Timothy A. McGhee

My path to screenwriting is unique. I was born and raised in a small railroad town in the southern coalfields of West Virginia into a family with a deep blue-collar lineage. On the surface, I was a typical country boy roaming the mountains and getting dirty. The difference lies with my mother and father. They were literary and artistic, encouraging the five children to read books and periodicals, and taught us the value of art making a life while you work to make a living. My brother, three sisters, and I rewarded my mom’s and dad’s efforts with eightcollege degrees.

It was obvious early in my life I am my father’s son, and the others are their mother’s children. William C. McGhee is the son a boilermaker who joined the United States Marine Corps after graduating high school in 1940. As a 22 year old sergeant, he led a platoon of Marines on the beach in the Battle of Guadalcanal at the end when things were getting particularly nasty. Sarge returned home after V-J Day to fire a steam locomotive, following in the footsteps of his bride’s father. When the Korean War broke out, my father was called back to the Marine Corps for three years to serve as a drill instructor at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.

Dad told me three things about the Marines that are unforgettable, especially in this my 69^th year on the planet: a) “Son, there’s a right way to do things, a wrong way, and a Marine Corps way” b) “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, except a Marine; he’ll kill you” and c) “Son, here’s the Marine Corps close-quarters combat manual. These are the three death blows. Now that I’ve taught you these, walk away from every fight.”

Dad taught me the three death blows when I was ten years old. I’ve never had to use them (I can kill you in three seconds; it’s not a choreographed Cobra Kai scene) and I’ve never started a fight. So, his plan worked.

Therefore, through my father the warrior, I was the bookworm who caught snakes and other reptiles, coasted fast on skateboards and bicycles downhill, climbed tall trees, swung on vines over deep ravines, explored abandoned coal mines, and played football. Football brought me some notoriety at age seventeen; even at a small 180 lbs just under six feet I received three college offers including the United States Naval Academy. God made me look objectively in the mirror in 1974 and decline the offers. I have therefore been blessed with excellent mobility and strength at almost 70 years of age.

I graduated from college in 1981 with a BS in mechanical engineering, again influenced by my father the plumber, carpenter, and craftsman. In nineteen months, the Great Recession of 1983 landed me in the street jobless. Unemployment was 20 percent in West Virginia, double-digit nationwide, and nearly 100 percent for engineers with less than three years’ experience. I had a mortgage already, so I went with the “hot hand” in the early 1980s: Wall Street. Doing a career 180, I made the best of it by working my ass off to build a clientele from nothing. I wasn’t the best stockbroker, but I wasn’t bad, making more money than I would have as an engineer.

An opportunity arose that jump-started my writing career. The perception of the success of Reaganomics brought on a renewed sense of prosperity our nation had not felt for nearly two decades. The citizenry clamored for business news; television, radio, and print media were all calling our investment offices looking for news. Other stockbrokers were not comfortable talking with the press, ironic in that they came from a sales culture. Enter the engineer, the irony of ironies, deemed by at least one key member of management as the stockbroker who “was whip-smart and could turn a phrase.”

I was an extroverted nerd, interviewed by the press, offered speaking engagements, and most importantly, the author of an investment newsletter that had a rather loyal readership. I wrote something every day. That repetition was vital.

I returned to the engineering profession in summer 1990 in the sales function, driving in a four-state area in excess of 50,000 miles per year. The newsletter had whetted my interest in storytelling; talking about stock market potential is a story. Hours spent gazing through an automobile windshield afforded me an opportunity to craft stories in my mind. I was working alone on the road, so I had time at lunch and in hotel rooms to write these stories longhand on legal pads.

It was during my 41^st year during winter 1997 I decided to put the stories together into a novel. From the Barnes & Noble book blurb for “Wise Fools” that was eventually published in 2001 by Writer’s Club Press, a print-on-demand imprint:

Mason Bricker will become your favorite college football bench jockey as he tells of his life in Wise Fools, a tale of his pursuit of romance and dreams, a powerful saga of his fight for justice for his black friends. These stories converge one autumn Saturday as his West Virginia team battles in its most important contest ever, a morality play with the backdrop of the attitudes of racism with which we lived in 1975.

Only 300 copies were sold, but I had my baptism of fire. I was on the never-ending Journey of Storytelling for which there is no destination. That remains blissful to this day.

I continued to write every day. Internet football sites were begging for content; I signed up with several and contributed regularly. I wrote a second novel “Risk, Return, and the Indigo Autumn” published by iBooks in 2006, inspired by a friend and colleague who had predicted the 1987 Black Monday stock market collapse. As I was making a living as a mechanical engineer, I was making a life as an artist. My father died in 2013. I was his legacy, proudly carrying his torch.

The 2015 release of Paramount Pictures’ film “The Big Short” with Brad Pitt, Christian Bale, Ryan Gossling, and Steve Carell inspired me to become a screenwriter. I had read Michael Lewis’ “The Big Short” four times and Andrew Ross Sorkin’s “Too Big To Fail” twice. With my seven-year background on Wall Street, I understood the financial Armageddon near-miss well. I was fascinated and impressed by how well the moviemakers told the story of that clusterf*ck in just two hours.

