My first acceptance! It was incredible the exhilaration that flowed through me in that instant. It was like a much-needed shot of adrenaline, like cool springwater to a thirsty man. I had a check for a story someone thought enough of to publish. I was an author. A real, live, honest-to-goodness author with a check in my hand to prove to a critical world that I wasn't a bum after all. Suddenly the world was a big, wide, wonderful place to live in, and I loved everyone in it—even the poor, disillusioned Donald MacDonald.
But why stop here? I thought. There were more checks where that came from. If I could sell one story, I could sell two, and then three, and four. So I did. In a way, it was something like digging my own grave. You don't understand that now, but in a little while you'll see the reason why.
After I had haunted the newsstand for about three months, the great day came. THE MONBEAST was the last story in the magazine (at the time I thought they really should have featured it) and my name was misspelled on the contents page, but it was a great day just the same. A day of triumph. A day for rejoicing. I'd had several stories accepted during the several months' interval, but this was the day that the fruits of my labor became evident to the world.
I walked home with a proud, firm step, casually displaying the magazine to the vast public eye, to friend and foe alike. I tried to act nonchalant, as though this were old stuff to an established writer like me. It was a day of glory, of triumph, rivaling Caesar's victorious march into Rome.
That evening I read the story over and over again, marveling at the perfection of its form, savoring the exquisite flavor of each delicate, richly-hued, word, the uniqueness of each choice, well-turned phrase. I fell asleep with the magazine in my hand.
The next morning the monbeast was sitting at the foot of my bed.