Look, if I got 141 pages in me, I'm going out with a clever, commercially viable novella instead. A potboiler. Gritty little murder mystery, perhaps, about a retiring, burnt-out LA detective on his final, albeit career-defining, case. Something for the fictional crime junkies to eagerly devour and later petition Hollywood for a big screen adaptation. Maybe Gary Oldman or Ray Winstone as my jaded gumshoe, who knows. I'm sure they can do LA. Fincher or Scorsese would be fine, although the Coens could go quirky with it, which might please the Academy. Now this is a legacy.
Seriously, when was the last time Oprah peddled a 'poor me' suicide manifesto to her page-turning sycophants?