When I published "fear of flying" in 1973, women were not supposed to publicly confess to sexual boredom in marriage. It was rampant, of course. But as I was to discover (to my horror), it is one thing to be a secret, silent adulterer and quite another to be an adulterer on paper―especially if you are a woman―and "Fear of Flying" humorously suggested that there might be sexual fantasies about other partners even within marriage. My novel was passed from hand to hand, read aloud in bed, pressed on boyfriends by girlfriends and on girlfriends by boyfriends. Analysts recommended it to their patients. Mothers kept it from their daughters―the best PR a book can have. "Fear of Flying" made its way in the world, and so did I.
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