A nerd, punk kid from Paradise Hills in San Diego
When I told Mom I was going to become a writer, you'd think I'd taken a knife to her heart. She let out a screech of utter pain, like the birds in Werner Herzog's quote in BURDEN OF DREAMS.
I've wanted to be a writer since I was a kid. I'd sit at my Mom's typewriter and pound at the keys, pretending to be a mild-mannered reporter. At school, I weaved yarns for any poor classmate within ear shot, like Gordie in STAND BY ME. Other times, I put my friends in STAR TREK adventures I made up, with me as captain, of course.
But it wasn't until junior high that I began to seriously consider it as a career. My 7th grade English teacher noticed my STAR TREK fan fic starring my Bell Junior High classmates. She said I had a knack for crafting stories and suggested me for the Creative Writing elective the following year. You know, back when schools had art programs.
Mr. Roberts taught that class. A man who glided around the classroom with his Jim Henson mound of curly hair. He reminded me of a muppet in many ways. Expressive. Generous. And kind. His hands were always in motion whenever he spoke, as if he were conducting each word as it left his mouth. He's the reason I decided to pursue a writing career, particularly screenwriting.
Up until then, I didn't think kids like me from a working-class military family in San Diego's Paradise Hills neighborhood could become working writers. I just assumed I'd either join the Navy like my Dad or enter med school like my Mom desired. Those were my two fates as far as I knew.
But then Mr. Roberts gave me a pamphlet on the basics of screenwriting, which I still have. He said, "You could write a STAR TREK script."
Me. Ryan Thomas Riddle. A nerd, punk kid from Paradise Hills. Could write a STAR TREK script? Or any screenplay for that matter?
"You're gonna starve for the rest of your life..."
When I told Mom I was going to become a writer, you'd think I'd taken a knife to her heart. She let out a screech of utter pain, like the birds in Werner Herzog's quote in BURDEN OF DREAMS.
Werner Herzog describes the trees and birds during the tumultuous production of his film, FITZCARRALDO. He says they are in misery and the birds screech in pain.
"You're gonna starve for the rest of you life," she screamed at me. It terrified her that I might not make a living. Well, she was right... sorta. The life of a working writer is tumultuous like Herzog's production of FITZCARRALDO. Money comes and goes. I've been flush. I've been broke. Hell, I lived on nothing but cheese, crackers, and two-buck Chuck at one point.
But I've managed to prove her wrong – I made it so far as a professional writer for 30 years. Somehow I always land work, even if it's a pain in the ass to do so, like it is now.
I accomplished that because I followed advice given to me by one of my writing heroes all those years ago.
"Do the work"
There was once a time when San Diego Comic Con wasn't a bloated mess of traffic, outdoor events, and never-ending lines for Hall H. You could even get four-day passes the weekend of the event at the convention center. No waiting in some virtual hell hole hoping the Comic Con gods would bless you with getting passes. Any passes. Even if it were for a Sunday only.
I've gone to Comic Con since the 80s, when Dad took me as a kid. It was way smaller then. Just a few exhibit rooms at the old Convention Center. As a teenager, it became a summer ritual for me and my friends.
In 1993, a show premiered that had a panel at Comic Con — BABYLON 5. That show snagged me more than any new STAR TREK show had. It had that spirit of doing so much with the measly budget it had, much like my first love, the OG STAR TREK. But it was the writing that captivated me. And I realized I'd been watching the show creator's work since childhood.
J. Michael Straczynski wrote for HE-MAN, co-created SHE-RA (which went uncredited), and ran THE REAL GHOSTBUSTERS. More importantly, he partially grew up not far from me in Chula Vista. He went to Southwestern Community College and San Diego State University like I did. He wrote for the SDSU school paper like I did. Well, until the Op-Ed editor plagiarized me. That's a story for another time.
He was a kid from a working class family who made it in Hollywood. For the first time, I really thought it possible I could become a pro too.
One Comic Con B5 panel, I got up the courage to ask the 6 foot tall giant of a writer for some advice. All 5 foot 6, 17-year-old, pimply faced teenage me. He looked at me through thick, gold-rimmed glasses up on the stage several feet above where I sat in the front few rows. And sincerely answered my question. No glib answer. Only encouragement and practical advice.
What he said is seared forever along my hippocampus and amygdala:
"There is no secret handshake. There is only the work. Do the work. That's all that matters. The rest comes after that."
Do. The. Work. That's been my mantra ever since. And the same advice I give young writers today.
Later, he'd impart more advice about dreaming big. But I'll tell that story sometime down the road. Because this wasn't the last time Joe, as he goes by, would poke me in the right direction. With a dash of Roy Orbison as well.
This newsletter is me doing the work. In the coming weeks, I'll write more about my new science-fiction universe, DISTANT WORLDS.
Next week: Filipino Futurism and DISTANT WORLDS
BONUS: STAR TREK and BABYLON 5 artifacts
