Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part IV)

This is a continuation. To read from the beginning, click here.

Stephen Cannell took the podium to speak. Next to him was an easel with a montage of his different productions, including a photo of him and Mr. T. (Insert "I pity the fool" joke here.) He spun some stories about his life and his beginnings as a writer, many of which can be found here in an excellent interview on "Unscripted." I sincerely urge you to watch it; I found it so inspiring I showed it to my students at school. He talked about the importance of teachers not giving up on their students, as an influential one of his didn't. He also gave a very succinct and intriguing teaser for his book, "The Pallbearers." Having tried my hand at query letters this week, this is a lot harder than it looks. I had the feeling that these stories were not ex tempore (he is on a book tour, after all), but they were delivered with a compelling freshness and earnestness nonetheless.

20 minutes later, it was time for the Q & A. I thought I'd hang back and see if other questions I may have wanted to ask were asked, and I thought the majority of the group's queries were sensible ones.

Jonny asked a primo question--"what makes a good story?"--and Stephen gave a brief explanation of the three-act structure, and also a caveat that the writer should be interested in what he's writing.

Another fellow asked for a Peter Graves anecdote. Someone else asked about the 21 Jump Street movie, and Stephen related that Johnny Depp had been in communication with him about making a cameo. The A-Team movie is going to be released June 11 (and you best believe me and Jonny will be there...book!)

Finally, Stephen called on me, and I asked:

"I'm an aspiring writer, and I know I should ask about writing, but my wife would kill me if I didn't ask this. Ice Spiders. Last winter I was at my mother-in-law's house, and we were saw it on the SyFy channel, and I was like 'Oh my god, it's Stephen Cannell! I watched it to the end just to make sure."

"That wasn't me," Stephen said. Then, immediately, chuckling: "Yeah, that was me."

A quick word about Ice Spiders. Skiiers, a nearby military base, and...and it's the SyFy channel. If you actually require more information, click here.

Why would I ask such a question? I thought he'd enjoy it--I thought it might be a change of pace from the typical questions he received...but I will say this, he handled it with poise and good humor. He talked about how he thought it was a decent script, and if the ice spiders were high quality, it would be a good movie.

"The spiders weren't high quality," he said, which is as negative as he got. I joked that I was afraid he had gambling debts, and that was why he decided to do it. He took it in stride, and related a story about how he basically became a taxi for actors flying back to L.A. (it was filmed in Utah) each weekend of the shoot.

He could have ridiculed the project, or expressed regret at having done it, but he did neither. I didn't think he'd throw anyone under the bus, but he was a lot more charitable than I expected. I even felt a little bad for having put him on the spot, to tell you the truth.

I defy anyone not to like this man, having met him. Impossible not to like him.

Next Time: Talking to The Man

For the next installment, click here.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part III)

This is a continuation. To read from the beginning, click here.

Stephen sat up on one of those thick Barnes and Noble tables, and his Sigma Ki brothers gathered around. His store contact offered to fetch him something from Starbucks, which he accepted, and an impromptu Q&A took place. I wasn’t part of this group, but if words of writing wisdom were being dropped, I wasn’t going to miss out. Jonny must have been thinking the same thing, and we soon edged in on the periphery.

One of the perks of being short is that you can finesse things like that.

To be honest, I can’t remember a lot of what he said. I was a little too amped. He talked about how when he started out, he wrote 5 hours a day after work every day for 6 years, and did not sell a thing. I had heard him say this before, and I think this has inspired me more than anything else he’s said. His wife would hold dinner until 10:30 for him. Wow. That’s dedication, and I can’t believe that anyone who is willing to be that committed can but succeed.

And it is a choice. I tell my students all the time that people find the time to do the things they want to do.

And I’ve done it in my own life. When I had it in my mind to play piano professionally (I was a piano performance major at Ball State), I was practicing 5-6 hours a day during the week, on top of my classes, assistantship, and homework. I told myself that other people may have more talent, but they will not outwork me. When I entered competitions, it was always in the back of my head that one of my competitors was out there practicing, right then. That right there motivated me to get my ass to a practice room.

I became very good. Yeah, my priorities changed when I met my wife, and I realized that I didn’t love the piano enough to make it my career, but what the experience taught me was that a person’s ceiling is far higher than they ever suspect, given enough work. People are really bad judges of what they’re capable of. Better just to assume no limits.

I guess that’s why what Stephen was saying resonated so much with me. Because I knew it was true. And if I’m not where I want to be, a large part of it must be that I simply haven’t worked hard enough yet. It’s not going to come to me. I have to go get it, like he did. Plus, unlike Stephen, I’m not fighting dyslexia, so what’s my excuse? Exactly.

After the event, my buddy said that the amount of work he put in after a full day on the job made him feel like a pussy. Ditto, Jonny, ditto.

Gustave Flaubert said that talent is a prolonged patience. Dorothy Parker said the secret to writing is getting your ass in the chair. It’s all true.

About twenty minutes before seven, Jonny suggested that we find a seat. It was a good thing he did, because mentally, I was swimming. As fortune would have it, there were two seats available right in front of the podium. I had a fleeting thought that we should take a pass on them so someone elderly, hard of hearing, or disabled could sit there, but it was only a fleeting thought. The idea of being less than 10 feet away from one of my few living literary heroes made me grab that seat like it was the last one in a game of musical chairs.

I started thinking about the question I would ask.

Next time: Ice Spiders!

For the next installment, click here.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part II)

This is a continuation. To read from the beginning, click here.

The day went by quickly, and at the end of school I was gone as if I had been shot out of a cannon.

On to Chicago, normally two hours away. I am an idiot, and it took me three.
Why? Sleep deprivation is the most likely culprit. I can’t begin to justify the route I took, although at the time I thought I was going to save money on tolls. (The last time I went to O’Hare, I think I wound up spending about $10, but that’s a different story.)

