At the age of 41 I took my first fiction writing course. I almost dropped out of the class—my classmates included a journalist, a novelist, and a published short-story writer. My secretary shamed me into staying. I survived. Barely. But I had a blast and so, when the next semester offered Screenwriting, my friends talked me into taking that with them.

For the first time in my life I found a talent. Perhaps it was because I had literally been raised in a movie theatre—my father had been a projectionist and took me there during the day while he cleaned, then kept me with him in the booth while he ran the matinee showing. Or perhaps it was because I was the kid in the neighborhood who orchestrated all the imaginative play. Whatever the reason, something was awakened in me that I had no idea I possessed.

Bottom line: The month I turned 45 I sold my first book out of the slush pile. The editor told me it was a million-to-one shot that they bought something out of the slush pile. Three weeks later I sold my first screenplay—out of the Hollywood equivalent of the slush pile. The studio exec told me that it was a million-to-one shot that they bought something that way.