We Need a Plan B — Writing/Screenwriting There is a part of my creative life that existed long before IMDb rankings, agencies, or character breakdowns — a quiet current beneath everything else, a second heartbeat that kept going even when the camera wasn’t rolling. That part is writing. For me, writ...
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We Need a Plan B — Writing/Screenwriting There is a part of my creative life that existed long before IMDb rankings, agencies, or character breakdowns — a quiet current beneath everything else, a second heartbeat that kept going even when the camera wasn’t rolling. That part is writing. For me, writing has never been a hobby or an afterthought. It has always been a place of truth. A parallel stage. A second life. A room where questions about faith, identity, fear and hope have enough space to breathe. Writing is my second breath — the one that continues when the first is tired.
Today, my writing is not a footnote. It is part of my identity.
Stadtgeister (City Ghosts), under contract with Novum Publishing, is a ten-volume YA epic that explores courage, friendship and digital responsibility in a world of shadows and code, where young protagonists grapple with the ghosts we ourselves create in our devices, our data and our choices. The series is built as an international franchise in the making — not just a story, but a universe.
Codex Vitae – The Book of Life is entering its final phase, a spiritually charged Vatican thriller that walks a tightrope between heaven and earth, politics and prophecy, theology and violence. It asks a simple but terrifying question: is our fate written, or can it be rewritten at a cost? It grows out of my earlier novel Satanic Verses — an apocalyptic, mythic thriller of gods and men, of good and evil colliding in the modern world — honored with the Reader’s Favorite 5-Stars Award for its intensity and imagination.
Regenbogenbrücke (Rainbow Bridge) goes inwards instead of upwards, into grief and healing, love and loss, and the delicate psychology of moving forward when life has left an open wound.
Zeitgefangen – Die letzte Verfassung (Trapped In Time – The Last Constitution) turns its gaze outward again, into a literary political thriller about truth, language, and the quiet erosion of democracy — not as an abstract idea, but as something that happens slowly, sentence by sentence, until people no longer recognize the country they live in.
And beyond these worlds lie others: dystopian futures, interracial and multicultural love stories, mythic sagas, science-fiction odysseys, mysteries and poems and narratives that move between shadow and light. I write, in spirit, in conversation with C. S. Lewis — not copying him, but walking a similar road of crossing genres, of carrying faith and doubt and wonder into stories big enough to handle them. I do not see the world in black and white, and I see no reason my fictional worlds should be flattened that way. They are full of complexity, contradiction, humanity — love and rage, hope and fear, danger and redemption.
So when I talk about Plan B, I am not talking about giving up on acting. I am talking about something else entirely. The older I get, the clearer it becomes: my writing was never a fallback. It was the other half of who I am. It was, and is, my Plan Beyond.
Only much later, after all these stories had taken shape on the page, did another truth come to sit beside them — the truth about Show Business itself. For years I treated acting as if it were a single, sacred path: work hard, train well, be honest, and things will unfold. And in many ways that is still true, but it is only part of the equation. What I eventually had to face was this: Show Business is an entrepreneurial arena. Actors are not simply artists inside it. We are also our own executives. We are the product, the marketing, the strategy, and the long-term investment.
My mentor Will Roberts once said to me, with a tone you don’t forget: be visible, be approachable, be versatile. At the time it sounded like good industry advice. Today it feels like a survival code. “This is the toughest career you could possibly choose,” he told me. “You have to bear down. You have to get the things done. That is the job of an actor.” And the longer I stayed in this industry, the more I understood that nothing maintains itself. Momentum is not inherited. It is maintained. The movement we enjoy today exists only because of what we moved yesterday.
I know this because I lived the rise — and the stall. When my IMDb ranking dropped under 7k, the world shifted. Suddenly I was in conversation with Paradigm, ERIS, Enorama — names that carry weight in Hollywood. The doors I had visualized for so long actually opened. And then, without drama or catastrophe, things slowed. Not because the industry suddenly decided I didn’t matter, but because I — quietly, gradually — stopped steering with the same intensity. I waited. I waited for the one big call, the divine “yes” from a Nolan-type director, as if one stroke of fate could replace the constant work of motion.
And in that waiting, another myth exposed itself: the romantic lie of “no Plan B.” We love those stories — the actor who burns every bridge, who arrives in Los Angeles with nothing but a suitcase and refuses to think beyond Plan A. It sounds heroic. But if you look closely at the lives of those who actually made it, a different pattern emerges.
