Between the years of 1976 and 1983, I gave birth to four healthy,

planned volumes of humor. They ranged in size from 175 to 203

pages.

The offspring were divinely conceived. My agent, Aaron Priest,

and my editor at McGraw-Hill, Gladys Carr, assisted at the

delivery.

If I speak of these volumes as "children," it is because there

are a lot of similarities. They re something you always put off until

you re sure your marriage is stable. When you discover you are

"with book," there is ecstasy at first, heightened by a lot of at-

tention and an advance check. By the third set of rewrites, when

you have seen none of your friends in months and the "baby" has

reached epic proportions, you bargain with God, "If you deliver

me a healthy book, I promise, I will clean my oven."

By the time the name is picked out, the cover approved, and

Donahue has been invited to the birth, you are ready to see what

you ve been carrying around for nine months. You gently peek

under the cover.