Have you ever pulled an all-nighter to write a paper? Sure, when you’re writing it, all jittery from No-Doz, you’re thinking, “Hey! This shit is brilliant!”

Then you wake up, read it again, and wonder what six-year old hijacked your paper.

My wife had to guide me in via cell phone and internet. As it turns out, I could have taken I-294 basically all the way to the Barnes and Noble where the book signing was being held. For the whopping cost of 80 cents.

Hitting the B&N with an hour to spare, I ran into my old college roommate Jonny, rocking his black motorcycle jacket pretty hard. He’s a little stouter these days, as am I, but he’s a guy who’s never been ashamed to like what he likes, and the perfect wingman for an adventure like this.

We asked each other cordial questions about each other’s lives and families, the kind of things adults do when they get together, but if I’m going to be honest, I was pretty distracted. I’d like to think of myself as a fairly focused, heady guy—-not the kind of person who gets star-struck—-but frankly my radio was all over the dial. I started noticing the oddest things:

This Barnes and Noble is huge!

I wonder if they carry Strategy and Tactics here, and if so, if they have the version that comes with the game.

Why does my finger hurt so much?

Yeah, that last one…about ten minutes after I arrived, I mindlessly put my hand in my pocket. My debit card was in there, and I bamboo-chuted myself with it. I pulled a bloody finger out of my pocket. It hurt like crazy.

Idiot.

We found the corner of the store where the shindig was to take place. I hadn’t known what to expect. Perhaps a rope line. There was a podium, a heavy rectangular table, and maybe a dozen rows of chairs. There were some older people already seated, and a number of well-dressed gentlemen milling about near the back. We settled in over by a post, standing and watching.

Then it happened. Quickly.

I turned, and there he was in front of me. This is not hyperbole. It was as if he had beamed in right next to me.

“Hey, how you doing?” he asked, shaking my hand vigorously.

Stephen Cannell is a tall guy. Or I’m a short guy. Probably both are true. He’s seen a lot of California sun, and has grayed, but is still good-looking for his age. He was wearing a jacket, which Jonny would shortly afterward describe as “pimping.”

“Great, great,” I gushed, responding in kind.

“You Sigma Ki?” he asked.

Click! Now I understood who all these people were. He had come early to meet and greet his Sigma Ki brothers.

“Uh…no?”

Well, that’s me. Always there with the mot juste.

Next time: Ice Spiders!

To read the next installment, click here.

Meeting Stephen J. Cannell (Part I)

The alarm went off at 6 a.m. This was a concession, an unhappy one, to the fact I couldn't get to sleep the night before—and I didn’t want to be dead on my feet for the big day. I had gone to bed at midnight and…

Hold on! Not midnight! Magically, 1 a.m. What?

Yes, time change. In northwest Indiana, spring forward, fall back. I was born here, and it still takes me by surprise.

I lay there, thinking, staring at the red numbers. If I blinked, I knew that it would suddenly say 6:30. The alarm was set for 6 a.m. Not 4 a.m., the time the ideal me got up. Not even 5 a.m., the compromise time.

I am one of the faceless millions in this country who have an alternate identity.

I call myself a writer.

In my vainer moments that’s what I do, anyway. I think it was Faulkner who said, “Don’t be a writer. Always be writing.” It’s good advice. Goes right to the heart of the matter. Anybody can string sentences together (although as a high school teacher, I can attest that that number is sadly diminishing). Still fewer can do it effectively. Fewer still get recognized for their ability, and a very small number can make a living off it.

That is my dream, my hope, my fervent wish. It’s the canker sore in my mouth.

Compared to a lot of people, I have a good life. I have a job, which in these economic times, is not insignificant. I try not to complain about things that go on at work because it seems people are queued up to tell me that at least I have a job. My wife and kids are provided for, admittedly not in the manner I’d like for them to be, but adequately. At least for now.

Whatever.

It’s not enough. And I don’t care who it offends.

And believe me, it's not about the money. I love to write. I love to see my words on the page. I love to see other people see my characters as real as I see them. And I would love nothing more than to have the freedom to do it full-time.

So I’m lying there, and as my familiar, depressive thoughts--the chasm between my dreams and my reality--start crowding in on me, I start my mantra: “Good things are happening…good things are happening…good things are happening…” I’m one of those people who think the Universe can be commanded. Whatever ye shall bind on earth and all that Mathew 18:18 business. Maybe it can, maybe it can't. But if it can, and I'm not trying to command it, then shame on me. Today, it’s especially important that I think positively, because I am horrifically nervous. Just stultifyingly, pit-in-the-stomach on edge.

It’s a big day.

I’m going to go see Stephen J. Cannell.

More than once today I will think to myself, “After school, just go home. You can lie and say that you went. You have a fertile imagination. There’s all kinds of things you could say. Going to Chicago on a school night is a big deal, and you’re not twenty anymore. People will understand. Go home. Play Madden on the PlayStation. Roughhouse with the kids. Watch reruns of The West Wing.”

The thing is, I knew that I would be thinking things like this. So, as a precaution, I’ve been telling anyone who would listen what my plan was. Coworkers. Friends. My wife. My kids. Facebook. All the girders and supports I have in my life, I told. If I backed out, there would be a backlash. I would be called on it. Even if I wasn’t, an unspoken contempt.

Besides, I had pressed a friend of mine to meet me up there. It was on.

Fear and doubt is not a luxury I can afford.

So I get up to do my morning routine, and whenever I feel the negative feelings rush in I chant, “Good things are happening…good things are happening…good things are happening.”

Next time: Stephen Cannell Beams In.

This is the first installment. To read on, click here.