Having published seven overtly literary novels that had been (by and large) well received but read by virtually no one, the thought of writing another made me feel homicidal and ill. I didn’t feel any less homicidal or ill when my agent informed me that if I did write another overtly literary novel, he wouldn’t be able to sell it. Publishing wasn’t immune from recession. Overnight, literary novelists who weren’t household names found themselves topping the list of the hilariously expendable. I was on borrowed time. (Duncan, 2011a)1