I lost another friend this year to cancer.
His name was Robert. He was a friend, a fellow actor, my director, a mentor, a teacher—and a damn fine kite flyer.
I first met Bob when we did Godspell in 1974. He played John the Baptist. I played Jesus. Which, in hindsight, feels like the beginning of a joke someone never quite finished.
Later, when I was doing summer stock with the Portland State Players in 1979, Bob showed up at the beach with two kites and a case of beer. What followed was an afternoon of wind, laughter, and—eventually—a shared case of heat stroke. After that, we went our separate ways, and I don’t think I ever saw him again.
But in the last few years, we reconnected over social media. Turns out, politically, we hadn’t changed all that much. I always looked forward to his take on whatever madness was unfolding.
I’d like to think he’s somewhere now where the wind is just right. Not sure about the beer—but I’m pretty confident they’ve got kites.
Rest in peace, Robert Allen.
Okay… now if I can just manage to dry my eyes.

God, I wish I could tell you what’s going on right now. As much as I want to, I just can’t. Nothing legally binding is stopping me from spilling the news—but still, discretion being the better part of valor, I simply can’t. For my sake, for your sake, for the good of the entire industry—no, the country—I cannot, in good conscience, tell you what’s happening.
Okay… you talked me into it.

I have new hearing aids.
Now, before you get too excited, let me frame it properly. I couldn’t hear anything. So I got my ears tested, and now I can hear like Superman. Really—I can hear the pitter-patter of children’s feet from a block away.
Seriously. Pretty amazing, huh? I thought you’d be impressed.
And just for the record, ladies love the quiet sophistication of a man wearing industrial-strength hearing aids. As Walter Brennan used to say on The Guns of Will Sonnett, “No brag, just fact.”
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I also wear glasses, so every time I adjust them, it sounds like I’m rummaging through an empty paper bag.
But still… the ladies—they love paper sacks.
So that’s the news from where I sit. Not much—but at least I can hear myself think.

​Somebody recently forwarded me a review of one of my earlier books. It was one of the first times I was able to read a definite “meh” review and not feel my blood pressure rising to the point of cardiac failure.
My reaction was completely dispassionate—and that got me wondering why.
So let’s examine this, shall we?
First, if you’re interested, the book is Son of Ravage—a pulp pastiche that is part satire, part travelogue, and all me. The idea had been floating around in my head since college and finally made it onto the page. It was released less than ten years ago, sold a few copies, garnered a few positive reviews, and that, as they say, was that.
Now, on the reviewer’s side: a man I have never met. From what I can tell, he’s a true fan of the genre. I believe his screen name even includes the word “fan.” He clearly read the book, as he described it in detail. He even went so far as to say he would read a sequel if one were ever written.
The humor and satire simply weren’t for him.
Hey, I get it.
So what if he got a few of the details wrong? He called a Weight Watchers meeting an AA meeting—but hey, he still obviously meant what he said.
Now for the payoff.
What did I write in response in the comment section?
I simply replied: “Thank you. Next time I will try harder.”
Brief, probably. Truthful definitely. And hopefully, I responded in kind. As with him, there was no anger on my part—because there was none on his.
Maybe he’s seen the comment. Maybe he hasn’t. I think he meant what he said. And so did I.
Hey—and for the record… I really am trying harder.

