If I write what I know, I must know a lot of perverts

I was typing away last Monday night when I realized I needed to do some research.

"Hey, Honey?" I called to my gentleman friend.

"Yeah?" he hollered back from his station at the kitchen sink, where he was dutifully unstopping the garbage disposal.

"Can I borrow you a minute?"

"What for?"

"Well," I called, glancing back at the scene in my manuscript. "If I came up behind you braless and topless wearing high-heeled shoes, I need to know where my boobs would come into contact with your back. I'd also like you to describe the sensation."

There was a brief pause. Then he appeared in the office with  dishtowel slung over his shoulder and a big grin on his face. "I'm really glad you write romance and not science fiction."

I posted an abbreviated version of the conversation on Facebook, soliciting a few chuckles from readers. One person remarked that the research was only valid if my hero and heroine were precisely the same height as my gentleman friend and myself.

"There's a reason I've never written a particularly tall heroine," I replied.

Surprisingly, this was the first time it had dawned on me. Every heroine I've ever written has been a bit on the shrimpy side. I'm five-foot-three-and-a-half (don't you dare try to take away that half inch). My heroines have all ranged in height between five feet and five-five. Since there's a law that says you'll be thrown in prison if you write a hero who's under six feet tall, this works out fine with my six-one gentleman friend.

Clearly, I haven't strayed  far from the old adage to "write what you know."

I've been thinking about this a lot since the release of last week. One of the most common questions I'm getting from readers is whether standup paddle yoga is a real thing. I'm not sure why it never occurred to me that people would think I'd made up the sport, but I never considered that when I set out to write a heroine who teaches yoga on a standup paddleboard. It was just the quintessential activity to represent the uber-fit, uber-outdoorsy vibe in Bend, Oregon (the setting of the story, and not-so-coincidentally, the town where I've lived for 16 years and where I work part-time as the PR & Communications Manager for the tourism bureau).

So for those who are wondering, yes, it's real. And yes, I've done it. If you've never tried standup paddleboarding, it's actually much more stable than you think it would be. That photo there of me in wheel pose on the Deschutes River? That was only my second time on a paddleboard. It was my dog's first time, and she thought it was great fun to lick my face as the instructor (Kama, not to be confused with Eat, Play, Lust's heroine, Cami) offered suggestions for moving from one pose to another.

After that I probably went home and cooked either an elaborate gourmet meal, or tater tots. Or both. Also major elements of Eat, Play, Lust, in case you're wondering.

So, yeah, I guess I do tend to write what I know. For the record, I've never once fallen off a standup paddleboard. I suppose you could say I didn't fully research the scene in which Paul and Cami topple into the water together, but if it makes you feel any better, I can promise the other scenes were thoroughly researched.

Especially the one with the honey.

Sometimes you've gotta strip for copy editors

I just hit another big milestone in the countdown to release day for MAKING WAVES. I got my copy edits from the production team at Sourcebooks.

For those unfamiliar with the process, copy edits happen after you’ve already gone a round or two on the big-picture stuff with your primary editor. Though I’ve heard of copy editors slashing paragraphs and changing words with ruthless abandon, that wasn’t the case here. It was mostly stylistic stuff, changing “OK” to “okay” and switching “8” to “eight.”

But there was one comment that made me giggle.

You’ve heard me mention the Strip Battleship scene in MAKING WAVES, right? It’s precisely what it sounds like, with a lot of rapid-fire dialogue as the characters fling clothing, ogle one another, and shout letters and numbers to guess the position of each other's boats.

In the middle of the scene, the copy editor wrote this:
I thought about writing a smartass comment back about how there is an easy way to check by grabbing a Battleship game board and playing a round.

But fortunately for the copy editor, I already took care of it.

Pythagoras and I invented Strip Battleship eight or nine years ago it a quiet hotel room in Jamaica. We didn’t actually own the game ourselves, so when I decided to write the scene for MAKING WAVES several years later, I went out and bought one.

“Are we playing for real?” Pythagoras asked when I dropped it on the bed in front of him.

