
Photograph by John W. MacDonald
The drugged, antelope gait of the mail carrier, the bloated envelopes, the four hollow horns of a square. Behind curtains, I wait. In the old days, years before this, I would rush to open each envelope, hurriedly poking and sliding the blade of the opener, sometimes snagging the folded query letter. Ah, the editor’s first cut. Typically, thereafter, I would dismantle the author bio and list of previous publications, from the twenty-five page sample, and, with paperclips flying off the walls, go ahead and separate the nastily Xeroxed reviews from the all-important SASE. Self-Absorbed …