Pity the poor science-fiction writer who
creates bug-eyed monsters. You only see them
in print—he may have to live with a few!...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
March 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
That's not my real name up there, and in a little while you'll discoverthe reason why. If you read my real name attached to this, you'd thinkit was just another fantastic yarn I batted out and then you'd forgetit. And you'd laugh. You'll probably laugh anyway—for awhile—but I'vegot to get this thing off my chest once and for all.
I was a struggling science-fiction author at the time it began—orrather, just before it began. Nope, that's not right—struggling isn'tthe word; it doesn't express the blood, sweat and postage stamps thatwent into a creation, the hope and the futility that ran hot and coldwith each morning's mail, the psychological and financial insecuritythat comes to a beginner crazy enough to tackle such a field. And then,to top it off, I got a letter from Donald MacDonald.
That's not his real name either, and in a little while you'll findout the reason why. He's one of the all-time greats in science-fictionand still is, and a fan not knowing his work would be suspected ofhaving lost his marbles. So a "name" author writes me a letter. Great,huh?
No.
I'd sent MacDonald a batch of my manuscripts, humbly asking the greatman to favor them with a glance if a moment ever came while he wasresting a bit between dashing off novelettes. And would he kindlylet me know—frankly, honestly, without fear of injuring my delicatefeelings—what he thought of the work?
He would. And did. The letter read:
Dear Mr. ....:
I appreciate your efforts at trying to crack the stf field, but I'mafraid I'll have to disillusion you. I have read your manuscripts withconsiderable care and am sorry to report that you seem to have notalent for writing and especially none for science-fiction.
I would suggest you turn your energies to something else—saxophoneplaying, stamp collecting—anything else. If you insist upon writing,however, have you considered fillers?
Best wishes,
Donald MacDonald.
What I should have done was go out into the country, and let thegathering steam blow its lid. But I didn't. If I'd gotten an automobilein motion, I would have run down the nearest boy scout just to see hisblood spatter. Instead, I sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. DonaldMacDonald.
It was a fine letter, full of colorful phrases and split infinitives.To hell with grammar at a time like that, I rationalized. I told him inno uncertain terms just what I thought of him and his criticisms. I'dbe a science-fiction writer just to show him up for the incompetent hewas, I said. I guess I said a lot of things. It was a letter full ofmore than fire and brimstone. It was radioactive.
I mailed it. Then I had a beer.
Two days later, while I was bravely punching typewriter keys in adesperate effort to make good my boast, a small, haggard-looking fellowcame to the door and rang the bell.
"We don't want any," I said.
He peered through the screen door and said, "I'm MacDonald," in anervous, uncertain voice.
"MacDonald who?"
"Donald MacDonald. May I come in?"
"You're kidding. No, by God, you're not. You are Donald MacDonald."
He smiled wanly. "May I come in? I flew all the way—"
"Just to see me?"
"I—er—it was no trouble. I t