An interesting side-effect of a writing career that finally
takes off after a decade of so-so earnings is that you find yourself needing
professional help.
I’m not talking about a sex therapist (though that does
sound fun). I mean folks like a publicity
agent and a tax accountant.
The former is a bit ironic, considering I’ve worked in
marketing and PR for 15+ years, but there comes a time when an author realizes
her time is better spent actually writing
the books, as opposed to telling folks about them.
Then there’s the tax guy. Last year was the first time since
I started writing fiction in 2002 that I actually showed a small profit on this
author gig, and since 2015 is shaping up to be a bit heftier, I knew we needed
a tax pro who’d worked with authors before.
The one we chose came well-referred by a creative colleague,
and I knew we’d found the right guy when he walked in looking like a spitting
image of Neil Young, and led us to an office that had walls adorned by Tibetan
prayer flags and a Jimi Hendrix banner.
Did I mention he’s right next door to a marijuana
dispensary? (Legal in Oregon, lest you feel the need to phone authorities).
At any rate, he cautioned us up front that he wouldn’t
support any creative accounting in which we attempted to write off a personal
Lear Jet. That said, he encouraged us to think outside the box in terms of what
constitutes “research” and “inspiration” for my writing career.
I thought about it a moment. “I’m known for writing a lot of
shower sex scenes,” I told him. “Could we write off our recent remodel project where
we installed a two-headed tile shower?”
“No,” he said. “But I like how you think.”
So I thought some more. Not about tax write-offs, necessarily,
but about the odd things that count as “research” when you’re a romantic comedy
author. Sunday morning I did a guided tour of a local cave, an expense I could
easily defend to an auditor because I have proof that a cave scene will appear
in my June 2016 release with Entangled Publishing (tentatively titled The Hang Up, and though that one’s not
for sale yet, you can pre-order the first book in the series, The Fix Up, which
comes out December 14).
Other forms of “research” are a bit harder to categorize. In
August my husband and I went out for a nice dinner to celebrate my 41st
birthday, and we spent half the meal eavesdropping on a large family group. At
the center of the discussion were two middle-aged brothers who engaged in such competitive conversation that I expected them to whip out
their meat wands and rest them on the table to be measured. The bizarre dynamic
between them inspired a key piece of the story for my third rom-com with
Montlake that’s scheduled for release September 2016 (also not for sale yet,
but you can pre-order my second book with them, Let it Breathe, which comes
out March 2016).
And speaking of Let it Breathe, that book is set at a
fictional Oregon winery that’s based around a number of real-life wineries I
visited while researching the story. While I probably won’t be permitted to
write off every bottle of wine I’ve ever consumed, I’m guessing I’ll be allowed
to write off at least a few of the expenses I incurred (i.e. drank) while
crafting that story.
Then there’s The Fix Up. It’s
the first book in a new series called First Impressions, and all the books will
be based around a PR and branding agency. Since my day job career has spanned
15+ years in that industry, it’s not tough to figure out I’ll be drawing from
my own experiences in writing some of the scenes (though if my boss is reading,
I swear the sexy scene in the conference room is just a figment of my
imagination).
Does that mean my entire day job career counts as “research?”
When you’re a writer, doesn’t everything that happens around you technically become
fodder for your stories?
In the end, I’ll trust Neil Young the new tax guy to tell us what’s permitted
as a write-off and what’s not.
I still think the shower should count, though.
