Here’s how to get someone like Kurt Vonnegut to collaborate on a biography with you.

First: Send them a letter. Charles J. Shields, author of And So it Goes: Kurt Vonnegut: a Life, explained at McNally Jackson on Wednesday night that he first reached out to Kurt with a friendly written request. He received back a large sketch-pad sheet portrait of Kurt in purple ink, with a caption below: “This is a picture of me demurring an offer by the distinguished Charles J. Shields.”

Second: Don’t give up. Charles’s wife noted that “demurred” was not a very strong objection, especially for someone who built their life on words.

Third: Give a little. Charles decided to try again, following Capote’s rule that in order to get personal information from someone, you need to reveal some of your own. In another letter, he noted the similarities between Kurt and himself—they were both Midwesterners, had connections to GE, etc. But it was a random detail that got him the in: Charles mentioned that he’d gone to Quaker meetings as a child, and so had one of Kurt’s wives. In response to his second letter, Charles received a post card with a little portrait and the word “Okay.”

It also doesn’t hurt to: Ask someone who wants to be asked. Apparently, as Charles said, “Kurt was miffed that there had never been a biography on him.”

Charles called Kurt “a lonely man,” one who would sometimes call him at night to gruffly ask, “How’s my biography going?” After their first meeting, in which Kurt proudly showed him his room, Charles became immersed in Kurt’s world: through his family and acquaintances, researching and re-reading his books, and the 1500 letters Charles was able to amass. (After Kurt passed away, his estate refused to let Charles quote any of them.) Charles was one of the last people to see Kurt alive before his unfortunate accident—and incidentally happened to ask him that day if he believed in god. (The answer, a vague: “I don’t know, but who couldn’t.”)

I have to admit my surprise that no one had written about Kurt’s life before—since he’s a brilliant and cross-generational cult figure who’s gone through much trauma in his life (his war experiences, certainly, but also familial tragedies—like his mother committing suicide on Mother’s Day in his childhood). Even Kurt’s death was both sad and outrageous: while taking his tiny dog out for a walk, he tripped over the dog down his brownstone steps and hit his head on the cement. He went into a coma and died weeks later. Charles noted that he came across a 1975 letter in which Kurt told his wife he had a “recurring premonition” that he’d be killed by a dog.

It’d be impossible for me to put down all of Charles’s fascinating tales and anecdotes here, so I’d suggest seeing him if possible and/or checking out the book. Charles is an eloquent speaker, and you can tell he formed a strong connection with his subject. Rachel Syme, a former NPR books editor who is currently at work on her own biography, is a skilled interviewer, and both were able to discuss the ups and downs of writing a biography—especially how to write about famous figures who often show themselves to be human and imperfect.

“No one comes into life with a blueprint,” Charles said. “I try to maintain compassion and let the reader make up their own mind.”