In 1985, I was ten years old in the tiny town of Troy, Montana. It wasn’t easy being a gay kid, even harder to be a precocious reader. Banned from reading the adult books at our public library, I snuck in my sister’s hope chest, and discovered Harlequin romances. They were dirty, and I liked that, but there was a lack of fashion, feminism, the high stakes I had witnessed in my mother’s own marriages. At the time, my life was incredibly lonely; isolation and desperation beat me down, stronger and more cunning than the bullies at school. I thought my small town was the entire universe, and ten years was more than enough. I wanted to end it. It was fate, I think—one summer day, I found salvation in our grocery store, in the spinning rack of used paperbacks. The author photo hooked me. Jackie Collins was a ferociously beautiful woman with daring eyes; her mouth was grim and determined, just like my own school pictures.
I fell hard for “Chances,” bought the rest of her books with money made keeping score for my sister’s softball team, a group of big-haired, big-hearted broads that I worshiped. During softball tournaments, I made five dollars a game, came home sunburned and flush with paperback cash. In those books, I found hope; there was another world waiting for me. I no longer thought of suicide. I wanted to stick around long enough to war with the mafia, wear haute couture to a hostile corporate takeover. Lucky Santangelo was a fighter, and I felt we were twinned—opinionated, determined, destined to grow up beautiful and bossy.
Reading Jackie was my education, a correspondence course in business, law, self-promotion, and high fashion. In Jackie’s books, the protagonists come from nothing, end up with everything, and then unleash vengeance on those that scorned them. I wanted revenge on my bullies. I wanted to grow up and have passionate sex with dangerous men, just like Lucky. I got my wish.
Seven years later, I made my escape. At the state university, I majored in writing, but immediately found the junkies and drunks. I only wrote when I was drunk or high, but thankfully, that was often. I wore fur coats from the thrift store, showed up to writing workshops with smeared mascara and a snarl. I thought I was Lucky, but I was anything but. I shared needles and stole boyfriends, mistook danger for glamour. Lucky never had burn scars from crack pipes.
In 2005, I got sober, set fire to my old life, never thought I would write again. Seven years into my recovery, my therapist threw a blank notebook at me and ordered me into the woods. The words came. In a week, I wrote the entire first draft of my novel longhand, sitting at a kitchen table that looked out on a frozen lake. I wrote a novel about a gay kid in a small town in Montana, who spends his softball money on Jackie Collins books. It was the story I needed to tell, and I wrote it sober. Jackie saved my life once again.
Like every good gay, I followed Jackie on Twitter. On Halloween, 2013, I entered her costume contest, and sent a picture of myself dressed in hot glue gun couture, The Gay Angel Of Death. When I won, I was sure it was a sign. Jackie sent two autographed books, and I framed the inscription, hung it above my writing desk: “To Richard—Always remain strong and positive and know that you can do ANYTHING!!” The night before my book went to auction, my best friend in Troy made a shrine for luck—a photo of Jackie, a softball glove, and candles. The next day, my book sold.
Six months later, I took a chance, and channeling Lucky Santangelo, boldly sent an email to Jackie’s publicist. Within a day, Jackie had agreed to read The Flood Girls. A month later, Jackie offered a glowing review of the book, and I wept. Her blurb is on the front cover of my book, and I believe I am the last author to receive that honor. Last week, I found out that Jackie had passed on. She knew she was dying, had known for the last two years. I cannot fathom the fact she spent some of her last days, those precious hours, reading a book by some kid in Montana. I will always imagine her sitting in an expensive leopard print chair, reading my book, laughing at a redneck gay boy in Montana obsessed with her novels. I imagine that she would appreciate this journey—like one of her characters, I fought my way back, and learned how to love and live without fear. Jackie Collins saved my life, and her encouragement has made me believe it is a life worth saving. I am the lucky one.
