Fiction writers are a superstitious lot, it's been noted. We all have our little peculiarities, our habits. Things have to be just a certain way or else the writing process cannot take place. For Thad Beaumont, nothing less than a Black Beauty pencil would do (though I'm not sure we want to make him our model). And I understand Jim Lehrer can't lay down the first sentence of one of his novels without being clad in S&M gear. Okay, I made that up, but just try to rid yourself of the image. Go ahead, try.

I find these rituals interesting. Not only because I have my own idiosyncrasies to compare against those of other writers, but also because I think they point to larger aspects of sitting down to write fiction. We copiously devour books devoted to the craft of writing, especially those written or edited by writers we admire. But how many of us ever steadfastly apply the techniques and bits of advice proffered in such volumes? Oh, some do, I have no doubt. But is that the real purpose of such how-to books? Do their authors really want or expect readers to adopt their work habits in minute detail?

I think not. I suspect that the reason such books remain instructive and continue to sell is that the best of them plant seeds that grow into a unique set of good habits for the most perceptive readers. I could never work the way Dean Koontz does, for instance, but there's value in knowing how he works, because it obviously works very well for him. To the best of my memory, he rewrites as he goes, tooling and re-tooling a page until it's done, then moving on to the next one. No second draft is required by the time he reaches the end. I think only a certain type of mind can write that way. I seem to recall that Robert McCammon does something similar. Is it worth noting that both writers have published in very similar genres? Probably not, but posing the question makes me feel perceptive, like I may be on to something. The important thing here is that knowing how careful such writers are at the sentence level makes me more conscientious in my own word-smithing, though I may never pursue their exact methods in cobbling together a work of fiction, or in mixing metaphors.

Me, I write all my first drafts in longhand, which I feel gives me a closer connection to the creative process than working on a machine cluttered with all sorts of distractions. I have to really care about a sentence to jot it into a notebook, unlike here where I can just go on and on, ad infinitum, boring you to tears as I type away, completely unrestrained by any ... Okay, you get the idea. A handwritten first draft also allows for a fairly painless second draft to emerge in the process of typing it up, so that's useful.

Still, why should you give a rip about anything I have to say on this topic? I've so far published a handful of short stories, and I've written only one novel, which has yet to be taken through its final draft, let alone sold. Well, allow me to remind you that every library in the country can open a window onto the suggestions of thoughtful and experienced professionals. What I offer you here is the childish raving of a comparative neophyte. I'm here to bring balance to the more reasoned opinions of others. And there will be more of these little bull sessions. I promise.

Please, do check back.

My name is Pete, and I'm a special-features addict. But I also have a few bones to pick. For one thing, commentary tracks need to be banned. Seriously. There are only two possibilities here. One, the commentary is so illuminating that it threatens to mar the mystery of the very film it proudly expounds upon (Mike Leigh's commentary track for Naked falls into this category). Or two, it quickly dissolves into pointless navel gazing (there are too many worthy examples to narrow this one down, but commentary by film scholars and the like is always deserving of a pass).

So, that's the rule. Here are a couple of exceptions. William Friedkin's commentary for The French Connection is amazing, not only for his astute observations of his own work, but also for the trivia that pours out of him as though he made the film yesterday instead of decades ago. For comedy, Steven Soderbergh's interview with himself throughout the entire commentary track of Schizopolis ranks about as high as they come.

But here's why the commentary track is my least favorite of all special features. Films are already less personal and absorbing than, say, books. To this day the medium struggles (and most often fails) to be as relevant as written fiction. Well, no amount of literary criticism is going to detract from the power of Dickens's David Copperfield or Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. But to have someone gab incessantly over the images of a motion picture is, at worst, to cheapen the film. At best, it's like having a critic at your elbow while you're trying to read A Christmas Carol. Either way, it's an intrusion.

Of course, you don't have to turn on the commentary track. And you can always turn it off if it annoys you. But is the world so lacking in noise and creative output that we can't do without these insidious time killers in the first place? People, think how many more movies you'll be able to watch in your lifetime if you never bother with another commentary track as long as you live. Think of the time you'll free up for family, sport, leisure! Surely our pods and palms and cells and laptops are capable of draining enough of our life force. Do we really need the added opiate of the commentary track? Come on.

Blogs, on the other hand ... Never a waste of your time. Not this one anyway.

As Kathleen Wilhoite famously remarked in Witchboard, TTFN.