Spy novelist and Guardian blogger Charles Cumming takes a closer look at the writing-life of James Bond author Ian Fleming, and decides that the myths have overshadowed the truth somewhat.

On the face of it, 007’s creator was an impossibly glamorous figure, a womaniser and bon viveur, cigarette holder in one hand, Ursula Andress’s telephone number in the other. His books sold by the million. John F. Kennedy revealed From Russia With Love to have been one of his favourite books. No novelist ever had it so easy, or so good.

The reality, of course, was somewhat different. Fleming was insecure about his reputation; in common with most commercially-successful novelists, he wanted to be taken seriously by the literati. At times, he found the demands of writing the Bond novels overwhelming. In 1964, for example, as he was about to embark on The Man with the Golden Gun, Fleming wrote a letter to Sir John Betjeman. “I must warn you that I am seriously running out of puff,” he complained. “My inventive streak is very nearly worked out.” Later that year, at the tender age of 56, Fleming died. He lived to see just two of the Bond films, Dr. No and From Russia with Love, and never fully enjoyed the fruits of his success.