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not. I could get an audience going. I was out there on my own. My own boss. I learned to write my own lines, and then I learned something else: not to write them, to just stand on a stage and let things float to me, sudden sayings, riffs and swerves, which is the best art and the best humor: unplanned.

    I didn’t need to know a lot about Bill Geddie, or any boss really, to know that the whole point of management is planning. Bosses plan their company, their strategy, their time, their talk. At heart, I’m an improviser, not a planner. That’s why I knew it would be a challenge to have any kind of boss, Bill Geddie or otherwise, but I knew I would try. I believed we both would. Despite the fact that he is a conservative and I am not, he also values human rights, so I knew there was some common core between us. At least I hoped so. Because this is what it’s all about: a common core.
    In the pre-show meetings that summer I felt the tensions of what was to come. These tensions are difficult to pinpoint in fact, but in my body they were not. Icy looks? Clenched fists? Tart tongues? No, not really, not then, certainly, when we were all trying our best to make it work. It was hot that summer, and I seemed to always sweat, because my body knew it needed to feel fear. I am a fat, loud, say-it-like-it-is-far-left-liberal while Barbara is a petite, poised, cautious, polite hostess. Why did we think the combination could work? Why did
I
think the combination could work? Simple. I wanted her to like me. Maybe even love me. Because no matter how famous I am, a part of me is always on the outside, too heavy, too hot, too damn much, at least for myself. Say it like it is, Ro. Okay. But God, it can be hard to hear.
    I think I sensed what later became apparent, what later the media jumped all over: how upsetting I could be to Barbara, because I don’t like scripts, or pretense. Much later on, weeks later, months later, I remember reading a newspaper report: “Walters was white” it said. The journalist wrote that the normally perceptive Rosie O’Donnell went on and on about money when, in fact, Walters does not like to discuss these things.
    I sensed there were serious stylistic differences between me and the rest of
The View
right from the start. They were as restrained and circumspect as I am garrulous and on edge. And then there’s this. For six years I had my own show, ran things my own way, and these things reflected my beliefs at every level. My bottom line belief when it comes to almost anything is authenticity. If you are organic in your approach, you can be assured that good things will grow. On my show, I strove to say what was true for me regardless of its impact on advertisers or even the audience. When I said I loved Tickle Me Elmo, it was because I did, not because the company had some financial stock in that particular slice of airtime. It has always been of absolute importance to me to speak my mind, for better or for worse. Because I don’t actually have a choice. It’s my mind. It’s not a car I can trade in for something slicker, or smoother, or sweeter. It’s all I have to offer.
    In the beginning, though, I had so much hope, so many ideas for the show. One thing I wanted right off the bat: the set changed. I wanted gifts for the audience. My belief is that the audience should feel welcomed, special; they are your guests. When you welcome them onto the set you are, in a very real sense, welcoming them into your living room, your home away from home, and they should be treated to creature comforts. The audience should never have to wait outside in the rain for a seat in the show. They should never feel thirsty; they should have a place to put their coats, rest their feet, sit softly. These things are important to me; they reflect the real appreciation I feel for the people who take the time to hear me, crass, crap or cream, no matter. I like to give the audience gift bags, even, and we finally did that on
The