independence. I’m sure I will do it again.
“I am every age I ever was,” because I honor my experiences. And because I honor them, FGEB, Cousin B, and several others have lifetime membership in my friendship hall of fame, with all the rights, benefits, and privileges inherent to that distinction.
Which include crossing busy streets in construction zones on rainy, moonless nights.
Together.
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