I don’t like the word slush. It calls to mind the vast quantities of snow, sleet, freezing rain and wintry mix that have collected everywhere in mounds of white-slowly-turning-to-grey after a recent spate of winter storms. It summons visions of dark, semifrozen pools whose depths are treacherously unknowable until it’s too late. And worst of all, the name slush pile as applied to a publisher’s unsolicited submissions recalls the image of weary editorial assistants mechanically slapping form rejection letters on manuscripts laden with the hopes and dreams of their authors.