The studio is the manure pile in the slaughterhouse of art: mostly shit and indignity, but very rich in nutrients. Perhaps that is the most important part – the humility of beginning with scraps and growing shoots from the muck. Of finding promise and perhaps transcendence in ignomy and struggle and mistake: the fecund darkness of living invisibly underground. But next to me on my workdesk is a glorious bit of deliciousness. It’s a rejection letter sent to Gertrude Stein by a publisher. It’s very much appropriate this week, when VIDA released its new report about the endemic bigotry in “the publishing industry,” and the publishing industry responded that women just won’t submit.