“I have to make sure the scene is accurate, don’t I?”

He eyed the pad of paper in my hand. “You’re taking notes?”

“You should be grateful I’m not taking pictures.”

That didn’t appease him much, but he got to work setting his ships up anyway.

“B9,” I called.

“Miss. C6.”

“Miss. E2.”

“Hit.” He frowned. “Did you cheat?”

“I have to. It says so in the book. Now give me your shirt.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Wait a minute. You’ve already written the scene?”

“Of course,” I said, offering him my sweetest smile. “I just need to get the numbers down.”

“So you already know you’re going to win?”

I shrugged, not seeing any problem with this. “You want to just take off all your clothes now?”

He wasn’t a fan of that idea, nor was he a very big fan of his predestined defeat. “So there’s no chance at all I’m going to win?”

“Define win. It’s kind of subjective in Strip Battleship, isn’t it?”

In the end, I got my notes. I also got his shirt. And his shoes. And his…well, I’ll stop there. You’ll have to read the book.

Suffice it to say, I can assure the copy editor with 110% certainty the scene is accurate.

Is that a cutlass in your trousers, or are you just happy to see me?

Yesterday was International Talk Like a Pirate Day, and since I don't generally post on Sundays, allow me to say this belatedly:

AAAAAAAAR!

That was fun.

So was attending the Portland Pirate Festival yesterday, a whirlwind trip that included seven hours of round-trip driving to stand in the rain with 1,700 men, women and children determined to reclaim the Guinness World Record for the largest gathering of pirates.

The Portland festival set the record last year with 1,670, but it was broken four times in the interim by other groups. We needed 7,000 to reclaim it yesterday, and though we didn't manage that, we did set a new U.S. record.

Admittedly, my interest in the pirate thing is tied partly to MAKING WAVES, my debut novel that hits shelves next August. It's sort of a contemporary twist on the pirate romance cliche, and the gist of it is this:

Juli lost count of the number of jobs she’s held, but she definitely never applied to be a pirate. Or a stowaway on a pirate ship, for that matter. But when fate lands her on boat captained by Alex – a man whose unscrupulous boss kicked him to the curb after 20 faithful years – Juli finds herself in the middle of a revenge-fueled diamond heist in the Caribbean with a crew more suited to the boardroom than the poop deck. For his part, Alex didn’t plan to be a pirate, either. He just wants his dignity, pension, and normal life back. But normal flies out the window once Juli enters the picture – a twist Alex wishes he didn’t find so exhilarating. Soon, the two discover that while normal is nice, weird can be wonderful.

One reason I attended the Pirate Festival this year was to assess whether there might be an opportunity for book promo next year. I'm not sure it's the best venue for that, but I definitely got something from the endeavor – namely, a sense of camaraderie, of being a part of something bigger than my own little make-believe world.

It reminded me of when my amazing agent suggested I join Romance Writers of America earlier this year, and the introvert in me wanted to hide under my bed and whimper, "but all those people!"

What I've learned in the six months since I joned two local RWA groups is that I gain a lot from belonging to a group like that, and it's not just the lectures and workshops. The real value – at least for me – is the sense of teamwork in something that's often a very solitary pursuit. There's a power in knowing you're surrounded by people who don't think you're odd for jotting character notes in line at the grocery store or debating which eye patch goes best with your boots.

Are you part of any writers' group or any other organization? What do you gain from that? If you haven't joined, what's holding you back? Please share!

And since we're sharing, here are some of my photos from yesterday:

The timing of the trip meant I had to take part in my weekly online revision class with bestselling author Lani Diane Rich at my in-laws' kitchen table while dressed in full pirate attire. Nothing like holding a plastic sword while you learn about plot structure.

Hanging at the Portland Pirate Festival.

Waiting for the final count from the Guinness World Record officials.

Hey, pirates gotta go, too.

You know, sometimes there are just no words.

My hole got plugged so my jugs aren't full

Before we get started on this fine Monday morning, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who offered blog organization tips in response to Friday's post.

