Stephen Cannell

Stephen Cannell died last night and though I didn't know him well, I knew him for a long time. I, of course, watched his shows as a kid (I loved the Rockford Files more than anything and when I write Burn Notice, in my mind I'm writing Jim Rockford, but I also loved Stingray and Wiseguy) and then later my brother Lee worked on several shows with him, so I met him personally when I was a teenager and it was like meeting god. He had absolutely no reason to remember me over the years when I'd run into him at things Lee was doing, but he always did. Then, when I became a writer, too, I ended up doing quite a few things with him -- we were constantly paired together on panels and I interviewed him on stages three or four times -- but because the Southern California writing community is actually fairly tight-knit, I probably saw him four or five times a year at various functions where we had nothing to do with each other. And every time, he would take time to sit down and talk to me about what I was doing, ask me about my dyslexia (he had a profound case of it, as I do), and if my brother wasn't about, he'd always share some new story about working with Lee on some other project or another. He was a terribly sweet man and every time I talked to him, I had to keep it together on the outside because on the inside I was ten years old, sitting on the floor of our family room in Walnut Creek, watching Rockford. One other brief anecdote before I tell the story I actually sat down to tell about Stephen Cannell: Every time I did a panel with him -- and I must have done a dozen panels with him in the last five years alone -- afterward he bought copies of every single other person's book on the panel. This might seem like an insignificant thing in the larger scheme of life, but to see the looks on people's faces when he walked up with their books afterward to get them signed confirmed for me the same thing I felt time and time again: he was just a class act.

But this is what I meant to tell you. It's just a small story about two moments in two people's very short lives.  A few years ago, I think 2005, Stephen optioned my friend Barbara Seranella's Munch Mancini books and I don't remember whether or not he ended up setting it up somewhere or not, but it was a good deal and Barbara was exceptionally excited because cool and interesting things kept occurring (I think at one point he had it set up at NBC, now that I think about it) and having Stephen Cannell working on getting your book turned into a TV series is the kind of thing crime writers say little prayers for each night. The other side of things was that she was also dying at the time all of this pitching about town was happening -- she'd already had a liver transplant -- and it was clear things weren't working out. Her personal life was also a bit of a shambles, too. One day, however, I ran into her at Target (she lived down the street from me) and she looked absolutely awful. She was tooling around in one of those mechanized scooters and she was so jaundiced that it was hard to look at her but she was absolutely out of her mind with delight. This was in the late summer or early autumn of 2006. 

"You're not going to believe what I did this week," she said. 

I told her I had no idea.

"Steve Cannell sent a car out here to pick me up and drive me out to his yacht and we sat out there all day talking about my series. Can you believe that?"

Barbara had known Steve for a long time, too, but she was giddy like she'd just met him. 

"Do you think the show is going to happen?" I asked.

"Oh, probably not, but who knows?" she said. "But who cares. Steve Cannell sent a car out to pick me up and drive me to his yacht!"

Barbara died a few months later, in January of 2007, and the next weekend Stephen and I were on a panel together at the Cerritos Library with a bunch of other writers. We were seated next to each other and our conversation naturally turned to Barbara and I told him about how excited she'd been to make that trip. And he said, "I really wanted to make that show happen for her. I wanted her to know it was going to happen." 

Update: I encourage you all to go read my brother Lee's post about Steve. 

Comments

[Clair]

What a great story. Thanks, Tod.

[rob roberge]

Thanks, Tod. I dug Lee's piece, too. I only got to meet SC once--we did a panel together (with Barbara, actually, who I loved) at the LA Times Festival of Books, and he was INCREDIBLY nice and generous to the other writers on the panel (all of whom he could have pulled rank on, as his experience probably out-did all of ours combined). He seemed to be a genuine and kind person.

He was also amazingly generous with his fans. He handled himself with class and grace--two things the world is always in short supply of--no matter how much of both we have, we can still use more. I didn't know him, couldn't honestly call him a friend, but he treated me and everyone else there so well, I couldn't help but be impressed.

I can't imagine most people would handle the stature and fame he'd reached with as much generosity and class as he carried. He deserves to be admired--and the writing community has lost someone who represented us very well over the years. A sad day. And, I'd be remiss in not mentioning Barbara, too...who was a beautiful person and who I still have an email from that I can't bring myself to delete.

RIP & love to them, and those close to them. Thanks for the great piece, Tod.

[Amy Ktichell-Leighty]

That was beautiful, Tod. Thanks for sharing.

[Marta]

I too was a big Rockford Files fan and you always knew the show would be entertaining if Stephen Cannell was involved. Thanks for sharing.

[Maryrose Snopkowski]

What a wonderful story about a wonderful man. I didn't know him, but felt I did just from his little piece with a typewriter at the end of each of his shows. That small 30 seconds of time made me feel like he wrote each story just for me and my family watching on the HUGE color TV CONSOLE. LOL
So sad to hear of his passing. >Maryrose
*Love your writing :}

[Mark Huber]

Steve understood humanity and was equally gracious, whether you knew him for years or he was meeting you for the first time. He appreciated the dignity of work and the struggle to create it--no matter what it was. As much as he enjoyed his own creations, he appreciated yours more. He lived his life well.