Gillian Anderson’s Want was published in September 2024 to mostly positive reviews. It was accompanied by a clever marketing campaign in which Anderson herself played a crucial part. I am often drawn into the madness of publishing’s strategies to maximise exposure – and sales – of their big releases. These can often be a little awkward, disregarding the contents of the book itself to cater to the presumed expectations of readers – or rather, potential book buyers. Campaigns like these, of course, feed into social media’s frenzy for content and merchandise. I get it: it’s about selling the book, not necessarily reaching its readers. It works, but can be a little boring.

The social media – and overall – campaign for marketing Want was a prime example of a job well done, though. Waterstones Gower Street had a shop window dedicated entirely to the book, its title and author’s name written in pink neon lights that shone through the night. The pink lights matched the beautiful and immediately recognisable unique jacket designed by David Mann. Meanwhile, Foyles announced additional signed editions to the ones people acquired on pre-order while Anderson recorded several brilliantly funny short videos posted to her own social media profiles as well as to those of her publisher, Bloomsbury. Those were both cheeky and full of double entendres, always attuned to the conversational and inviting spirit of Want. All of this demonstrates a much cleverer approach than simply showering people with tote bags or postcards. Though this is not fiction, its marketing campaign still somehow extended its narrative and invited people to join in.

But what about the writing?

Want is a collection of sexual fantasies submitted by women and non-binary people to a platform Anderson established and invited people into. While their authors remain anonymous, the reader is provided with some information, including their religious affiliations, social class, marital status, and nationality. Along with the Bloomsbury team, Anderson organised thousands of submissions into main themes or imagery and selected the ones to be included in the book, considering variety in backgrounds as well as suitability. While the purpose of the book is to help women deconstruct taboos around desire and their own sexualities, Anderson avoided entries portraying anything that would be criminal in real life.

The entries (and the book overall) often struggle with the matter of empowerment. A common fantasy has women being subdued and even sexually assaulted. In those, the authors often reaffirm – more than once – that they are feminists and would never wish for such scenarios in real life. In the fantasy, the people who subdue them have their consent. While the idea is to free authors and readers of self-judgment, internal censure is very much still present. This, I suppose, is somewhat unavoidable.

While the book is presented as a sort of sequel to Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden (1973), in many ways it holds back – perhaps as a consequence of social media hypervigilance, where anything deemed devious might derail someone’s life, but also due to the very real culture of misogyny that could exploit the fantasies shared here as justification for real-life behaviour. The disclaimers are rooted in actual fears. However, one effect of this is that the selection often struggles to establish an honest conversation with the reader due to the holding back for fear of prying, unkind eyes.

In keeping with the aim of creating a judgment-free safe space, Anderson does not comment much – or at all – on the fantasies. She introduces the book – revealing that she submitted her own fantasy anonymously – as well as each thematic section, and I personally felt that Want would have benefitted from us hearing more of her voice. I admit that would have been a completely different book, one she may write at some point. I also feel that some readers were left disappointed by the fact that this is not the book they got.

Having followed the reviews of Want with interest, from those in major publications to those on platforms like Goodreads, I noticed a few common threads among the latter. One includes frustration at the fact that a lot of the fantasies were too vanilla, while others complained about their lack of literariness – that is, that many of the authors are not good writers. A third group expressed frustration that some entries were too repetitive or unnecessarily long. While it is true that Want can feel somewhat tiring after extended reading, these critiques showcase a frustration with the book for adhering to its original purpose. It is not meant to showcase creativity and originality; it is meant to register, in an honest voice, sexual fantasies that their authors often feel compelled to hide, repress, or chastise themselves for.

These fantasies vary significantly depending on the writer’s personal situation – where they live, their age, whether they are (happily) married or not, if they live out some fantasies in real life, and so on. The book is not meant to be exciting or entertaining reading (though it occasionally is). This is more akin to an anthropological record than to a racy novel. That is its intent, and it largely achieves this goal.

There is no way to showcase or portray everything. While omitting some of the more problematic fantasies is a responsible choice, this could possibly betray the project’s original purpose; the same could be said about some writers’ felt necessity for disclaimers. But that is a contradiction inherent to a project like this. The fact that so many people reported feeling embarrassed by their own urges and liberated by writing about them shows why the book ultimately makes sense. Some readers will feel seen when they realise their own fantasies are shared by others. Promoting that kind of connection and self-awareness is all Want needs to do.

While most people are likely to expect to be entertained by a book that does not market itself as academic or aimed at a specialised audience, I feel that, in time, Want will find a readership that appreciates its intent while remaining somewhat dissonant with general readers. It sparked conversation, invited self-expression, and was edited with responsibility and care. What more can one ask for?