Meeting Rita was a miracle in itself—one of those impossible
synchronicities that make you believe in Divine intervention.
“When the student is ready the teacher will appear,” says Julia
Cameron. I believe it.
At my first RWA meeting I met two people—my then-and-always critique
partner Babette deJongh and Susie Nickson, the woman sitting next to me at
lunch. I talked to Susie about her
writing, and, in her quiet way, she told me Rita was starting a new class.
I was green enough to ask “Rita? Who’s
Rita?” I was floored to find out “Rita” was THE Rita as in THE
Rita awards and THE founder of RWA.
It took me three weeks to get up the courage to call. I expected an answering machine—had my speech all planned
out. So, I was shocked when THE
Rita answered the phone herself. My
palms sweated and I tried to sound composed, controlled.
“Yes, I’m calling about the writing classes.”
“Oh, the deadline was last week,” she said.
She told me she already had thirty-five manuscripts to read, and the
class wasn’t open to the public. I
needed to be “invited to apply” and she asked—demanded, really—who had
given me her number.
My heart sank and I felt like a fool.
I guess I mumbled something coherent.
Or at least something pitiful. Rita
was always willing to extend herself to someone with drive and persistence who
really wanted help. She asked if I
had my first chapter ready.
I lied and said yes.
She told me if I’d mail it immediately, she’d let me apply for the
class so I stayed up the next twenty-four hours revising chapter one.
Several months later, I got a letter.
“This is a very talented writer” was written at the top.
There were three more pages telling me how to re-write the whole chapter.
She was the first person who ever believed in me.
She saw the good stuff through all the writing flaws and knew how to help
me.
Rewritten chapter on the passenger seat of my cluttered van, I drove the
hour across town to attend my first writing class with Rita.
I found her place out in North Houston and climbed the steps to her condo
feeling sorta lost and crazy. The
door stood open and four other women were there. We sat on the overstuffed couches in her living room,
waiting. And waiting.
And waiting. My nervousness got the best of me and I spilled hot tea all
over my skirt.
After thirty minutes, Rita appeared, wearing a colorful silky muumuu and
house slippers. Her hair was
perfectly coifed, and her skin had that beautiful pale, translucent quality that
Hollywood stars pay thousands to copy.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, girls,” she said, but later we learned
she did so on purpose—she knew how hard critique was, and she felt we needed
space to get comfortable with each other.
She made introductions,
welcomed us and showed us a library of books her students had written.
She had a poster on the wall—a copy of the cover for Passion Star, one
of her novels. The original oil
painting sold for a lot of money at auction.
She said she couldn’t have afforded it.
I told her she should have borrowed the money, signed the painting and
re-sold it for five grand more than the loan.
We laughed and Rita gave me one of her looks—direct eye contact, a
smile, and one eyebrow lifted.
“I like the way you think, honey,” she said.
The first few months of Rita’s class were rough.
Rita would read us a lesson. We
would write it word-for-word on paper. (Later
we graduated to laptops and AlphaSmarts.) Then
she’d read our work aloud in a sort of monotone voice.
It was excruciating. All our
“perfect” words read with such... nothingness.
Some of us grumbled about this away from class, but after someone read my
work to a group in a singsong voice like she was making fun of it, I decided
Rita was a genius. She left her ego
behind in order to teach us how to make the writing speak for itself.
Rita never pulled punches in critique, and this didn’t exactly always
win friends and influence people, if you know what I mean—so several people
quit. I can’t blame them, but I
feel sorry for them all the same. They
missed an amazing opportunity.
She was one of those independent, opinionated women who got herself into
a lot of trouble. I can think of
several well-known people she didn’t mesh with because she refused to pretend
something she didn’t feel, or say something she didn’t mean. Rita would say, “If I don’t tell the truth about your
work in critique, God will take my talent away from me.” She was one of the most authentic people I’ve ever known.
You could trust her not to B.S. you just because it happened to be
depressing or irritating that your first drafts weren’t Pulitzer Prize
material.
It was harder than hell to get chapter one “approved” so you could
move on to chapter two. You’d
work and work and work… bring it into class.
Rita would read it aloud and everybody would tell you stuff you needed to
fix. So you’d take it home and
cry and get angry and bitch and whine. Then
you’d work and work and work… bring it into class (surely to God it was
perfect this time) and everyone would tell you stuff you needed to fix. So you’d cry and get angry and bitch and whine.
Then… well, it was six months before mine got “good enough” to move
on.
I learned more about critique and alligator skin in those six months than
some people learn in six years. If
I hadn’t honestly seen other people’s material getting better, I would have
quit. My friend Babette told me to
quit—that I was obsessing and making myself nuts.
She was right.
But then my chapter finally passed, and instead of quitting, I talked her
into joining the class. Rita
hadn’t been planning to add new members, but gave Babette special
consideration on my recommendation.
One of the other students, Betty Pichardo, and I exchanged phone numbers.
We started having long phone conversations outside of class to bolster
our confidence.
Rita had rules like “don’t critique outside of class with anyone.”
We ignored these, although we were never brave enough to confess our
defiance to Rita—she was a bit like Mother Superior in that aspect.
Now that I really think about it, I bet Rita would just smile at our
naughtiness and tell us she never really obeyed rules and dictates either.
It didn’t take Babette nearly as long to get through chapter one.
We both learned so much. We’d
ride to class together, then complain and analyze and decompress all the way
home. We held each other’s hand
when the writing and critique got rough, we celebrated each other’s joys and
we worked like crazy toward our writing goals.
Other people came and went. Betty,
Babette and I stuck it out. For a
while it was just the three of us. Sometimes
our chapters got approved right away; sometimes we just gave up on a section of
our writing and went to the next chapter anyway.
Whenever I got too stubborn about not wanting to change something, Rita
would just shrug and say, “It’s your story, honey.” Every now and then she would smile, look delighted, and say,
“Perfect.” Up and down we rode
the waves, learning persistence and determination along the way.
After critique, Rita always said, “I love your story, honey” or
“You are a very talented writer.” She
always had cake, coffee and tea for us. She
always hugged us at the end of class and told us she believed in us.
She told us stories about other writers who’d made it after going
through the same tears and frustrations we were going through.
Sometimes I’d call her mid-month in despair and she’d reiterate,
“you’re going to make it.”
One time I decided I was going to bail—I was convinced I wasn’t getting
enough out of the process and it was taking too long. Then Rita re-did
some lesson that month on scene and sequel. And I got it...really GOT it.
I went back to thinking Rita was a genius, and I knew right then and there, I
wouldn’t quit her class until “death do us part.” She was eighty-two
years old by this time. I knew whatever time she had left wasn’t long,
and I needed to be counting my blessings that she’d come into my life.
Rita always gave 100%, even when it was bloody.
One time she argued with me for an hour and a half after class about how
I needed to change my hero, make him less “disgusting.”
I’ll never forget this, because it was a real turning point in my
writing. I thought I was writing
him one way, but the reader was seeing something else.
I fixed him—I didn’t change him—I just fixed my writing so
the reader could see him the way I saw him.
I still had a lot to learn, but I started finaling in contests after
this.
I am deeply grateful for my two and a half years with her.
In one way or another, every success I have had in writing I owe to her.
I am inspired by her. I love
her so much. I miss her so much.
I have been so blessed to have known her.
My life has been forever changed—not just my writing but my whole sense
of being. Thank you, God, for
letting Rita Gallagher come into my life.
