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.
I mailed it. Then I had a beer.
Two days later, while I was bravely punching typewriter keys in a desperate effort to make good my boast, a small, haggard-looking fellow came to the door and rang the bell.