J. Scott Bringer wrote exactly one and a third great novels, and rightly deserved his fame for it. Then came the empty years. It wasn't writer's block; he was, to the consternation of critics and professors of modern literature, growing ever more prolific in his output of penny dreadfuls which would, in spite of their name, sell for $8.99 on the racks of airport newsstands everywhere.
He cheerfully wrote these comparatively pathetic stories and books, knowing full well that they were utterly devoid of any merit whatsoever. He did so because it seemed that the only alternative was to become a tortured artist, then an embittered ex-artist, and then a very unemployable has-been, a process of which no stage seemed particularly fun.