I didn’t plan on a brain tumor reshaping my writing career. But in late 2013, that’s exactly what happened.

One day I was a working screenwriter with studio credits, a writing partner, and a healthy relationship with my agency, WME. The next, I was waking up from a 13-hour surgery that removed a mass the size of a lemon from behind my right eye.

I survived, barely, but the aftermath was a gut punch I never saw coming.

The recovery took six months. Six months of not writing, barely thinking, and trying to rebuild basic motor skills. And while my body was relearning how to function, the industry wasn’t waiting around. By the time I could work again, my partnership had dissolved, and WME dropped me.

I had written Four Christmases, which hit number one at the box office. I had a movie with Kevin Spacey directed by Barry Sonnenfeld. But none of that mattered in 2014. I was suddenly a writer with no partner, no representation, and no momentum—and this was in a town where momentum is oxygen.

I had two choices: fade out quietly… or write something that proved I still belonged here.

Turning to the Only Story I Could Write

When you’re fighting to get your career back after being pummeled by life, you don’t look for safe ideas. You look for something true—something insane, personal, painful, funny, messy, meaningful. And for me, that meant facing the two most complicated “father figures” in my life:

My actual father. And Steven Seagal. Yes, that Steven Seagal.

My dad was my hero growing up. Big personality. Larger than life. A guy who walked through the world with the confidence of an action star. But behind the charisma was something darker: fraud, deception, a mail-order bride, federal prison, and a bizarre event in 2006 that I can only describe as him being “quasi-murdered.” It’s a long story and it’s the kind only Hollywood could prepare you for.

And then there was Steven Seagal.

My mom wrote him a fan letter on my behalf when I was a teen, and somehow that led to me working for his production company and eventually becoming one of his talent agents. That was weird enough. Spoiler alert: he turned out to be a worse father figure than my actual father. Not in a cartoonish way, but in that uniquely Hollywood way. The kind built out of ego, mythology, and a desperate need for disciples.

Both men were action heroes in their own minds. Both lived inside stories that didn’t match reality, and both left emotional debris in their wake. It was tragedy. It was comedy. And it was the story I was terrified to write. Of course, this meant I had to write it.

The Script I Had to Write to Save My Career

I didn’t know what would come next. I didn’t know if I’d work again. I didn’t know if I could even be a writer after the tumor, the surgery, the rehab, the free fall. But I did know one thing: If I was going to save my career, I had to write the script only I could write. Something personal.

Something fearless. Something that scared the hell out of me.

So I sat down and started writing Son of Seagal. It wasn’t parody. It wasn’t fan fiction. It wasn’t even satire. To me, it was a darkly funny, deeply emotional story about fathers, myths, delusions, identity, ambition, and the warped funhouse mirror of Hollywood. It was everything I loved and hated and survived, all filtered through the lens of a man who believed he was the star of every scene he entered.

The script took six relentless months. I poured everything into it; fear, fury, grief, gallows humor, and a massive “I’m still here” to the industry… and, honestly, a massive “fuck you” to WME for dropping me while my skull was still healing.

When I finished the last page, I knew. It was the best thing I had ever written. And even if it never sold, that wasn’t the point. I needed it to remind me, and the industry, who I was, but more importantly, who I was going to be.

The Reaction I Didn’t Expect

Credit where it’s due: my manager, Chris Cowles, stayed with me through the entire ordeal. When Son of Seagal was finished, he sent it out with zero hesitation. And the response surprised both of us. People loved it. Executives loved it, and “the Town” got it.

Big companies called. Gunpowder & Sky even tried to buy it and turn it into a series. The deal fell apart, as deals often do, but something more important happened: The script did exactly what I needed it to do. It didn’t sell, but it saved my career. It got me a new agent. It led to new jobs. It reestablished my name after a year when I felt erased.

It told the industry I was still here, not in spite of the brain tumor, but because surviving it forced me to write the most honest thing I’d ever put on the page.

The One That Got Away

Every writer has that script. The one that didn’t sell… but should have. The one that meant more than the paycheck. The one that defined them, or saved them, or proved something only they could prove.

For me, that’s Son of Seagal.

It was personal, painful. and ridiculous. It was embarrassing, but true. It’s the movie I wrote when I needed to reclaim my life, my career, and my voice. I needed to prove to myself that the part of my brain that writes stories survived the surgery just fine, and it did just that.

It got me back on my feet and brought me back into the game. It reminded me that writing isn’t just a career, it’s a way of surviving the worst parts of being human.

Some scripts are stepping stones. Some scripts are paychecks. But some scripts, even the ones that never sell, are lifelines.

Son of Seagal was mine. And that’s why, 10 years later, it remains the best script I’ve ever written that didn’t sell.

If you’re curious, the original script in PDF format is available here.

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