“American Money” was born, adapted from my second novel. I’m happy to be here.

Once again, it’s unique. I have always started messy. For a new script I’m writing – “Padre Guns” the screen adaptation of my first novel – I’m paying more attention to an outline. Yet, I’m on the third rewrite, so, yes, I started messy.

Including “American Money,” I’ve only developed four stories. Two are based on novels I wrote twenty years ago, while two others are real-life experiences of my own. Another is forming for which I’ll need to research a lot – it’s about the Cadillac’s sway on Americana – so I won’t be able to wing that one.

As for character development, I’m celebrating my 69^th birthday on July 28^th. I’ve met a lot of different folks, and I’ve experienced a lot of different things. I had been married for a long time – 38 years – then divorced then annulled. I’m a proud father of two amazing daughters whom I gave away then danced at their weddings. As an engineer, I was never anyone’s boss, working for “the man” in research & development, design, and sales. I took Wall Street to Main Street, then left that and hit the road selling to blue-collar union workers. I was a beach lifeguard at age nineteen, taught college in my 20s and early 30s, and taught kindergarten as a Medicare recipient. I’ve been a bartender and a school janitor. I’ve traveled extensively in London and experienced being lost in Paris and finding my way by asking directions of French mademoiselles. I’ve written stories in 150 bars & taverns across thirty-five states and three countries. I’ve written and thrown away more romance shorts than most men have read. I’ve been in love and been asked to leave by my lovers, which I did peacefully. I’ve paraglided from a 2,000 foot cliff in New Zealand, waterskied, snow skied, regularly drive my Ford Mustang over 100 mph, pursuing a life of physical courage (interpretation: I’m prepared to die) by going to Roman Catholic Mass several times a week. Every sunrise is exciting, and every sunset makes me thankful I seized the day.

It’s why I can start messy and get it done.

Two years into the serious rewrites of “American Money,” my script guru – a bright woman I respectfully call Movie Harvard – told me, “Tim, you have taken this script as far as a heterosexual man can take it.  You either need to explore your feminine side or find a woman who can help you put on the finishing touches.” I got the help from the most amazing woman ever. Charlotte Pritt has been successful in business, education, and politics. She’s my good friend who has taught writing in high school & college, and she helped me develop the third act that impressed film festival judges. I speak or text with her every day. Charlotte is one of the best things to ever happened to me.

It’s debatable I have written a great screenplay. That being said, a screenwriter should make the audience think everyone is seriously F’ed until the last few minutes. `            

Opportunities abound in the film industry due to the expansion of the number of platforms for distribution & viewing. The demand is there for content; someone must write the stories for the storytellers to produce. Nothing happens without a script. That’s where people like me come in.

I’m a spec writer with my own ideas. I select the genre and, in turn, the audience. The story leads to who will watch the production of my ideas. Here’s an example: I had what turned out to be a humorous conversation with Movie Harvard about my first draft of “Peace Of Mind” in which one particular character was too edgy. “Tim, there is no audience who will accept Lana Grace.” I agreed. I’ll be working on the second rewrite by the end of the year, making Lana more palatable.

Short answer: I’m the best, maybe the G.O.A.T. I have never had any desire in any of my endeavors – football, track, engineering, investments, and especially writing – to listen to sycophants. I already KNOW what I want to hear, and that doesn’t make me any better. I want to hear what I don’t want to hear. Only by that will I improve. I joked with one of my early readers of “American Money” when she asked the same question. My reply:

“Dianne, not only am I able to handle criticism, but I prefer being edited while sitting shirtless on a metal chair positioned in a puddle of water with a Die-Hard truck battery connected to the chair with jumper cables.”

Yes! Thank you for the opportunity to tell you about the aforementioned “Padre Guns,” the film adaptation of my 2001 novel “Wise Fools.” An NFL champion-turned-priest must save a college football team mired in 1970s racial conspiracies during the biggest rivalry game of the decade. It’s a football movie, similar to “Remember The Titans” & “We Are…Marshall.” I’m on the third rewrite. I’m excited.

Screenwriters must do better than artificial intelligence. I believe we can. I know we can. To borrow an idea from Al Franken he wrote in a recent issue of The New Yorker: “Artificial intelligence has never lost at love while contracting food poisoning.” Artificial intelligence is akin to Matt Damon’s Will Hunting speaking with Robin Williams’ Dr. Sean Maguire in the 1997 film “Good Will Hunting.” Will is AI and can spew facts. Dr. Maguire knows how it feels.  

Never give up on your dream to sell a film script. Embrace the Journey. Surround yourself with people who allow you to dream big. Live an interesting life. Start messy, like me. And, fall in love. Lead the way with your hopeless romanticism. May the peace of The Holy Trinity be with you as it is with me.