He had been a young boy, hiding out in the darkened corners of New York's theaters, waiting for his mother to finish her play rehearsals. Every evening was the same. He memorized the lines and the blocking. He made friends with the stagehands and crew. He even did his homework on time. Then he got bored.
Richard Rogers was a curious child and his cures for boredom did not settle well in the professional atmosphere of the theater while he tinkered with the light and sound boards. He needed to find a hobby or something to keep his mind busy during those late nights. Eventually one of the techies slid a comic book into his hands one evening hoping it might keep him quiet and unobtrusive for the next hour or so. Nobody knew at the time that this was to become an obsession for the child.
He dove into the world of superheroes and villains, tearing through issue after issue, insatiable. His mother, Martha, couldn't understand it but didn't fight it either. And so he sunk deep into the fantasy realms of the battles between good and evil. He didn't know what resonated with him the most – the backstories of the protagonists (many of them had no father figure, a similarity that did not go unnoticed by young Rick), the kick-*** scenes where the forces of evil got their behinds whooped, or maybe it was just the overall fantastical nature of the stories themselves. It didn't particularly matter though; he was hooked.
This obsession carried on well into his adult life and anyone close to him could see this manifest into his chosen career path. Sure, he still collected graphic novels themselves, but what Rick Rogers became was a world-famous mystery novelist. The same themes – tweaked slightly - run between his ideal occupation and his childhood hobby.
The bad guys get what's comin' to them.
He may not know what initially drew him to his beloved heroes in tights, but he knows they've managed to serve him well throughout much of his life. For that he's grateful.