Once Upon a Monbeast...

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!...
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?