Max Yoho 

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Fair Warning!

Without telling you what my first four thoughts were, I'll tell you that my fifth thought was, "How nice for Tom Averill." I guess I won't tell you what my next three thoughts were either.    It would probably be unfair to blame Tom Averill for my lack of success as a writer, but the fact remains that his book, Seeing Mona Naked, appeared in the book stores the same day I was going to submit my manuscript, Seeing Mary Alice Westrick's Underpants. Well sir, I know when I've been outclassed. I dropped the fruits of two years labor in the dumpster and drove home with the bitter knowledge that I had come within one pair of white cotton step-ins of achieving fame and glory.    To add to my disgust I knew that I had been a lot smarter than Mr. Averill. In the beginning, I had planned to call my book Seeing Mary Alice Westrick Naked. But then I decided to save that for the sequel.    I would be the last one to suggest that there is a writers' conspiracy against me, but some pretty darned strange things have happened. Like, for instance, how about the time a few years ago when I was all set to write a book on touring with my cat. I hadn't exactly written the book yet, but I had typed the title on a fresh piece of paper:With Old Puss On The Road To McCook, Nebraska. The rest is history. Three days later John Steinbeck hit the shelves with his stupid book about his stupid travels with his stupid dog, Charlie. That one caused me even more pain than Mona, because I had made some foolish promises to Old Puss about what we would do when we became rich. On top of that, it rained on us all the way to McCook.    I'll tell you this much about the writing racket: it's fine if you write well, but it's more important to write fast. So stand back, suckers, or eat my dust!

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