As you probably know, I’m obligated to occasionally post things that really can’t be of much interest to anyone but my friends and family. Things about my life, my tastes, my friends.

If I fail to do this, I risk being mistaken for a “columnist,” which would result in the revocation of my Blog License.

So…

  • The inaugural issue of Radar Magazine is still on the stands (I hope). It’s really worth your time. Yes, it’s edited by a longtime pal of mine, but if it wasn’t actually good (which it is), funny (which it also is), informative (yes, it’s that), and loaded with valuable prizes (which it really isn’t), I wouldn’t say so. If any magazine has the potential to be the “Spy” of the new century, it’s this one. It’s also the first promising palindromically titled magazine since “Elle” debuted (if you discount, as I do, the lamentable “Ylhtnom Race Car Monthly”)
  • OK Go has a new EP out, in anticipation of their second album (due in August). You can get it at the iTunes Music Store, Amazon, and other locations. Astute observers may have noticed some sort of… OK Go-boosting trend among NPR and/or Air America types. Mere coincidence, I promise you. In my case, for instance, let me assure you that I don’t know them, have never had drinks with them, had never actually heard of them until I started typing this paragraph, in fact. Yes, why I brought them up baffles even me. But now that I’ve investigated my own entirely automatic writing, they really do seem to be a terrific band and are worth your music-buying dollar.
  • I am very close to completing my revision of my novel. It is now almost certain to be entitled “Schrödinger’s Ball” and it will be published by Random House’s Villard imprint in the first half of next year.

On that last subject, I have to confess that this whole revision process baffles me. I’m a first-time novelist, and the bulk of my previous work has been for television and film. In that world, rewrite assignments are just that - assignments.

I had become very comfortable in that world, where I would receive my instructions, rage against the idiots who were destroying my Work, mutter darkly as I erased or altered treasured moments of sheer, unadulterated Genius, and then meekly submit the changes that had been commanded. If I rebelled against any of these, it was a sure thing that said edits would be made without my help. Further changes would be made before the script was shot anyway, which guaranteed me the opportunity to watch the final product with the deep certainty that it would have been much, much better if those lunkheads had only listened.

With my novel, however, it’s different. The notes I received are thoughtful, helpful, and - most importanly - suggestions. That’s right - if I, the Artist, deem any piece of advice to be off-base or overstated, it’s open to discussion. Reasonable discussion. In fact, ultimately it’s my book, and the eventual decisions are going to be ones that I make, because the final product will bear my name and reflect my unique artistic vision. The whole process is geared towards this respectful and satisfying end.

I hate it.

If the book turns out to be not everything I want it to be, if the reviews are cruel, if upon publication I look it over and see things I don’t like… I want someone to blame it on. That’s how these things work, in my experience. There always someone to blame. Even multi-threat writer/director/producers of movies or TV shows can pin the blame on the actors, or the cinematographer, or the caterer. That’s why someone can release the Worst Movie Ever Made on a Friday and find himself with a new, studio-approved project on Monday morning. The comfy culture of Someone Else’s Fault sustains us, swaddles us, wraps us in forgiveness (because there’s really nothing to forgive).

Not so with this damned book. I spend my days peering suspiciously at the screen, convinced that the individual words are conspiring against me behind my back or getting on the phone to their agents and seeking jobs in the next John Grisham novel or maybe something a little more artsy to give them more “cred.” Each chapter that I “finish” is only temporarily finished because I know for a fact that the Incredibly Stupid Thing that I’ll find there tomorrow wasn’t put there by some hack script doctor or producer’s niece who’d “really like to get into writing and has lots of ideas.” Nope. It’s my Incredibly Stupid Thing. And “my” isn’t a term that we Hollywood types tend to use for our work, at least not until the first Golden Globe nomination.

All that said, I still like the book a lot. It’s funny, it’s unique, it’s pretty damned cool in places, in fact. I’m proud of it, at least most of the time.

But I’m going to have the final couple of days of rewriting catered anyway. Just in case.