Hit and Run
I hit, he ran…
Mad Love is a 90s movie starring Drew Barrymore in which she drives an old yellow Beetle. One of the classic scenes shows her kicking at the back hatch in the school parking lot while Chris O’Donnell and Matthew Lillard look on. I became obsessed. I wanted that car. I didn’t care about the engine or the gas mileage or that it was basically a tin can on wheels. It was purely aesthetic for me. I was in love.
If I ever win a stupid amount of money in the lottery (of course, you have to play the lottery to win the lottery, but whatever, this is my dream) I would buy myself a Jeep (practical, sexy, reliable, super fun to drive, and a-okay for Canadian winters), a vintage Beetle (because high school me needs this to prove that dreams really do come true), and a vintage Volkswagen van (because duh). And then I guess I’d need some kind of Jerry Seinfeld garage to keep them all safe. I’d also get a fully restored vintage VW camper van, but that one I will store in my Tuscan Valley shed so I can road trip to a different part of Europe every year. (I won the lottery, remember? I can afford a property on every continent.)
A vehicle says a lot about a person. That’s why I feel most purely myself when I’m in my 1981 vintage Roadtrek. I feel understood. Like people see me on a deeper level when they see me in that van. Like I’m part of a community. (Did you know that Roadtrek owners wave enthusiastically to one another when they pass on the highway? Just like Jeep owners, but less cool and with way more nerdiness and friends-forever vibes.)
We once owned an old station wagon with wood panelling, a dial radio, and rear-facing seats in the back. We bought it from an old man for $1000 and it ran for a year. That was a great car! Before we were married my husband bought a car from his friend’s mom for $1 and on the way home from picking it up, the cardboard that had been glued to the undercarriage with rubber spray in order to pass the safety blew off and I could watch the highway fly by through the floor.
For years we drove a Volkswagen Passat Wagon. It was a wonderful car for us. Leather seats, great storage in the hatch, a big enough back seat for all three kids to fit comfortably, even with car seats. We’d probably still be driving that car if I hadn’t hit a deer ten minutes from home while driving through a snow storm at 3 a.m.
That deer was the first thing I killed with that car, but it wasn’t the first thing I hit. Once, I hit a kid.
We were preparing to go to the drive-in. My husband was on shift work so it was just the kids and I. We left early in order to stop at Walmart for snacks (because a person who was once okay to drive around in a vehicle without a floor does not waste hard earned money on concession snacks!) To enter the parking lot, one must navigate along the back side of a Mark’s Work Warehouse, turn right, and then choose a parking aisle to the left. As I turned right, a flash of something whizzed out from the front of Mark’s, coming directly in front of my wagon.
I wasn’t going fast, and I reacted quickly, but I still knocked that kid right off his bike.
He jumped back up, his hands on my hood, his eyes popping as they connected with mine. I rushed from the car as he gathered his bike, the front tire practically folded in half. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Are you okay?” I asked. But I didn’t even get close to him. He took off running through the Walmart parking lot, awkwardly carrying his bent up bike.
I got back into my car, pulled into a parking spot, and called the local police.
The dispatch lady asked me to explain what happened. “And is the boy okay?” she asked. “Should I send an ambulance?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He ran away. So, I guess he’s fine?”
She took down all my information and said an officer would be in touch, and yes, go ahead and get your snacks and go to the drive-in.
Nearly an hour later and within minutes of the movie starting, while the kids played on the grassy area in front of the screen where you can make shadow puppets to entertain the crowd, I told the whole story to a policeman who chuckled softly. “He was probably just worried about getting in trouble for his busted bike.”
Based on my testimony, the officer assured me that I had done nothing wrong and kids should know better than to ride wildly around parking lots—and without a helmet, no less—and no one was hurt (save the bike) so no harm, no foul. And yes, if an angry parent called the station, I might have to come in and meet with them, but if I don’t hear anything after a few days, I could consider the matter closed.
What a touch of grace that kept everyone safe that day!
This happened years ago, and I still think about that kid. He’d be an adult now. I wonder if he ever tells the story of the mom who hit him with her station wagon. I wonder if he tells it differently than I do. I wonder if he got grounded for his ruined bike, or if he had to do extra chores in order to buy himself a new one. I also wonder why he ran away, but I think I know.
Sometimes, when life knocks us down, our instinct is to cower. We want to hide from the thing that hurt or threatened us. It feels safer to lick our wounds in private than to ask for help.
Putting our creations out into the world is vulnerable work. Whether it’s submitting a poem to a literary magazine, a sketch to an art contest, or a manuscript to a publisher; it’s like riding wildly through a parking lot without a helmet. Rejection can feel like getting hit by a car, and it’s easy to get up, grab your wounded art, and hide.
I know many of you are on a path to finding a home for your work, so I want to encourage you to lean into rejections and learn from them. An understanding driver (publisher) won’t just knock you off your bike and speed away. If you’re open to it, they should be willing to provide feedback that will strengthen you for your next ride. With advice, guidance, and constructive criticism that you’re open to receiving with grace, you can find yourself decked out in full riding gear: knee pads, elbow pads, gloves. You’ll build an armour of defense against rejection until finally, you’ll have a piece so polished and perfect that you don’t even need your bike — you’ll just stand there with confidence, holding your art in your leather-clad hands. The car will stop before it reaches you because you’ve learned that space is required to enter a safe partnership, and eventually, both parties will enthusiastically say yes.
My main mission at Chicken House Press is to make space for deserving voices that are often ignored by the big industry gatekeepers. Not every manuscript that crosses my desk is signed on for publication, but that doesn’t mean that every manuscript is not full of value. I work very hard to provide really thoughtful feedback on the pieces I don’t accept. I think this is the exchange that every publisher should have with their prospects (though I know this is not the case for many of the big corporations). I can only speak for myself, and this is a commitment I can stand behind because it’s what I wished I received when I had work out on submission. If a publisher is not willing to speak into the development of the authors of tomorrow, then what is the point of all this?
There’s a scene in Mad Love where Chris O’Donnell picks up Drew Barrymore’s notebook which she left behind in the library. When she returns to retrieve it he says, “You forgot your book.”
Don’t be like Drew. Don’t let a little knock down cause you to abandon that thing you love. Don’t leave your book behind. Keep pushing. Keep writing. Keep telling stories. And if someone asks if you’re okay, for goodness sake, don’t run away. Let them teach you something about not getting knocked down the next time you’re doing tricks in the parking lot. Learn how to take your manuscript from a $1 beater with a missing cardboard floor, to a fully restored, 1967 Beetle that is full of heart and meaning.