I asked Joelle Anthony, author of RESTORING HARMONY, to choose one lucky commenter to receive the autographed copy of her book. After a complicated selection process that involved calculating the square root of pi and sacrificing several small mammals, Joelle chose blog commenter ~ M (also known as Mary Alongi). Congratulations, Mary! Email me with your address and I'll get the book to you ASAP!

Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

I traveled to Salem, OR this past weekend to take part in the 20th Annual Grape Stomp Competition at Willamette Valley Vineyards.

Participants compete in pairs with the "stomper" using bare feet to crush grapes, and the "swabber" using a dipstick-like device to keep the drain clear and the juice flowing into the milk jugs.

I stomped. My dad swabbed.

We sucked.

Something went awry with our drain tube, and despite my dad's best efforts, we couldn't get it clear. On top of that, the teenager I asked to take video of the five-minute event manged to record exactly one second of footage of me stepping out of the barrel.

But this is exactly what I wanted. A learning experience.

Though it's possible I'd do this event even if I didn't have an ulterior motive, I do have one. The third book in my contract, LET IT BREATHE, takes place in the Oregon wine industry. Though it won't be released until August 2012, it's never to early to look for interesting promotional opportunities.

I don't know yet if the 2012 Grape Stomp might be a good place for a book signing, or if my time might be better spent lighting my hair on fire and screaming "buy my book!" as I fling grape pulp at the competitors.

But I do know how the event works now. I know that next time, I'll watch the earlier heats to see which barrels have trouble draining. I know I'll spend more time finding someone to take video. I know I'll poke holes in the bottom of the other competitors' jugs so all their juice drains out I'll wear my hair up next time so it stays out of my face.

It's a bit like writing, no? Even if some of your earliest efforts are abysmal failures in terms of publication or feedback, they aren't wasted efforts. You learn from those efforts, and those lessons will serve you well with future books.

What are some learning experiences you've had so far in your writing? Please share.

And speaking of sharing, here are some of the lovely photos my mother took on Saturday. Enjoy!

A plethora of grapes await stomping.

Dad scopes out the barrels before the competition.

A little pre-competition beverage.

Sizing up the competition before the whistle blows.

Stomping...

More stomping...

Wow, this stomping is lasting on a long time.

Yay, team! Oh, wait – we sucked.

My grape stomping machines.

Getting cleaned up afterward.

Standing in line to get our juice strained and measured.

Hanging with my parents!

My first time - no handcuffs required!

After 35 years of leading a crime-free existence, I am tarnished. Forever shamed.

My weekend unfolded normally, with me pestering a cop into providing a tour of the Newberg, Oregon police station.

Behold, the drunk tank at the Newberg, OR police station.

It was research for the third book in my contract, and it was a lot of fun.

Well, except the part where I asked the cop if I needed to be handcuffed to see the holding cells, and he stared like I was some sort of sexual deviant (at which point I reminded him I’m a romance author, which totally excused the sexual deviancy).

Little did I know, my tour of the slammer was a hint of what was to come.

I’ve been operating an automobile for nearly 20 years, and would say I’m a slightly below average driver. In spite of this, my only prior brush with the law occurred in Montana right after they repealed the speed limit. Apparently, the cops were bored.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” the Montana cop asked.

I considered the question. “Was it the body in my trunk?”

He didn’t smile. “Your rear license plate isn’t attached correctly. It’s supposed to be attached on all four corners, and yours is only attached on three. Also, you have to use wing nuts to attach the plate, and you’ve used wire.”

“Wing nuts?”

“That’s correct.”

I frowned. “I was going 80 miles an hour. How can you see my wing nuts?”

He ignored the question. “I’m going to let you off with a warning, but in the future, be more cautious.”

And I was cautious – for the next 10 years, I made sure my license plate was properly attached.

Speeding is another matter, which is how I found myself exceeding the limit as I drove home from an RWA meeting on Saturday.

When I saw a car pulled off the road and a man kneeling in the dirt with a gun aimed at me, my first instinct was to duck.

