One of the unsung benefits of writing novels is doing the research. Not only amassing quantities of links, books, articles, etc., about the chosen subject in all its byways and mutations (which is excellent fun in itself: you wouldn’t be writing the book in the first place if the subject didn’t fascinate you), but searching out all the tactile adjuncts as well.

Like corsets. Since my historical women at the Poppy were more than likely securely laced up, I thought I’d better get out there and tie one on, so to speak. Which was surprisingly easy to do, thanks to Robin the corsetiere.

Not only did Robin gently debunk some of the “facts” I thought I knew about the wearing of corsets, and educated me as to who’s wearing them now (a lot of people: men, women, actors, back pain sufferers, people who want to look hot for college reunions, lacing fetishists, etc.), she also hooked me up (sorry, couldn’t resist) with one of the display models there in the store. And I have to say, I was sorry when it was time to take it off. No, I wouldn’t be playing any laced-up volleyball games, but it didn’t restrict my movement, and was far more comfortable than I’d expected, like being firmly held rather than uncomfortably squeezed. Kind of addictive, actually. And my posture was fabulous.