"Sure, sure, c'mon in. Have a chair. Drink?"
"No, thanks," he said, seating himself. "I'm afraid I've been—that is—er—No, I don't believe so."
"I got your letter," I said, suddenly remembering. My awe at the presence of the great man was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of "Now, what the hell does he want?"
"And I got yours," MacDonald said. "That's why I'm here." He gazed at my typewriter as though it were ready to bite him. "You didn't take my advice?"
"Hardly," I said, rather flippantly. "Once the bug has bitten you—"
"Have you had anything accepted?"
I stared at the rug, hating the man for asking. "No, not yet," I admitted grudgingly, "but—"
"Then the bug hasn't really bitten you yet," he said. "You'll know it when he does."
"I—uh—guess my letter was a bit—er—abrupt," I said, not knowing how else to fill the silence.
"You were pretty mad," he admitted, "and I don't blame you; I should have known better than to tell you that way. But in this game, you've—well, you've got to learn to take criticism. If your work's bad, admit it and throw in the towel."