I had just finished a second draft of my memoir turned novel when my friend, David, invited my husband and me to dinner one evening. He told us that he had also invited another man, Michael, who we had met once time before, and he hoped that we would finally have a chance to get to know one another. I was hesitant. I didn’t know Michael, but thought that perhaps we would find ourselves staring off into space rather than finding common ground. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Within minutes of sitting down, Michael and I struck up a conversation about writing. I told him about my memoir/novel. He told me that he’d been writing for years and had had several plays produced. I confessed that I was at a point where I had taught myself as much as I could and was in sore need of a teacher to guide me through a third draft of my book. He told me that he had “the best writing teacher on the planet,” the author John Rechy, who he described as a little leprechaun of a man. “John is just who you need,” he said, “let me talk to him about you.” Within a scant thirty minutes of conversation, I went from frustrated to hopeful, and just a bit afraid.
Michael was good to his word. Within a day or so, I received an email from him saying that John was beginning a new workshop within a few days and that a regular member could not attend due to European travel plans. Was I interested? The time line for this workshop was a tough one for me. My brother, George, was terminally ill with cancer and his life was hanging by a thread. Could I take on this workshop at such a difficult moment? Would I be able to bring in my best work to a group of twelve people, who comprised John Rechy’s “Master Class?” John Rechy, who was the critically acclaimed author of many novels, and a professor in the Master’s writing program at USC? I wanted to say no, but knew I needed to say yes. I screwed up my courage and asked exactly when we’d begin.
I decided to submit first in the workshop since I wasn’t sure that John would want me to continue after he’d seen my writing. Cut to the chase was my attitude. If my work was substandard, I would only have to endure one session rather than sweat it out over the entire nine weeks of the workshop. John usually assessed all the writing candidates in advance, but out of respect for Michael, who had been his student for several years, he agreed to take me sight unseen. The only problem was that Michael hadn’t read my writing either, so they were both taking me purely on faith. I was terrified.
I submitted my work the week prior to the first class, which was on the follow Tuesday evening. Over that weekend, George called to say good-bye. He was certain he would die in just a day or two. I immediately begged him to wait for me, then talked to my husband, who insisted that I take a red-eye flight to Texas. On the way to the airport, I wrote John an email explaining that I had to cancel my submission. “My brother is dying. I am so sorry, but I must see him. I will come to the workshop as soon as I return.” George did die – another story worth writing at another time – and at the end of the week, I returned to LA. I contacted John who said that he would critique my work the following Tuesday at the writing group, which met in his home up in the Hollywood Hills at the top of Beechwood Canyon. “Yes,” I said, “I’ll be there.”
When I arrived on that Tuesday up in the hills, I met the other students who were waiting outside the door of John’s house. He opened the door at exactly 7 pm and we had all arrived at least fifteen minutes early. The group of writers was varied in age and occupation. Some were older, some younger, most in the middle of novels, and all students of John’s already for several years. I was the only newcomer. I saw Michael there, of course, and was glad. He assured me that this was a good decision, but said that John didn’t like people talking about the critique in advance.
John opened the door right on time and welcomed everyone in. He put out his hand to me, gave his condolences for my brother’s death, then ushered me into his lovely home. We all gathered around the dining room table and he turned to me. “My dear, I must tell you that your cancelling last week would normally have resulted in me automatically dropping you from the workshop. The extreme circumstance is the only reason I didn’t do that. However, please don’t cancel again on such short notice.”
I gulped. Not the best beginning. Plus, I wasn’t sure how I felt about his not recognizing what a huge loss I had just suffered. Still, I nodded and said, “I certainly will not.” From there, he spent the next hour going over the first fifteen pages of my manuscript with the most detailed and insightful critique I had ever received. By the end of that hour, I was hooked. Michael was right, here was the teacher that I had been looking for.
I stayed with John as a student for four solid years, rewriting my entire manuscript, before he retired two years ago. I must say his insights and words are with me every day. I haven’t found a publisher yet for that book, but not because of his lack of knowledge or help. (It is a first novel with all the awkwardness of a first attempt.) However, I have since begun a second novel and again his voice is always there. I am grateful for his guidance and, perhaps even more, for his unbridled love of writing and the creative process. As he often said as we all sat around that table, “Ladies and gentlemen, enjoy this moment. We have the privilege of spending this time together celebrating the written word. What else could be more important?”
It is often said that the right teacher will appear in your life when you need him/her. I found this to be true for me. I am so grateful to David for introducing me to Michael who gave me the opportunity to know and work with John. Who knew one dinner could reshape my life so profoundly?
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