Relativity

I'm a little bit sad, today. Yesterday, when I bought myself the post-birthday world by lionel shriver at d.c.'s beloved, iconic, and a little bit pompous Kramerbooks (which is, gratifyingly, open at 8a.m. before the office opens its doors), I noticed that the paperback version of Maggie O'Farrell's Esme Lennox was not on the shelves. In fact, I'd gone in to Kramerbooks that morning looking for other novels by O'Farrell, and found none.
The Borders downtown coughed up a similar lack of her work.
Then, last night at the Borders in Clarendon, I noticed piles of the hardback Esme on the discount display, priced at $3.95. It just doesn't seem fair.
Now, post-birthday, on the other hand, spilling forth in copious piles from the front table at Kramerbooks and Borders, is certainly a worthy novel. Deeply, almost viciously observant, the novel is an encyclopedic journey through one woman's mind preceding and --primarily-- following a decision with repercussions beyond any she imagines, or plans. So it's worthy of its audience, for sure.
But shouldn't Maggie O'Farrell have a place at the superstar's table? And for that matter, why did my sweet little first novel wither so quickly on the vine?