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My book, Falling Under, is being released this week. It's my debut and I have, therefore, been anticipating this for months.

I'm ready for all manner of serious discussion about the book; it's structure, its themes, its use of the very unusual 2nd person point of view and so on. I'm ready to talk about whether it's "literary" or "commercial" (it's both, I think) and I'm ready with my answer to the "is this autobiographical" question.

But as friends and family and strangers (!) start to read Falling Under, there's one thing they all want to talk about...they want to talk about The Sex.

Because, you see, there is a bit of sex in Falling Under-sex of the fiery, emotionally fraught variety.

So everyone (with raised eyebrows and meaningful looks) comments on The Sex, and then they ask the "is this autobiographical" question in regards to The Sex.

"First I blush and laugh, then I resist my impulse to get defensive or apologetic and then, when they are still asking if I ever did X,Y and Z...I am tempted to say, YES.

I am tempted to sew the seeds for a properly edgy, writerly reputation, to pose as a modern day Anais Nin, complete with famous literary lovers and bohemian lifestyle. I imagine myself with a host of cultivated vices, passionate angst and a glamorously debauched lifestyle.

Then I consider how much work that would be to maintain alongside my actual life, not to mention the possible complications of dealing with this kind of alter-ego who is bound to be demanding and volatile and need all kinds of therapy.

Literary infamy is nice and all, but perhaps it would be wiser (and more truthful) to say I have a vivid imagination.

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Danielle Younge-Ullman, Falling Under, Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, relationships, Penguin Books, books, Plume