It should have been to slow down. It was a radar gun, and I was busted. Unlike the Montana situation, I knew I’d done something wrong.

In my mind, I had played out this scene a million times. I would cry. I would beg. I would smile so sweetly the officer would shake my hand and thank me for making his day.

That’s not how it happened.

I managed to roll down the window. That’s as far as I got.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” he asked.

I shook my head mutely, fumbling for my driver’s license.

“You were going 70 in a 55, plus there’s a construction zone on the other side of the highway.”

I still couldn’t seem to find any words, so I widened my eyes with what I hoped was surprised remorse, but probably looked more like I was choking.

The cop gave me an odd look. “Let me have your license and proof of insurance.”

I handed them over without a word, and he studied them for a moment. “Don’t go anywhere, OK?”

I shook my head, solidifying his suspicion that he’d just pulled over a woman born without a tongue.

The cop retreated to his car, which gave me a few moments to contemplate whether I should work up some tears, remove my shirt, or attempt both.

Instead, I just sat there. It was like that dream where you want to speak or run away, but your foot is stuck in a barrel of melted saltwater taffy and the purple troll is pinching your lips together with asparagus tongs. You know that dream?

Eventually, the cop returned. “Because of your exemplary driving record,” he said, “I’m not indicating this is a construction zone. That reduces your fine by $100. The instructions are on the ticket. Have a nice day.”

He stared at me for a few beats, providing me one last opportunity to prove I wasn’t mute. I nodded and made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a belch.

The cop walked away, shaking his head.

So that’s the story of my first speeding ticket. Not really how I imagined it, and also not how I’d planned to spend $190. Chalk it up as one of those unplanned costs of writing.

What’s your story? Do you have an interesting tale of your first brush with the law, or are you still untarnished? Share in the comments. I’ll be over here practicing my speech for the next time I get pulled over.

“Wow, officer – I really like your pants.”

Me with my very first speeding ticket. Oh, the shame.

Fueled by lust for big engines & good wine

Those of you who follow me on Twitter know I’ve spent the last couple days ogling the construction workers next door diligently researching the construction trade for my current manuscript.

Actually, it’s not the construction workers that enthrall me (OK, it kinda is).

But my real lust is for the heavy equipment.

I love bulldozers and backhoes, trenchers and cement mixers. My life’s ambition through most of my formative years was to drive a garbage truck.

My fascination with the compactor at the landfill led me to write an entire book about a heroine who loses her office job and ends up working at the dump.

(Let’s all pause for a moment and cross our fingers – or any other available body parts – that my wonderful agent has the same good luck selling GETTING DUMPED as she did selling my romantic comedies!)

In last week’s blog chain on writing process, I touched briefly on the fact that story ideas don’t seem to come as easily for me as they do for some authors. While many of my peers seem to have a constant stream of plots and concepts flooding their brain, I operate more like an attention-deficit eight-year-old.

“Big, spiky wheels!” squeals my inner third grader at the sight of a landfill compactor. “Maybe if I write about it, they’ll let me drive one!”

(Sadly, they did not, though I did get to spend a lot of time crawling around inside them).

And though my inner third grader is not legal drinking age, it was my fascination with wine – plus my urge to drink some and get paid for it – that prompted me to propose LET IT BREATHE as the third book in my recent three-book contract with Sourcebooks.

Oh, and for the record, the love interest in that book is a construction foreman. See? I told you the ogling was research.

I’m always curious about where authors get their story ideas. Do yours come easy for you, or is it like pulling teeth? (Hey, there’s a story idea…)

Please share your experiences in the comments trail.

And while we’re sharing, allow me to share the highlight of my week. I wore a tight shirt used my exemplary powers of professional persuasion to convince the guys next door to let me sit on the backhoe. Alas, I didn’t get to drive it. But they did let me make growly engine noises and that beepy sound to suggest I was backing up.

My life is complete.

Research tip of the day: learn when to shut up

I spent three days last week visiting my parents in the heart of Oregon wine country.

