Read, Ride, Repeat
Finding Myself in the Stories of Theme Parks
Theme parks promise escape. That's their whole thing: leave the real world behind, step into one of imagination. But for those of us living at the intersection of queerness, literature, and a love of immersive entertainment (particularly those of us doing so without children in tow) theme parks are not just escapes. They are puzzles. Places that ask us to question where we fit in the narrative.
I'm a gay writer with no kids and no plans to have any. I still day trips. I still buy seasonal churros. I still dance along with the parade. Though every time I pass a family of four posing in front of the castle in matching shirts, I feel a little ripple of self-awareness. These parks were not built for me, but I've claimed them anyway. And one way I've done that is through books.
More accurately: through the stories that began as books before they became rides, shows, and souvenirs. Theme parks are supposed to be the ultimate visual medium, yet so many of their most beloved attractions owe their existence to quiet, printed words. This literary foundation is where I've always felt at home, even in a world screaming with spectacle.
Paperbacks to Popcorn Franchises
At Universal Studios Hollywood, it's easy to forget you're walking through stories. The branding screams MOVIES! in ten-foot letters, and you're constantly being reminded that you're on a "real working studio backlot." Don't forget that much of the cinematic spectacle owes its origin to the literary world.
Let's talk about JAWS. Right now, the USH is celebrating it as part of their Mega Movie Summer. The mechanical shark still snaps its teeth at passing trams, and audiences still scream even though they know what's coming. But long before Spielberg's film, JAWS was a novel by Peter Benchley—a story that tapped into environmental anxieties, local politics, and the quiet dread of being powerless in nature. It was not a crowd-pleaser; it was haunting. The fact that this horror novel gave birth to one of the biggest summer blockbusters, which then morphed into one of the park's most enduring attractions, is the kind of narrative evolution that makes me feel… oddly connected. If stories can survive transformation, so can we.
Then there's Jurassic World. Most visitors come for the drop ride and the roaring Tyrannosaurus finale. Some of us also remember the original version, inspired by Michael Crichton's 1990 novel. I experienced the attraction first, long before I read the book. When I finally did, with its blend of science fiction, philosophical questions, and unchecked ambition, it reshaped how I saw the ride. What once felt like pure spectacle became part of a much bigger story.
And don't sleep on the Studio Tour. The quiet streets of the backlot are lined with stories: Psycho, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Sting. Many of the buildings you drive past were constructed for films based on books. Sometimes it feels like a ghost town of literature with buildings emptied of their words but not their weight.
The Rewritten Fairy Tales We Grew Up With
Disneyland wears its literary origins proudly, though often softened and rewritten beyond recognition. Still, the bones are there.
Every child who rides Peter Pan's Flight is gliding through J.M. Barrie's text, whether they realize it or not. The Queen of Hearts shouting in Alice in Wonderland? She's Carrollian. Winnie the Pooh, The Little Mermaid, Snow White are all page-to-screen-to-ride transformations. Their presence in the park is a quiet victory for literature, even if the original authors might not recognize what's been done with their work.
One space that has never left me is the now-closed Beast's Library in Disney California Adventure. It lived in the back of the Animation Building, tucked away from the crowds, and it felt like a portal. A dark, immersive room with velvet drapes, flickering candles, and towering backlit bookshelves. Guests took a quiz to determine which Disney character they most resembled, while the room responded to the Beast's temper with thunder and lightning.
There was no ride. No thrill. No gift shop. Just mood. Just story.
I visited Beast's Library again and again—not to find out which character I matched, but to feel surrounded by a narrative that invited stillness and introspection. It felt like one of the only places in the park that didn't demand family, motion, or performance. It simply asked you to step into a room full of books and listen.
When Parks Inspire Books
The relationship between literature and theme parks is reciprocal. Sometimes the book comes first. Sometimes the park does.
A Little Bit Country by Brian D. Kennedy is a contemporary queer YA novel directly inspired by Dollywood. It's about two boys falling in love inside a country music theme park full of Southern charm and queer tension. For me, the book felt like a reclamation. Theme parks often leave queer people out of the love stories they tell, so we write our own.
And this is just one example. Parks have inspired entire genres: horror (Cameron Chaney's There's Something Wrong in the Magic Kingdom), romance (Meet Me in the Middle by Alex Light), fantasy (Kingdom Keepers by Ridley Pearson). In each, the theme park becomes more than a backdrop; it becomes a metaphor. For nostalgia. For control. For queerness. For freedom.
I'm fascinated by this loop: a novel becomes a ride, which becomes part of culture, which inspires another novel. There's something queer about that kind of narrative reincarnation as it's fluid, transformative, never fixed.
Belonging Without a Stroller
So, what does it mean to be a gay man in a theme park without kids?
It means occupying a space not designed with you in mind, and still finding joy there anyway. It means knowing that these parks are built on stories, and stories belong to everyone. It means walking through a fairy tale and knowing it's not centered on a prince and a princess. It's a story about transformation and finding your own happily ever after.
Theme parks may brand themselves as "family-friendly," but families look different to all of us. Some families involve strollers. Others involve found family, long-distance friends, or the characters we meet in books who make us feel seen.
When I'm standing in a queue beneath a towering castle or riding past a river of dinosaurs, I know I may not be the target demographic. What I also know is this: I belong to the story. And the story, whether bound in leather or wrapped in neon, has always belonged to me too.
Written by Daryl Marez | Hiya! Subscribe to my author newsletter to receive news & project updates—Check out my other links for more.