Modus Operandi, Jan/Feb 1980

Herewith, the latest selection from dusted-off published poetry and short fiction, circa 1970s vintage and beyond....

Envelopes

Envelopes - you know, those paper squares, oblongs, rectangles, whatever, with which we writers hopefully encapsulate sheets of paper on which we have typed the gleanings of our genius' Muse thereby expediting said manuscripts through the mails - intrigue and bedevil me. They are cunning little tricksters, envelopes. Not so, you say, how can they be? Doubter...!

It doesn't seem all that long ago that agronomists and horticulturalists startled an unready world with the ridiculous theory that plants respond to stimulus. Oh indeed yes, respond to care, to immediate environmental factors; we all knew that. But plants, they told us unbelievers, like to be liked. They thrive, grow lustily healthy when cooed at, encouraged, have their fancies tickled. We believe, we believe...!

But, you say, plants are animate, growing things. And envelopes - did I say envelopes? Yes, they're inanimate. So they would have us believe. I said they are cunning, and they are. They love practical jokes. Believe me, I know. I am, you see, an envelope-observer of long experience.

It all started, don't you know, when I began my writing career. Up until then I'd been just like everyone else, a normal envelope-trusting individual. I thought like you, that envelopes existed for the sole purpose of well, enveloping things. I know differently now. The little blighters also play practical jokes.

They are, perforce, not necessarily what they appear to be; have personalities all their own, enjoy springing little tricks and treats on the unwary. Myself, I scrutinize all return envelopes carefully now, before slitting their ... oh, I am sorry!

Anyway, I can be quite devious myself. I prolong the agony of opening return envelopes, carefully running experienced hands over envelope and contents before the final irrevocable revelation.

Does it feel slimmer than when I sent it out? Some of the sheaf of papers accepted, one maybe? And the larger manuscript-sized ones; some of them, returned, feel delightfully slim. Have they been utilized by an economy minded editor to enclose a letter of acceptance, nothing more?

This little game has its own built-in pitfalls, for often when I'm serenely positive before opening, I'm completely shattered to discover within the envelope all that I had sent out returned, rejected, and I, dejected, having forgotten I'd used a thinner-than-usual bond paper.

But friends and fellow scribblers, it does happen that when I'm at my lowest, I'll barge right in, slit - sorry, open that dear envelope and inside will be mayhap, an acceptance. Sometimes when I least expect it, my full-size story manuscript will be blissfully absent and an acceptance will be nestled comfortably within said envelope.

And once, upon receiving a large manuscript-sized envelope I opened (that better?), looked within and perceived nothing. Nothing!

Holding it scornfully with the tips of index finger and thumb, making my way to the waste basket, wondering all the while which editor had forgotten to re-insert my manuscript, I was startled when a frail slip of paper swooshed out, and floated to the floor at my feet. Stooping, I retrieved it and beheld, lo, no mere frail slip of paper, but a fat and healthy one-hundred-dollar cheque. Egad!

Ah, envelopes - they're curious beasties.

c. 1980 Rita Rosenfeld
published in Modus Operandi, Volume 11, No.1