Maybe the Twain Shall Meet After All

By way of Nick Mamatas here's a link to an article about "literary" writers turning to "genre" fiction that, for a change, doesn't make me want to stick knitting needles up my nose and jiggle them until my prefrontal cortex dribbles out my nostrils:

Once upon a time, genre was treated as almost a different industry from literary fiction, ignored by critics, sneered at by literary writers, relegated by publishers to imprint ghettos. But the dirty little and not-particularly-well-kept secret was that, thanks to the loyalty of their fans and the relatively rapid production of their authors, these genre books were the ones who kept the entire operation in business. All those snobbish literary writers had better have hoped like hell that their publishers had enough genre moneymakers in house to finance the advance for their latest beautifully rendered and experimentally structured observation of upper class angst.