I’ve written 20 books, 14 of them novels that more or less fall into the category of political satire. Many a reviewer has sniffed that subtlety is not among the tools in my fictional sandbox. But like Robin Goodfellow in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “Those things do best please me that befall preposterously.”

My first novel was published in 1986. It opens on January 20, 1989, as the president-elect’s motorcade pulls up to the White House to collect about-to-be-ex-president Ronald Reagan for the trip to the Capitol and the swearing-in ceremony of his successor. But there’s a problem: President Reagan has gone a bit, well, dotty. He’s still in his pajamas and just doesn’t feel like going out. It’s not a power grab. The old guy just isn’t up for leaving today. Maybe tomorrow.

Forty years ago, the idea of the U.S. president refusing to leave office was a quaint notion. The opening scene got the novel noticed, and the book made the bestseller lists.

I confessed to an interviewer that I was somewhat nervous about how President Reagan—much less Mrs. Reagan—might feel about it. I’d worked for two years in his administration and had known the Reagans, through my parents, since I was a teenager.

Three days after the interview appeared, a letter arrived, franked, the upper left corner embossed in gold: “The President.” My bowels loosened. But its theme wasn’t Et tu, Brute. It was a handwritten note congratulating me on the book’s success. Reagan was “delighted that I was able to play some small role in it.”