Jeffrey Deitz's Blog, page 2

Being and Becoming or Learning to love learning

Friends, family and patients often talk about what they want to be. “I want to be rich. I want to write a book. I want to be a better parent.” Children are often asked by their parents, “What do you want to be when you grow up? That’s the wrong question. A better way would be to inquire, “What do you want to become you grow up.”  It is so easy to get involved in waning to be that one loses sight of the processing of becoming. For if people don’t find the joy in becoming they’ll never be who they want to be.

In 1914 Sigmund Freud wrote a classic paper in psychoanalysis entitled Mourning and Melancholia. Although he was wrong about the mechanisms by which these pathological states arose, he used exceptionally precise language in pointing out a fundamental truth about human behavior in. Freud recognized that mourning is a process whereas melancholia is a state. Today we call that state clinical depression.

Grief is the common word but, as anyone who has ever lost someone or something dear can attest, grieving is how we come to terms with a loss. Does one ever stop grieving? It depends. Someone I treated who lost a limb during a car crash felt inexplicably sad after her daughter sank the basket that propelled her team into the state championships. We didn’t need to consult Freud to realize that the woman’s daughter’s accomplishment rekindled her sadness for what might have been had she worn her seatbelt the night of the accident. She beamed at the trophy presentation and cried in the privacy of her bedroom.

Parents tell their children they can be whatever they want to be. Dare to be great, they say, advice no one can or should dispute. But what about becoming great?  How does one become the best they can be?

In my years as a therapist I have been privileged to witness amazing feats of dedication. I saw a young man with potentially-disabling learning disabilities persist through years of twelve-hour study stints to become a doctor. For years he wanted to be a doctor, but becoming one was another matter.

I saw a young woman who spent her adolescence taking care of an abusive, alcoholic parent find the courage to emancipate herself, work her way through college and start the business of her dreams. She wasn’t born an entrepreneur, she became one.

Experts have identified two basic but interrelated forms of knowledge that  success entails: declarative knowledge: facts, dates and definitions, what one learns in books; and procedural knowledge, what can only be learned through trial and error, or what the optimist calls trial and success. Either way, the most important word in the sentence refers to trying. How one tries determines the outcome, the most desirable of which require plenty of trying.

Take wealth for example. Buying lottery tickets is an incredibly low probability strategy for getting rich quick. Directing the lottery ticket money into an investment account is a longer but surer road to becoming wealthy.

Or musicianship: it takes seven years of practice to become an overnight rock sensation.

Or athleticism: every champion spends years of practice, perfecting his or her skills before becoming a master of their sport.

Or physical fitness: no pill or muscle-building supplement can substitute for time in the gym. A person can’t be fit without becoming fit.

Ironic, isn’t it? Relinquishing the dream of being, frees a person to become.

Hoping to hit the hit the lottery, makes one a better hoper. Waiting to feel energetic enough to work out makes one a better waiter.

There is no one way to become, however every successful person has embraced, not-necessarily loved, the process through which they acquired the knowledge and skills that enabled them to become the person they are. For sure, pursue lofty goals. Aim high. But remember you’ll never hit the bull’s-eye until you’ve become a marksman.

So:

Dream of being a better parent, but spend time working on a project together with your child he or she is interested in.

Dream of being rich, but save and invest to become wealthy.

Dream of being happily married, but relish each opportunity to become a better partner.

Dream of being thin, but become a regular exerciser.

Dream of being a New York Yankee, but go to the batting cage to become a better hitter.

Dream of being a novelist, but become a writer by writing a short story.

Dream of being famous, but become a rock star by writing a song.

And most important: Find the joy in becoming, which is what people mean when they say, “Enjoy the journey.” Becoming is a learning experience; since learning proceeds incrementally, hoping for overnight success usually leads to frustration. Learning to enjoy learning is the key to becoming what you want to be.

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Intensive Therapy: On Writing the first book

How did Intensive Therapy: A Novel come to be written? How does any author decide how and when to write his first book? Read on and I’ll share the key moments in my personal and professional development that made this book come to life.

The ideas that coalesced into Intensive Therapy: A Novel came from many sources over many years. My mother, a voracious reader of mysteries and whodunits was always asking when I was going to write a book. “When I have something to say, Mother,” I used to tell her. “When I have something to say.”

During my early years I was a science nerd; it wasn’t until later that I learned to love books and words. I was always trying to figure out what things were made of: tables, chairs, people, the mind, the brain. Artistically speaking, as a teenager and young adult I was much more interested in music, so, like Jonas of the novel, I read more scores than contemporary novels. In college I was intimidated by the size of classic works of literature. I didn’t have a particularly long attention span, and I was such a slow reader and inaccurate typist that I figured I better learn to do something else with my life other than become a writer if I wanted to put bread on the table.

