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 discover
the reason why. If you read my real name attached to this, you'd think
it was just another fantastic yarn I batted out and then you'd forget
it. And you'd laugh. You'll probably laugh anyway--for awhile--but I've
got to get this thing off my chest once and for all.
I was a struggling science-fiction author at the time it began--or
rather, just before it began. Nope, that's not right--struggling isn't
the word; it doesn't express the blood, sweat and postage stamps that
went into a creation, the hope and the futility that ran hot and cold
with each morning's mail, the psychological and financial insecurity
that 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 find
out the reason why. He's one of the all-time greats in science-fiction
and still is, and a fan not knowing his work would be suspected of
having 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 great
man to favor them with a glance if a moment ever came while he was
resting a bit between dashing off novelettes. And would he kindly
let me know--frankly, honestly, without fear of injuring my delicate
feelings--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'm
afraid I'll have to disillusion you. I have read your manuscripts
with considerable care and am sorry to report that you seem to have
no talent for writing and especially none for science-fiction.
I would suggest you turn your energies to something else--saxophone
playing, 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 the
gathering steam blow its lid. But I didn't. If I'd gotten an automobile
in motion, I would have run down the nearest boy scout just to see his
blood spatter. Instead, I sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. Donald
MacDonald.
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 in
no uncertain terms just what I thought of him and his criticisms. I'd
be a science-fiction writer just to show him up for the incompetent he
was, I said. I guess I said a lot of things. It was a letter full of
more than fire and brimstone. It was radioactive.