It was a great chance to round out last month’s research for LET IT BREATHE by peppering wine industry experts with questions I neglected when I was too busy snickering over phrases like “bung hole” and “node pushing” and “head suckers.”

I’ve blogged before about my fondness for research, both the legitimate sort and the kind that requires my husband to have fake sex with me on the bathroom counter.

But there’s one tip I want to share with anyone doing field research for a book: learn when to shut up.

I know I’ve suggested formulating a list of questions and conducting interviews in a professional manner. But sometimes in the course of research, you’ll encounter someone so passionate about your subject that they’ll grab hold of the conversation and take off running in direction you didn’t anticipate.

And when that happens, be prepared to shut up and write. Fast. On the back of your notepad or your hand if you run out of blank pages.

Forrest Schaad explains dirt to my dad.

This happened to me during my visit to Sokol Blosser Vineyard and Winery in Dundee. I called ahead to arrange what was supposed to be a 20-minute tour and wine tasting.

It lasted over two hours.

Cellar Hand/Tasting Room Associate Forrest Schaad was like a walking wine industry encyclopedia. I learned what a “Sasquatch Harvest” is and how weather conditions in 2006 created one. And I learned how the wine produced then differed from 2007.

I learned how to use insects and bluebirds and feral cats to control vineyard pests. And I learned that Oregon’s state soil is called jory.

Seriously – a state soil. Can you name yours?

We strolled the vineyards and cellars and tasted wines in the precise spots Forrest insisted would bring out each wine’s best characteristics. As we stood beside the vines with a cover crop of clover and sweet pea under our shoes and the smell of damp soil and spring onion in the air and the wine swirling in our glasses, I had to admit – it did taste different.

By the end of our tour, my head was brimming with ideas, my writing hand was cramping, and I’d discovered ways to fix every issue critique partner Cynthia Reese flagged in last week’s read-through of my first three chapters.

After explaining the environmental importance of soy-based ink on wine labels, Forrest smiled a little sheepishly. “That’s probably a lot more information than you wanted.”

I shook my head in vehement denial. “I could suck your brain dry all day – you have so much great information.”

(As a side-note, I don’t recommend beginning a sentence with those four words when speaking with a man you’ve just met. Judging from the look of alarm on his face – followed by relief when he realized what I was actually saying – I probably could have found a better way to express myself).

So I guess the take home message (aside from not accidentally propositioning strange men) is that research is about more than just gathering information. It’s about unearthing the passion and the personalities in the world you’re trying to capture in your novel.

And with that, I’m off to write about mealworms.

Forrest shows us the bottling process at Sokol Blosser.

Fake car sex & the realities of romance

I recently shared how Pythagoras is a good sport about plotting love scenes.

He’s been kind enough to extend his good sportsmanship to help my fellow authors in need.

A couple years ago, a writing pal crafted a love scene that took place in the front seat of a car. I critiqued the scene with some skepticism, knowing the author is six inches shorter than me and therefore inclined to assume two amorous adults can fit comfortably behind the wheel of a Honda.

We debated the issue for several rounds, each of us sharing more information than we’d volunteer to our mothers.

Finally, I offered to put the issue to the test.

“Pythagoras,” I called. “I need help with a scene.”

My husband eyed me suspiciously. “You’re not going to make me have fake sex with you on the bathroom counter again, are you?”

“Don’t be silly. This time we’re having fake car sex.”

He sighed, resigned to the fate assigned to him when he agreed to marry a romance author. “On it or in it?”

I led the way to the Mazda, which was parked in the driveway and appeared to be the approximate size and shape of the Honda my friend described in her scene.

“Actually,” Pythagoras objected, “the key differences between the Mazda and Honda for models made between 1997 and 2001 is that the slope of the windshield—“

“Just get in the car,” I told him, pretty sure readers wouldn’t nitpick.

Pythagoras heaved another sigh, settled into the drivers’ seat and looked at me. “Wouldn’t this work better if you were wearing a skirt instead of sweatpants?”

