Only one man could write "I Killed Optimus Prime" because he did, in fact, kill off the last-born of the original Thirteen Transformers who remains the superhero leader of the Autobots, those sentient self-configuring modular extraterrestrial robotic lifeforms which have become global cultural icons.In this book, Ron Friedman--widely known as the most prolific television writer in the history of the medium--shares the intimate details of a life and career that started with him cracking jokes to avoid death-by-schoolyard-bullies on the dusty streets of Weirton, West Virginia, took him through the world of professional architecture and finally through the gilded gates of every major Hollywood studio as the creative force behind nearly every hit TV series of his generation. His scripts for shows like FANTASY ISLAND, CHICO & THE MAN, STARSKY & HUTCH, ALL IN THE FAMILY, HAPPY DAYS are among more than 700 hours of his produced credits. With more than 40 feature film screenplays to his credit, Ron is a recognized screenwriting expert who has actually "been there and done that."A frequent collaborator and close friend of the late Marvel Comics genius Stan Lee, Ron is a multiple Emmy nominee most well known for his animation work, having created the characters and developed the material for major projects like G.I. JOE, THE MARVEL ACTION HOUR, THE TRANSFORMERS: THE MOVIE, IRON MAN, and THE FANTASTIC FOUR. This book is far more than a mere "memoir" and is a must-read for anyone working toward a Hollywood writing career. As a veteran Professor of Screenwriting at Chapman University's Dodge College of Film and Media Arts and as Senior Judge at The Los Angeles International Screenplay Awards, Friedman's insights into the craft and profession of screenwriting are pure gold. Read what he has to say here and you won't need to bother with all the self-promoting so-called "experts" (most of whom have never written or sold a single script!) have to say.Woven throughout this fast-paced tale are plenty of "inside the studio" stories and revelations about the personal lives of celebrities, all recounted with dazzling wit and the ribald candor (can you handle the truth?) that will have you either gasping in shock or on your knees with laughter."I Killed Optimus Prime" is far more than a breezy "Hollywood" read. It's the stuff of true genius from a Hollywood veteran who pulls out all the stops, lets it all hang out...and isn't worried about tucking any of it back in. WARNING: before you open this book, buckle your seatbelt. This is one very WILD RIDE!       Writing has not really been a solitary profession for me. Necessity, which is the mother of invention, and aggravation, compelled me to learn to write anywhere. I have written in dive bars, hotel lobbies, hospital waiting rooms, the upscale condos of maniacs, and back seats of moving vehicles driven by musicians with narcolepsy, and frequently did it in public on public transportation at any hour of day, or night with any writing instrument at hand - pencils, pens, crayons, and once with a sharp stick in the sands of Malibu Beach to rewrite a joke for an unfunny sitcom star.       Writing for a living also forced me to master just enough about computers and writing software to almost double my writing output because rewriting is where good becomes better, and better sometimes becomes excellent. Before computers, I'd type out rewrites, print them on clean sheets of 81/2 x 11 paper, and cut them out and paste them where called for with almost invisible Scotch Tape. Doing this repeatedly sometimes made my scripts so thick they rivaled the Guttenberg Bible, and gave unlucky messengers a hernia.       And then there are the moments of terror when the computer throws up, and you can't find your pages. But I love writing. Love it! And I intend to keep doing it and to teach others to do it with all their heart and soul until the Big Accountant decides to cancel my check. "Excelsior" is taken so I will end with the ever-popular rim shot: Badda Bing Bang! There I was, a mostly successful architect in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in the 1950s when everybody loved Eliot Ness and THE UNTOUCHABLES on television, and nobody much gave a crap about T.S. Eliot, and THE WASTELAND in some college textbook on poetry. I was fully employed designing anything that needed plumbing and a foundation: custom tailored houses, shopping centers where there were no trees in the parking lot because they would take away parking spaces, the occasional hospital, all manner of schools, a restaurant, or two above or next to one of Pittsburgh's Three Rivers, and easy, easy, easy credit jewelry stores where anybody with a pulse could buy a genuine diamond ring on time. And I there I was, minding my business when one day I dropped a quarter in this old wishing well on Murray Avenue near the Hebrew National Deli for the hell of it, and faster than you could say, "Harry Potter, get contact lenses!" I was writing for big-nam