Peter H. Cropes

I did not expect to finish my second novel, A Hilarious Comedy, as quickly as I did. The first novel was a marathon of hate and anguish and endless paste-up, and I vowed many times I would never put a book together again. This time it was different. Based loosely on what I ended up having to do with the coquettish sandwich fellow, the story came together in mere Nights. I would sit and type feverishly at the computer -- oh, that is the main thing. I have learned to use Microsoft Word for novel making. Oh how it does ease the process. And there is no paste-up. The new book is spic-and-span and so professional. This time instead of taping down my drawings to the paper, I "put" them into the Microsoft Word page. I would tell you more but I know you must find my advances dull.

I have put forth my "sophomore" effort. It is done and though there are no reviews yet I feel that I can begin to term myself a "writer." It is a curious mantle to wear. At once it seems arrogant and high-brow, but again Homer was a blind wanderer and Chaucer had been a prisoner. I do not think you will find anyone of value who tinkers with their merits to spite their low ways.