“We’re not really going to have car sex,” I pointed out. “We’re just helping Jane* write a scene.”

“Who?”

“You haven’t met her. Neither have I, technically, but – never mind. She’s an author.”

I ignored my husband’s pained expression and ducked into the car, promptly smacking my knee on the gearshift. I shifted my weight back and banged my head on the rearview mirror.

“When does this get romantic?” Pythagoras asked.

“Shut up and see if you can grab my boob from that angle.”

Pythagoras lifted his hand and stopped, his gaze fixed on a point over my shoulder. “Looks like the neighbors are barbecuing.”

He tilted the formerly boob-bound hand in a halfhearted wave. I craned my neck to study the happy family waving back, looking strangely unsurprised to see us arranged thusly.

I gave them a weak smile. “Should I go explain?”

“You know,” Pythagoras said, “sometimes it’s best if you don’t.”

So we spent another three minutes adjusting the seat position, fiddling with the tilt steering, and determining that it was, in fact, possible to maneuver in an amorous fashion in the drivers’ seat of a compact car.

Not that we were feeling particularly amorous at that point.

“My leg is asleep,” I complained as I peeled myself off my husband’s lap.

“You crushed my testicle.”

I nodded and surveyed the car. “Other than that, it was totally hot.”

He shook his head and waved at the neighbors again, probably wondering why some men are lucky enough to have sane wives.

I shut the car door marched back to the house, eager to report my findings to Jane.

She was pleased to hear it, and wrote a lovely scene that bore little resemblance to my experience.

Sometimes it’s best for romance not to reflect reality.

* Name has been changed to protect an author who probably wishes she didn’t know me.

Bung holes and book research

Michael Lundeen, Winemaker for Illahe Vineyards,
tries to pretend I'm not the most immature
person he's ever met as I snicker about
bung holes.

I arrived home late yesterday after three days of touring the Willamette Valley drinking wine and taking such copious notes that I required more wine to ease my aching hand.

I know I’ve blathered before about my great passion for book research, but this trip reminded me why there’s no substitute for getting up close and personal with the subject of your novel.

Sure, I could have opened a bottle of my favorite Sineann wine at home and jotted my impressions about the flavors and aromas.

But I would have missed seeing owner/winemaker Peter Rosback’s face light up as he discussed 100-year-old Zin vines and glass corks and the feeling of rain slithering down his neck in the crush bed.

I could have perused online photos determine that Van Duzer Vineyards comes closest to my mental picture of the setting for LET IT BREATHE.

But I wouldn’t have heard the squawk of Canadian Geese and the thrum of rain on the roof as tasting room guru Danielle Blanchette kept my glass filled and viticulturist Rebecca Sweet explained the delicate balance involved in combating vineyard threats like powdery mildew while remaining Salmon Safe and LIVE Certified.

I could have learned wine terminology by reading a book on winemaking.

But I would have missed watching Illahe Vineyards winemaker Michael Lundeen struggle to keep a straight face as he showed me how to remove the “bung” from the “bung hole” on a barrel so he could use his “wine thief” to sample an aging Pinot Noir.

More importantly, I would have missed sampling said Pinot Noir.

Now that I’m home, I have a pile of notes covered in wine-stains and hair that smells faintly of fermenting grapes.

I also have a renewed appreciation for a passage I highlighted in Steve Roberts’ WINETRAILS OF OREGON before we embarked on this trip:

“Most people don’t realize that winemaking involves hundreds of decisions: when to pick the grapes, what equipment to use, what strain of yeast to inoculate with, when to rack, and when to bottle.”

It’s true for both winemaking and writing.

Some of an author’s decisions are small – what color is my heroine’s hair? What is her house like?

Some decisions are bigger – who are her family members and how does she relate to them? What challenges are they facing in their vineyard and how do they impact her life?

I’ll figure it out as I go, but I know this is a part of the process non-writers don’t really appreciate. To be a good writer, you not only have to arm yourself with research, but use that research to make a million little decisions each time you sit down at the keyboard.

