Sarah had published three novels by her fortieth birthday, three well-written, tightly plotted thrillers. Elevated thrillers, her previous agent used to say, although Sarah knew that not everyone agreed; that one of the publishers who had passed on her debut said that the book was beautifully written, but a little quiet, a little small. Her publisher said, and Sarah herself knew, that there was an endless appetite for the kind of books she wrote. That might have been true, but, if it was, readers were getting their fill elsewhere, not even bothering to taste what Sarah set out for them. In spite of the glowing reviews in the trade publications—and, once, in the New York Times Book Review’s “On Crime” column—none of Sarah’s books had sold more than five thousand copies, or had earned enough money, either in advances or royalties, for Sarah to make fiction her full-time job. She adjunct-professor’d and freelance edited, she took temporary work proofreading legal documents and wrote speeches and blog posts for executives and newsletters for hospitals and community colleges. With her sales trending steadily in the wrong direction and that first publisher’s assessment forever seared in her brain, Sarah had not been surprised when the publishing house she’d worked with for her first three books had declined to make an offer on her fourth, and when, subsequently, her agent had dropped her. “We all love you,” her former agent, a distressingly young woman, had said, three weeks after Sarah had sent in her pages, weeks that Sarah had spent with her nerves cranked tight, jumping every time her phone buzzed with an incoming email or call and glaring at it when it didn’t. “We think you’re a real talent. We just think someone else might have better luck breaking you out.”

Sarah had listened, the phone tight against her face, feeling like she’d fallen down a dark, dark well; a well with no bottom; like there would be no end to her disappointment and her shame and her sorrow. She thanked the young woman politely, even as she noted the beeps of call-waiting and incoming emails and texts in the background, the sound of other, less-disappointing clients. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” she said. “I know you tried.” She ended the call, set down the phone, then bent forward, slamming her desk with her fists, and screamed, a horrible, guttural sound; the sound of a dying animal, finally admitting defeat.