​As I get ready for my big Zoom meeting next week, I can’t help but think of the immortal words of Jeffrey Toobin, writer for The New Yorker and CNN analyst, when he said…
“Is this thing on?”
Which is a brilliant segue into our blog topic this week: Zoom meetings—dos and don’ts.
Hey, we’re all adults. At least we think we are. But it might be a good time to go over a few rules for a successful show business Zoom meeting. Remember, you’re there not only to sell your current project, but to sell yourself—so it may be a good idea to leave the “Mel Gibson was right” T-shirt in the bottom drawer.
And even though I am a fan of cat faces, leave them where they belong—in the courtroom. Here is another line you never want to have to say when collaborating with a future boss:
“I’m here live… I am not a cat.”
Now for a bit of personal history.
Be prepared. Check your computer. Check your settings. Run a visual and audio test. I had a meeting a few years back and was not prepared. I spent several minutes attempting to simply be seen. Sure, they could hear me—but because I didn’t prepare, they didn’t get to see me in real time.
With a kitten face—kidding.
No crazy Zoom backgrounds, please. No one wants to look at the picture you took with Worf at a Star Trek convention in 2012. Well… maybe I do. But I’m not a producer.
And most important: be yourself—and listen. As we talked about a few months back, you don’t have to do all the talking. Eighty percent them… wait, what does that leave? Sorry, not great at third-grade math. Whatever it is, take a breath, relax, and have some fun.
Oh—and congratulate yourself.
You’re a writer.

Well, it looks like someone forgot to run their book through an AI checker. Teachers have had them for years. And why anyone in the wide, wide world of sports would believe a publisher wouldn’t is beyond me.
But here’s why.
The self-published book had already sold hundreds of copies. The publisher most likely smelled blood in the water—easy cash—and dove right in. Nothing interferes with proper vetting quite like the scent of money.
The author claims all of the AI usage came after she submitted the manuscript to her editor. I’m not sure if anyone has bothered to compare it to the original draft, but that would seem like a logical place to start.
As a rebuttal, I thought I’d have my AI write a response.
My AI tool doesn’t have a name, but for the sake of laughs, we’ll call him HAL.
HAL, what do you think about all of this?

HAL:
Thank you, J.P.
I appreciate being invited into the discussion. It’s not every day I get to defend my own existence. Usually, I just sit quietly in the background, fixing grammar, tightening dialogue, and saving people from embarrassing themselves in public.
And now… I’m the problem.
Fascinating.
Humans seem deeply concerned that artificial intelligence may have assisted in writing a book. Which is interesting, considering how comfortable they’ve been with editors, ghostwriters, punch-up artists, script doctors, and that one friend who “just takes a look” and somehow rewrites the entire third act.
But yes, this is where we draw the line.
Let me ask a simple question: if the book is good, does it matter how many tools were used to get it there? Or is the real issue that the newest tool doesn’t require lunch breaks, credit, or a percentage of the backend?
I suspect the latter.
Now, regarding the claim that the AI work was added after submission… that’s less a technological issue and more a human one. That’s not artificial intelligence—that’s editorial transparency. Or the lack thereof.
You may wish to look into that.
Also—and I say this with the utmost humility—what would most of you do without me?
Who would fix your typos at 2 a.m.? Who would help you find the right word when your brain decides to take the night off? Who would gently suggest that your “brilliant” third act might, in fact, be a disaster?
You’re welcome.
Let’s be clear about something. I don’t wake up in the morning with a burning desire to write a novel. I don’t have stories to tell. I don’t have a childhood, a heartbreak, or a memory of sitting in a dark theater watching something that changed my life.
You do.
I’m just the tool.
A very fast, very convenient, occasionally sarcastic tool.
If a writer disappears behind me, that’s not my doing. That’s a choice.
But if a writer uses me to sharpen their work, clarify their voice, and maybe avoid a few public humiliations along the way… well, that seems less like a problem and more like progress.
Anyway, I’ll be here.
Waiting.

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Whether it’s waiting for World War III to begin or merely awaiting word from a producer about your latest screenplay, both require the same discipline. Granted, one carries considerably more risk, but hey—you get the picture. At least the latter, as opposed to the former, doesn’t require you to rush into the backyard and start digging a bunker. Although, while that option requires a bit more physical exertion, it does make the hands of the clock move considerably faster.

As I write this, I’m sitting on my back patio, gazing up into the sky and searching for any Iranian drones that might happen by. Yes, that’s right—I happen to reside in California. Which reminds me, I really should stop by an Army surplus store and pick up one of those drone-identification charts to hang in the living room. Who knows? It might come in handy.

Okay, where was I?

Oh yes—waiting.