Besides, a typical Symphony lasted about forty-five minutes, the right time, as I figured it, of a good short story. The first ‘author’ that spoke to me was Ludwig von Beethoven, but later I developed a taste for Tchaikovsky’s and Stravinsky’s ballets, and the musical tone poems of Richard Strauss. In my mind their themes and melodies became stories, with dramatic tension, reflectiveness, development, and resolution. Anton Dvorak’s New World Symphony is still one of my favorite ‘books.’ I learned to think musically: themes, melody, counter-melody, harmony dissonance, rhythm musical dialogue, and orchestration. Thankfully, my musical attention span grew longer, so my creative imagination became steeped in the music and stories of the operas of Wagner and Puccini.

Meanwhile, psychoanalysts were expected to learn Sigmund Freud, which, for me, was like trying to learn to like Brussel sprouts. Freud was undoubtedly right about the power of the unconscious mind, however he and his followers missed the significance of the empathic bond between therapist and patient, which is the ultimate determiner of the success of a psychotherapeutic relationship, and merely a mirror of the multiple dimensions of connections between people. The relationship between analyst and patient; the relationship between writer and reader; those ideas made something percolate in my creative unconscious mind.

Something marvelous happened around the time that I wrote my first stories. Some company with the logo of an Apple began making machines on which typists could correct errors easily before they printed their work. It was on such a machine that I wrote my first stories which were actually a series of case histories and discussions published in psychological journals; in retrospect I was preaching to either a choir that was already converted, or a religious sect that saw me as an outlier: not exactly what I had in mind for exercising my creative muse, although writing up case histories and re-creating dialogue sessions was good practice for the projects I would ultimately undertake.

The psychological dramas that made the most sense to me were books like Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, written years before Freud’s theories of infantile sexuality and intrapsychic conflict. The psychoanalyst in that book, Inspector Porfiry Petrovich, coaxed Rodian Rashkolnakov into confessing his crime by painstakingly reconstructing Rashkolnakov’s personality formation and his inner motives. The interaction between Petrovich and Rashkolnakov forged a bond that was sheer music. How ironic: Petrovich’s speeches to Rashkolnakov, as sly and humorous as they were lyric, underscored the power of human interaction. I began to see it everywhere: in my life and in my work.

In 2006, on the plane home from my 25th wedding anniversary in Bordeaux I read Jack Kerouac’s On The Road—I keep the book on my writing desk for inspiration. Kerouac’s road to self-discovery took him through seedy bars and bus stations into a drug culture that ultimately killed him and destroyed his brain. That may have been his road but it definitely was not mine.

Midway across the ocean on the flight home I began scribbling down thoughts and ideas for articles about psychological topics I wanted to publish for the public. Had she been alive, I would’ve called my mother when we arrived home safely to say I finally found something I wanted to write about.

Not long thereafter, Victoria Schone and Jonas Speller were born. The idea for the book started with an affirmation about the potential of relationships to change the trajectory of the protagonists’ lives. Every honest writer will tell you that every book he writes is a book about himself, so it should come as no surprise that Victoria and Jonas are different aspects of myself.

I had been troubled by many of the portrayals of psychiatrists in books, movies, and television, so I wanted to try to present psychiatrists and psychologists as ethically responsible and accessible human beings. It is important not only to destigmatize mental illness, but also to destigmatize mental illness therapy.

In many ways Jonas is the me I wished to have been in my younger life, and Victoria is the more feminine side of me, analogous to Dickens’s Bleak House’s protagonist Esther Summerson, the author’s feminine alter ego. The Victoria of Intensive Therapy: A Novel searches for her identity amidst a storm of conflicting emotions. The Esthers of today are strong and caring women seeking to integrate career, motherhood, and relationships amidst the storm of conflicting demands.

Another thing that I want readers to appreciate: In addition to the protagonists Jonas and Victoria, Intensive Therapy: A Novel is my love story about Philadelphia, a place where I spent many years of my formative life. Although I haven’t lived there for several decades, I cherish my Philadelphian memories, for it is the place where I became a man.

Happy to say, books aren’t going away anytime soon, which is a very good thing. I want to share the joy of creating and writing stories that hopefully move men’s souls and join the generations of those who have come before and will continue long after this storyteller is gone.

I hope readers come to love the Chapter One blog as much as I will enjoy writing it. If it works as I hope, Chapter One will be much more than Jeffrey Deitz telling you what’s on his mind. It will be about the readership sharing their thoughts and feelings about what they’ve read and what they think. In the comments section, please bring up the subject you’re interested in and we’ll see if we can address them in upcoming posts.

 

 

 

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Writing First Person Point of View (and Let’s Keep it Going!)

Welcome to Chapter One, an interactive forum for readers and writers to share their ideas. In this post we’ll use the first person Point of View to begin a story. Everyone’s invited to continue. So, in addition to sharing your observations and reaction in the comments section, feel free to write your version of what happens next there, too. Each month we’ll pick one and keep the story going and growing.

