ONCE UPON A MONBEAST... By Charles E. Fritch 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.