The Wild Ride.

6 am and 74 degrees.
Baby horse tried to buck me off yesterday.
He has never done anything remotely naughty, but there is a first time for everything.
He is learning how to jump - or more accurately he is learning how to listen and carry a rider over a fence.
We trotted back and forth over a low cross rail and then started to canter.
He got the proverbial wild hair up the butt and took off bucking after the fence.
I jammed my heels down and tried to wrench his head up with the reins as he crow hopped across the arena.
I had visions of never holding a copy of my first book in my hands. I imagined my work becoming stellar merely because I was tragically killed before my debut novel was released. I wondered briefly if, like artists, my work would increase in value.
BUCK. BUCK.
BUCK.
I had time to think about all of this.
The vision of my 53 year old body becoming "arena pizza" as we equestrians term it.
The funeral.
The tears.
My friends from across the land sending condolences to my brave architect of a husband.
BUCK. BUCK.
I wished I had let him know what music I wanted played.
Mozart.
No.
Pachabel's Cannon in D minor.
No. Too over used. Besides, we used that for our wedding.
Bach.
Yes. Bach.
The Andante from Sonata #2 in A minor.
BUCK. BUCK.
I feel myself start to loosen.
Baby horse hesitates. If he were older he would know that I am close to coming off and he would make one final effort.
But he does not.
He gives up and stops.
His sides are heaving. His ears flick back and forth to me.
I am safe.
I adjust my position and take back up the reins.
He appears somewhat guilty and embarrassed but that is only my ability to occasionally anthropomorphize.
He waits.
The crowd around the arena erupts in cheers.
I have survived.
And that, my fellow bloggers, is the difference between published writers and those who remain unpublished.
Survival.
The ability to stick to it even though it appears hopeless and the odds are stacked against you.
Riding every metaphorical buck and crow hop the publishing world throws at you.
No matter what.
Survival.
And so endeth lesson 2 from ORION.