Ready?  Let’s do it! 

Cheryl Strayed’s moving memoir Wild triggered a dream that inspired me to begin a story. What you’ll see in the rest of this post is in first person POV suggested by the dream image. Think about the impact. How does the first person POV affect you emotionally? Is there more than one protagonist? What are the issues and how are they handled? What is resolved; what isn’t?

 

In part two of this post, we’ll present the story from a third person omniscient POV. Before you read that post, you might want to think of other ways to tell the story. Meanwhile, at the end of this post, we’ll invite everyone to interact. Ready? Here goes!

As I stepped into the grocery store, I saw Flaherty and Pierce disappear behind the far aisle. I took the long way around, making sure they didn’t see me.

“I thought this was just going to be you and me,” Pierce whispered.

“Meaning exactly what?” Flaherty said.

“Meaning, I didn’t expect to spend the day listening to you bullshit about Russian literature with some guy I don’t know.”

“You mean there’s something in this world you don’t know about?”

“I don’t know what it is; he bugs me,” Pierce carped..

“Everything bugs you. Before we leave here I’m getting you the biggest can of ‘Deep Woods Off they make.”

“Very witty. Don’t exhaust your big bankroll on me. The guy’s such a fucking pest,” Pierce continued. “The way he talks about books; and ‘did you read this?’ And ‘what did you think about that?’ And ‘do you like Dostoyevsky?’ Like he’s trying to impress me.”

“Jesus, Dude,” Flaherty said. “You make the guy sound like a housefly. Maybe he looks up to you.”

“Christ, what a thought,” Pierce snickered. “I’d rather be admired by a day student at University of New Haven.

“You’re jealous. You’re so used to having your dick admired by those assholes you’ve hung around with the last four years that you forget there’s another world besides New Haven.”

“Oh this is fabulous. I traipse all the way out here to spend two weeks with my older brother and I wind up in psychoanalysis with Dr. Dipshit-know-it-all psychology major who hasn’t done shit with his life except wait tables and babysit five years at ski school, telling himself he’s a ski instructor. I’m serious. How do we get rid of him?”

“We? Speak for yourself, Pierce. I get a vote, you know.”

“Take your shower. Then we’ll set up somewhere where he won’t find us. I picked out the best Merlot they had. I’ll even let you beat me at chess tonight. Then we can hit the road and give him the slip before he knows.”

“Won’t he be looking for us?” Flaherty asked.

“Who gives?” Pierce replied.

So, what now? I asked myself. Pierce feels I’m an intruder; no, it’s worse than that; he thinks of me more like a cockroach.

“Don’t take everything so personally,” my therapist Dr. Smerdloff, had been saying for three years. “Some people will like you; some people won’t. You’re more cerebral than a lot of people. Not everybody takes to it. Be comfortable with who you are.”

Then again was I trying to impress them? The only reason I mentioned Dostoyevsky was because Smerdloff was in my head, and his name made me think of Smerdyakov, the bastard brother who killed old man Karamazov. Hell, I didn’t even like The Brothers Karamazov.

So, I could either slink off letting Pierce think what he wanted, or look the brothers in the eye and say a proper goodbye. Did I owe them that after walking the trail with them for six hours? Did I owe it to myself to feel I had bid them a proper farewell?

There was a line for the outdoor showers. I let them go way ahead of me. Afterwards, I grabbed a beer and took in the sunset on a picnic bench in front of the bar. Through its dust-streaked window I heard the TV. It was the last week in August, the first week of college football. Somestate-State was playing Somestate-tech. An older woman and her younger female companion—I assumed she was her daughter—sat down on the far end of the bench. We introduced ourselves briefly, but I could see they wanted to talk privately, so I let it be

The air was thick with the smells of late summer, the stratosphere full of Canadian geese squadrons in vee-formations, as if they were planning to blanket LA’s golf courses with goose-turds.

When Pierce and Flaherty stepped out of the bar, I was on my third beer—two more than I usually drink. Flaherty nodded at me. “Nice night,” he said awkwardly. Pierce ignored me.

“Take care, fellows.” I said, extending a hand which Flaherty shook. “I’ll be heading off early tomorrow. It was nice being with you two. Good luck.”

“You, too, Bobby. You, too,” said Flaherty.

“See ya around,” Pierce mumbled like he’d rather have macular degeneration than see me again.

I started for the trail early in the morning while it was still dark. There were only two other hikers readying themselves to get going. As I turned on my helmet light and steadied my pack, I heard a woman say, “You’re getting an early start, Bobby.”

I recognized the voice. It was the woman at the other end of the picnic table from last night. I was surprised she remembered my name. “Yes,” I said. “It’s time to hit the road. The map says there’s a water stop five miles north of here. I’ll look out for you two.”

“That’d be nice,” the younger woman said.

Two hours later, I heard someone shouting, “Hey, Bobby. Wait up. Do you hear me? Wait up.”

 

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