Judith Krantz, 1928 – 2019.
As I was about to start my eleventh novel, I abruptly realized that I was making a huge mistake. On the verge of launching into the imagined world of a twenty-eight-year-old, I felt an intense need to tell another story, the story of a woman I know through and through… a woman with more wealth of experience, a woman who’s seen more real glamour, known more fascinating people, lived in a world of more sophistication, and arrived at more hard-won maturity than that twenty-eight-year-old could hope for – in short, my own story. I’ve tried to remain as unknowable as possible, the better to let my heroines hold the stage, but now I was ready to tell the truth about myself, with no holding back.
I’ve had a different life from that of the majority of women of my generation and background. While I seemed like another “nice Jewish girl,” underneath that convenient cover I’d traveled my own, inner-directed path and had many a spicy and secret adventure. I grew up in a complicated tangle of privilege, family problems, and tormented teenaged sexuality. After a riotous education at Wellesley, my life was turned upside down by a glorious year in Paris, marked by an intense but ill-starred romance. I spent the next half-decade in New York, sowing lighthearted wild oats until I finally met my true love, to whom I’ve been married for forty-six years.
When I was fifty I had an utterly unexpected, almost unbelievable success as a number-one bestselling novelist that has continued for book after book. Challenging, lucky, exciting, and often devastatingly askew, my life seems to have been lived under a wild and antic star.
I’ve had as much amazing fun as my heroines, and here’s the book to prove it.
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