Harrison Ford believed in no Plan B — until life forced one on him. Carpentry didn’t betray his dream; it financed it. Chris Pratt didn’t become Star-Lord because he held out for purity of intention. He survived long enough for someone to see him. Jon Bernthal didn’t become one of Hollywood’s most grounded, dangerous presences because he refused every alternative; he walked dogs, up to thirty a day, to keep going. Their careers were not carried by the absence of Plan B. They were preserved by it.
“No Plan B” makes for a dramatic headline. But the careers that last are not built on headlines. They are built on humility, adaptability and the willingness to support Plan A with whatever Plan B is necessary. Plan B doesn’t kill the dream. It keeps it breathing when the air gets thin.
Once I saw this clearly, my own path began to rearrange itself in my mind. My writing was not an escape. It was the other engine. All the things I had poured into performance — moral tension, spiritual questions, human frailty, shadow and light — were equally alive in my manuscripts. Acting and writing stopped being different worlds. They became two sides of the same calling: Actor × Writer × Entrepreneur.
Because the truth is: Actorpreneurship is not a catchy word; it is the reality of our time. Your materials — your headshots, your reel, your online presence, the stories that surround your name — these are your storefront. Your entry point. Your handshake before you enter the room. Will said my portfolio had to look totally professional. He did not mean pretty. He meant trustworthy. Clear. Castable.
My on-screen identity, as it matured, settled firmly into the shadows: villains, antagonists, morally complex men who don’t fit into clean lines. That made sense. Paramedic nights at 3 AM, martial arts discipline, military-police training, years as a bodyguard, carrying fear and faith and responsibility and failure — all of that lives in my body and my face. I don’t have to invent darkness or conflict. I recognize it. I know what it feels like to stand where things break. That is my Unique Selling Proposition on screen. A lived basis for my Villain Era.
But just as important as being seen is being connected. Visibility without relationships is just an echo. The industry needs us as much as we need it — agents, casting directors, producers, writers, directors. Art is collaborative. Careers are collaborative. Networking is not begging; it is showing up as a participant in the ecosystem, not a spectator at its edge.
All of this — the writing, the acting, the lessons, the missteps, the small victories and the humbling silences — converges now toward something very specific: 2026. The Industry Hollywood Networking Week is not, for me, just another event on a calendar. It is a marker. A line in the sand. The moment I have chosen as my formal return to active motion — as an actor, as a writer, as an entrepreneur of story. It is the place where Actorpreneur branding meets screenwriting presence, where the alliances of the past intersect with the relationships of the future, where what I have built on the page and what I have built on screen begin to speak to each other in the same room.
And so I move again. Not by accident, not by impulse, but with intent. I move as someone who understands that Plan A and Plan B are not enemies. That the fire of acting and the breath of writing are meant to feed each other. That survival in this industry is not just about riding the wave, but about knowing how to build the board. I move as an actor who owns his brand, as a writer who owns his voice, and as a human being who has finally stopped waiting for magic to do the work that movement must.
If you are reading this in the Stage32 Lounge — as an actor, a writer, a producer, a director, or a dreamer halfway between courage and doubt — consider this, not as advice, but as a shared confession: I have stood in that doorway of hesitation for too long. And I can tell you from the other side that the room you are afraid to enter is the one where your life actually expands.
So this is the invitation I leave you with: say yes.
Yes to visibility.
Yes to courage.
Yes to craft and adjustment and reinvention.
Yes to Plan A and to the Plan Beyond.
Yes to becoming who you were meant to be — not only in front of the camera or behind the keyboard, but in the way your life moves.
Because everything that matters in this business — absolutely everything — begins after YES.
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Must-read post, Dan Martin Roesch! I've heard of actors becoming screenwriters because they wanted to write scripts and because they wanted to write roles for themselves. I'm a screenwriter, and I lea...
Expand commentMust-read post, Dan Martin Roesch! I've heard of actors becoming screenwriters because they wanted to write scripts and because they wanted to write roles for themselves. I'm a screenwriter, and I learned how to make pitch decks for my projects. It eventually led to pitch deck jobs. Making pitch decks is my Plan B now. Also writing short stories.
"Visibility without relationships is just an echo." You're right. I was focused on writing scripts and pitching them when I became a screenwriter. I didn't learn how important relationships are until later, and how important maintaining relationships is.