For now at least, I feel well-armed. I’ve got pages of notes, hundreds of photos, and 12 bottles of excellent wine.

That should hold me for at least a couple days.

Heading into the tasting room at Van Duzer Vineyards.

Living the dirty dream

I'll be doing a lot of this for a few days.

I’ve held down a full-time job since I was 18. Even in college I washed dogs, sold donuts, and wrote newspaper articles to keep a roof over my head and Chianti on the table.

If at any point in my adult life you had asked me what my dream job would be, I’d probably snort and give you a semi-smartass, semi-serious answer:

Well, I’d like to get paid to travel, hang out with my pets, drink wine, and write about it all.

So I’m a little stunned to realize that for a few days anyway, I get to do just that.

Pythagoras and I are currently traveling through Oregon wine country doing research for the third novel in my three-book contract with Sourcebooks, Inc.

I’ll be visiting some of my favorite wineries and vineyards including Illahe, Adelsheim, and Sineann to learn the ins and outs of what they do and how they do it.

And yeah, I might have a glass of wine. Or twelve.

Since LET IT BREATHE is already under contract, that technically means I’m being paid to do this research and write this book. Pretty mind-blowing, considering I’ve spent the last eight years researching and writing with only the faint hope that my books would eventually be read by someone besides my mom and my agent.

I’ll be back to blogging on Wednesday – and back to bills, back to reality, back to the knowledge that I have to write a helluva lot more books for this to be anything close to a livable wage.

Or maybe I’ll sell a kidney on the black market.

But for a little while anyway, I’m living the dream.

Sometimes, you've gotta get your hands dirty

I am a research junkie. I’m not in therapy for it, but maybe I should be.

My affliction is the result of my early years as a journalist, when I was required to research, document, and attribute every word I wrote. Though I’ve tried to carry this thoroughness into my fiction writing career, it’s not always possible to experience everything I write about. The local police take a surprisingly dim view of murder, even for research purposes.

Still, I’ve had some amazing research experiences in recent years. When I wrote a book set in the funeral industry, I phoned several local mortuaries to ask if I could visit. It was the most fun I’ve ever had with my clothes on. I got to peer inside crematoriums, see the embalming process up close and personal, and meet some fascinating people eager to show me how a hydro-aspirator worked.

More recently, I spent time at the local landfill feverishly jotting notes about environmental laws and best way to crush a mattress. Though Internet research has its place, there’s just no substitute for the sensory experience of witnessing a compactor running over a big bag of rotten meat.

I recently began researching the third book in my new romantic comedy book deal with Sourcebooks, Inc. Since the story takes place in Oregon’s wine industry, I’ve been reading books, scheduling winery tours, chatting with vineyard owners, and of course, sampling plenty of local wine.

One thing that always makes my heart feel warm and fuzzy (besides the wine) is how eager everyone is to help. From firefighters to winemakers, people are generally happy to answer questions for an author looking for a glimpse into their world.

I know this is something that makes a lot of authors nervous. Even with years of journalistic experience under my belt, I used to fret sometimes, too. Would they care that the book might never be published? Would they expect me to pay them? Would they let me perform an embalming by myself?

The answer is no, no, and sadly, no.

Whether you’re an author doing some research of your own, or just a reader who’s curious about the process, here are my top five tips for conducting in-person research.

1) Be polite, professional, and straightforward about what you’re doing.

2) Bring a notepad, something to write with, and a prepared list of questions.

3) Don’t forget to collect business cards from everyone you talk to, plus any brochures or literature you see lying around.

4) Always ask if you can drive the heavy equipment, poke the dead body, or fire the gun. They probably won’t let you, but there’s no harm in asking.

5) Remember to send a sincere thank you card or email to everyone who helps you out.

Above all, remember to be a confident professional. Even if you don’t have a book deal yet, you are still an author. Practice saying it out loud. “I am an author, and I’d like to ask you some questions about water witching.”

Now if you’ll pardon me, it’s time to go uncork some Sangiovese. What? It’s for research purposes.