I’m thinking of changing my name. Or, more accurately, restyling my name.

What prompts this rather teenage notion?

Two things.

First, the incessant battering of my ears by advertising for “The Village,” the new film from M. Night Shyamalan. (A Philadelphian!)

What an interesting name M. Night has. So stylized.

But what does the “M.” stand for? What does it replace? Some secret so horrible? Or just something unpronounceable?

Second, and for this I have no documentation, I recently encountered a writer whose name I cannot recall exactly, but it went something like this: J.-E. Stephens.

What a name is that! J.-E. Stephens.

Two initials and a hyphen!

And isn’t that hyphen just precious?

Gee whiz, the guy’s just dying to be invited to write for the New York Review of Books. And with a name like that, he probably will be. The Epsteins (Jason, Barbara) are and always have been notorious suckers for such affectations.

So for me, from now on, no more James Capozzola, no more Jim Capozzola, nor James Martin Capozzola. Call me J. Martin Capozzola, or maybe J.-M. Capozzola.

Serious writers know one doesn’t submit to the Review. One is asked; invited. Perhaps this new style -- hey, Susan Sontag played that gray streak of hers to completely unwarranted eminence -- will get me a little closer.

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