When I was putting the finishing touches on my upcoming book, I’d get notes from my publisher.

“I need 30 more pages,” he would say. “You have six weeks.”

Two months later, same request. “I’d like 30 MORE pages,” he would tell me.

Because words don’t magically appear out of the ether for me, I found myself struggling to comply. More importantly, I was wondering why the hell he needed — seemingly at the last minute — more material.

Frankly, I was material-ed out.

Or so I thought.

Cue my stalwart editor Maria Martin, who had the unenviable task of wrapping up all my meandering musings in a nice little bow. Maria is the most tell-it-like-it-is person I’ve ever met.

There was very little hemming and hawing during our edit sessions. She’d be the first to red pen an item or slice-and-dice my rambling copy. She was my saving grace. My ace in the hole.

She was also the first to tell me why my publisher wanted more pages. “Darling, it’s because you’re cranking out really good stuff,” she said. “Plus, you write better when you’re on a completely unrealistic deadline.”

(She’s right, dammit.)

As soon as I acquiesced to my publisher’s demands, the floodgates opened. Luck became my middle name. Unsolicited celeb interviews rained down upon me like manna from heaven. Helen Hunt! Cheyenne Jackson! Heart’s Nancy Wilson! Kevin Pollak!

They promptly went in the book — and in The Pitch. Those extra pages practically wrote themselves. And they were sch-amazing.

Like, even Maria was impressed. The last time that happened, we had just landed on the moon.

Maria has a pedigree a mile long. She’s been in the newspaper business for decades and she’s worked with about a bazillion squirrely reporters. She’s also edited countless books. Mine was not — repeat, not! — on her to-do list. She was thisclose to retirement when we crossed paths. Somehow, she was cajoled into editing my pop culture manifesto. (Groveling works, people.)

I’m not sure if she liked my goofiness or cut of my jib, but she took my book from memoir-lite to memoir-iffic by tackling it from the ground up. (Read that: we became friends. Gossipy good friends. Uh, she gets me. And she completes me.)

In February, she challenged me to write a chapter per day. I spit coffee all over her. (Yes, the mental picture you’re making is accurate.)

But I did it. I had recently quit a job that served zero purpose in my orbit and decided to put every iota of energy into the book. It worked — and then some. (You can pre-order it here.)

The result is gonna be Maria’s swan song. And my foray into the world of publishing. (No pressure, dammit.)

I would keep writing about how amazing Maria is (truly!), but she’d probably chastise me for it. “Less is more, Mackie,” she’d say. “Unless I say otherwise.”

Ma’am. Yes, ma’am.

And if when she finds a typo in this blog, I’m sure I’ll hear about it. Lordt.