Leaning back in his chair, the editor wearily passed his hand across his forehead.

"Hmmm," he said—and stopped; and in that moment, I knew, by instinct alone, I could tell he was fishing in his memory, to place me and my last manuscript in juxtaposition, as it were.

His hesitation was only momentary. The mental machinery seemed to work at his command, and he continued:

"As I said, this story is excellent, Peter. Very good. But what the public most appreciates is something in the same style as your last book." He briefly looked up at me, and continued, "...that I had the honor of bringing out for you. That was good! I don't know when I have enjoyed anything so much as some of the points in that book. There was genuine humor there. Lots of laughs—but I was about to say that if you could write something in that vein again, I would love to have it, and I hope you would not think of going elsewhere with it."

He stopped for a moment, and although he went on again, and kept going for a long while after, I was well prepared for the fact that I would drive home with my precious manuscript lying pathetically in the passenger's seat.

I had written this story (my second, and probably last, book-length story) with a great deal of love for my subject, and a very keen sense of the disappointments and difficulties of life—I was experiencing some of them myself—but with all my critical revision and re-writing, my work had been rejected. And, as I was forced to believe, because of my former success as a comedic writer who wrote a silly book.

I wondered if I was nothing but a comedian? Was I to play the part of the clown? Of amusing the people, between the acts? Filling the time after the parade of the elephants while waiting for the spangled riders?

My first book was an accident. Germinated by the merest flash of an idea; thought over, developed and amplified unconsciously. I hardly ever sat down to write, that something— a sentence, a thought, an incident—concerning my book did not push its way into my mind, and crowd out all memory of more serious work. Over and over again had this happened, till at last, in desperation, I knew I could not rest until I sat in front of my computer and filled the glowing white screen with text.

Once there, it had grown beyond my anticipations; and I had thought no more about what I had written, until my wife, while dusting my desk—during my absence—had happened upon it, in its special place under a glass paper weight.

I came into the room and saw my wife, who, I supposed, had suddenly become insane. I stood rooted to the floor. (I believe that is the correct expression.) I saw her, seated before my desk, paper weight removed, reading a rough draft of my manuscript. The pages of my silly story were lying all about her—on the desk, the chair, the floor. (Fortunately they were paged.) My wife was shaking with laughter, not at all suppressed. Sometimes she used her sleeve to "wipe her weeping eyes." As her appearance was not improved by this, I had reason to believe she was mentally ill; till, looking up, she said:

"This is great stuff, Honey. Why have you never shown me this before? I never laughed so much in my life! I have been here for hours." (I thought so.) "So rich and funny! Wow, I didn't know you had so much fun in you. I had no idea you could write this good." (Unkindest cut of all.)

''You should send this to that publisher that Kelly knows," she continued, "they would buy it in an instant, I'm sure."

"Yeah, okay, whatever," I thought to myself.

I had considered self-publishing my silly story as an ebook, but, as foolish and unlikely as it seemed to me, I took my wife's advice, and the result proved surprisingly true to her predictions. The editor sent me an amazing thing, an acceptance and an advance payment against future royalties. More, still more, it was accompanied by some warm words of praise. I was invited to talk with my editor for any advice, and I had lunch with him almost every Friday afternoon. I could not believe what I had accomplished. It was incredible. It seemed too good to be true.

Of course I rejoiced in my good fortune, and my wife rubbed her praise in my face so frequently, "I told you so!" that I began to think she had written the story herself. I know she thought she had done more than half of the work.

And now, for a month, I had been anxiously waiting for the news of the acceptance of my second story, my real work, the result of years of sympathetic toil; and now fate had this disappointment in store for me. I was told I must be funny to succeed!

Funny! Laugh and dance to amuse the crowd! I groaned in anguish.

I groaned more frequently and heavily for many weary weeks. Funny! Where had all the fun in the world gone to, that no slightest trace of it, no weak germ, no faint idea of mirth-producing plot, would come at my call?

I walked the streets with eyes awake to every object about me. I saw no subject for the funny part of my brain to dwell upon. I promenaded in the city; I tramped in the country. I strode around my neighborhood during afternoon breaks; I prowled at night. I spread my windows wide, and sat, with the sun's glare in my eyes, before the desk, with my computer screen glaring blankly back at me—waiting. I closed the shutters tight, and in darkness and gloom, wooed the goddess of mirth. It was midnight, "dark and dreary—and I pondered weak and weary" enough, Heaven knows for how long, but life still presented its most serious side to me.

I grew thin and pale; worn and haggard. I feared I had lost the power to think at all, on any subject. Life had become one dreary hunt for the ridiculous.

I ate; I dieted; I vegetated. I walked; I rode; I slept; I dreamed. I bound my aching head with hot cloths; with cold cloths. I walked the creaking cold floor all night. I tried to sleep all day.

I read the poets, the historians, the novelists, the Joe Millers of all ages and all climes. From Stephen King to Al Franken, I sought, and sought in vain, for inspiration. I thought, and searched my mind, and the minds of those about me, for the merest whisper of a funny subject. I read everything, anything! I read the dictionary; the directory; emails in my junk filter. Then, I ranted, raved, and wept!

It must have been at this stage of the agony, that my friends had taken me into the city for some fun. Not that I am, or ever have been insane, but this elusive fun that I have so earnestly sought, had produced a condition of mind that my friends truly believed that I had become mentally unbalanced. But I forgave them, for a very good reason.

The fact is, that here, walking the crowded streets of New York City, where I can write nothing down, everything seems funny to me. Life is all mirth; every remark is a joke. The people make the cutest speeches, they wear the silliest faces. The brightest, wittiest ideas, puns and maxims are in my mind. And if I can only remember them all, when I leave here, I will undoubtedly be the laureate humorist of the 21st century!

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