Thrill Ride

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.