Notes of Some Dweeb Off the Street

I recently moved one of my key settings to a specific place in New York.  The result was more positive than I’d expected.  The characters were working better, the plot was knitting itself together well.  Only a few more mere details needed smoothing out.  I decided to make a quick site visit to refresh my memory.  It would be a cinch.

Ah, beware those words.  If there is any aspect of writing that can be described as mere, only, quick, just, or a cinch, I have not yet made its acquaintance.

You see, my site visit proved to me that at least one of my details is rather vast.  An impregnable stone wall, actually. 

I mean that literally.  I found a giant stone wall which my heroes could certainly not have overlooked, leave alone climbed over.

Egad!  *headslap*

There was nothing for it but to case out the joint.  Get the real lay of the land.  Both public and private.  And as a bonus, gain access to a room that I suspected lay inside and hopefully the basement, too.

You might be sensing some of my minor issues here.  But add these two to the mix.

1. I cannot dissemble.  Any emotion I feel, including discomfort with a lie, is instantly broadcast on my face in all known frequencies. 
2. I cannot fathom myself asking for this information because “I’m writing a book.”  But how else can I gain the information I want?

So, robbed of both honesty and subterfuge, I spent about three hours trying to not look like I was scouting out the wall, trying to figure out how on earth my heroes could climb it.  And I tried not to look like I was counting the doorways at the entrance, peeking into alcoves or memorizing the layout.  This last is harder than it sounds; my sense of direction is apparently something I have devolved from.

One guard saw me so often, each time looking stunned to be entering the doorway I had appeared in, that we ended up chatting.  I considered this super until I realized that when I come back to case the joint again, he’ll recognize me.  I feel like a very sketchy sort.

Finally I found someone and asked straight out how to access that certain room, which was not only locked but also impossible to find.

“Do I have to be uber important or scholarly to get in there?” I asked.

The woman looked at me.  “No,” she answered, finally. “Sometimes they let other people in too.”

Yes!  I am an other person!

I have two numbers now to follow up on, but I’ve been dragging my feet.  Inevitably, they’ll ask me why I want to know these things, and what I’m looking for in that room. 

The truth is a lot easier to say when you’re not writing your first-ever book.  It’s much easier when you’re published and you can just be an author doing research.  (I imagine.)  But when you’re just some dweeb off the street….