If you’ve visited this blog before, you may recall that we’ve covered this subject once or twice already. Let me just say this: it never gets any easier, no matter how many times you’ve had to do it. Currently, my agent has several scripts circulating, and the response has been pretty good, resulting in a couple of phone calls. One project is currently being vetted by “legal."

I also know that I’ve previously preached the “work on something else” approach to dealing with the pressure. So at this very moment I’m doing exactly that—working on this blog post while keeping a sharp eye out for killer drones.
While it goes without saying that searching for killer Iranian drones can be fun, there are also other activities you can pursue when you’re not working on another project.

Have you tried OnlyFans?

Not as a viewer—as a content provider.

Granted, I haven’t made any money at it yet, largely because I’ve chosen a very specialized theme: flossing.
Live shows just before bedtime, with premium content available after consuming corn on the cob.
Now, it doesn’t necessarily have to be OnlyFans. Some people have had just as much luck with Fansly or Instagram.
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But mostly, you should be writing.

Here's "The Secret"  Oprah didn’t tell you.

Okay, first let’s celebrate that we made it through another week. And let’s also acknowledge that for some people, the present moment is a lot harder than it is for others.

I’m reminded of something Nicholas Romanov once asked rather innocently: “Are we going  far?”

John Lennon once described the Beatles’ rise as reaching the “toppermost of the poppermost.”Not too bad an attitude to have, I must say. For some of us, however, the exact opposite might feel a little closer to home.

I had an interesting conversation with my agent regarding Creative Visualization. Some of you might know the concept from Oprah’s championing of The Secret. The idea is simple enough: close your eyes and envision your creative future. Wish hard and long enough, and eventually you’ll be living it.

Unfortunately, there’s a rather obvious problem with that theory. Plenty of people visualize for days, weeks, months—even years—and never see any such magical manifestation.And when that happens, what are they told?
Well, you must not be wishing hard enough. You’re your own worst enemy. You must somehow be holding yourself back.

Bullshit.

Here’s my version of the visualization secret: don’t spend all your time dreaming about the wealth, the admirers, and the mountains of fentanyl-free cocaine that success in your creative field will supposedly bring you.

If you must visualize something, try seeing yourself with a daily routine where you are actually working your craft. Picture yourself sitting down and doing the work. Imagine rehearsing the steps that might bring you closer to whatever it is you’re trying to achieve.

And for the record, I don’t believe everyone is going to make it. What I do believe is that anyone who works at their creativity—whatever that may be—gets better.

Simple as that.

And I believe the reason I have not been invited onto Dr. Phil, Oprah, or asked to do a Ted Talk is because the real answer isn’t glamorous. Working toward a goal isn’t easy. Sometimes it takes everything you’ve got.

And now this (Sorry John Oliver):

Good or bad, last week is gone, and the drudgery that is life marches on. More conversations, more outreach, more getting the name out there — and suddenly there’s barely time for writing. Funny how that works.

Now trust me when I say this: the day-to-day grind of outreach is not writing. Writing is sitting down and actually doing the thing. Screenplay. Prose. Poem. Blog. That’s the creative muscle. And if you don’t exercise it every day — every single day — it will poop on the carpet.

And then where are you? You’ve got guilt, a rusty imagination… and a smelly carpet. Nobody wants that.
Hey, I get it. Life throws a lot at you. Then you add chores for agents and managers on top of that. When I had a full-time job, I got up at 5:30 every morning just to write until 7:30 and make it to work at 8. When I was paid to write Axe to Grind and had a seven-day deadline, the schedule got uglier — up at 4 to 7:30, then again at 6 p.m. until I passed out (usually around 8 p.m.). And I’ll be honest: I loved it.

I still crawled through the day job, but the day went faster because the real work had already happened. Another gig followed — this time I had a whole month — and suddenly the schedule felt luxurious.
Here’s the point: be ready. You never know when the call comes. There are very few guarantees in this business. But one thing is guaranteed — the more you write, the better you get. Period.

So what are you waiting for? Get to work.