Mark Rubinstein's Blog, page 44
September 4, 2012
Psychiatry, Fantasy and Fiction
I’m often asked how I made a transition from psychiatry to writing fiction. As residents in training, we had to present case histories. To me, each case seemed like a mini-biography or short story. Some were stranger than fiction, and it struck me that psychiatry–of all medical specialties– emphasized the human dimension of living life. Each patient has a compelling story. It’s unique, but taps into a shared commonality. Really, we’re all different and we’re all somewhat the same, aren’t we?
A...
Psychiatry, Fantasy and Fiction
I'm often asked how I made a transition from psychiatry to writing fiction. As residents in training, we had to present case histories. To me, each case seemed like a mini-biography or short story. Some were stranger than fiction, and it struck me that psychiatry--of all medical specialties-- emphasized the human dimension of living life. Each patient has a compelling story. It's unique, but taps into a shared commonality. Really, we're all different and we're all somewhat the same, aren't we?
Above all, psychiatry appealed to me because it aligned itself with creativity and the arts.
When I co-authored nonfiction medical books, we illustrated issues with case histories. This took some creativity, whether a story was about a man who broke down because he'd had a heart attack, or a woman was struggling with breast cancer, or a young girl was jealous of her newborn brother.
But once I began writing fiction, I could use imagination.
So, in a sense, I was always telling stories, whether they were psychiatric, medical or pure fiction. (Is there any pure fiction?)
The freedom to make stuff up provides a strange feeling of pleasure. There's little to match the exhiliration when a patient suddenly "gets it" (that ah ha moment) or the incredible sensation you get when a novel's plot twist suddenly falls into place, and the story assumes a life of its own.
It's really an exploration followed by discovery and may mean finding the hidden clues within one's self. Some psychiatrists would say it's the revelation of the unconscious or the getting of wisdom.
When all is said and done, the very process of writing fiction is really a bit of a mystery to me. But the transition to fiction came easily.
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Above all, psychiatry appealed to me because it aligned itself with creativity and the arts.
When I co-authored nonfiction medical books, we illustrated issues with case histories. This took some creativity, whether a story was about a man who broke down because he'd had a heart attack, or a woman was struggling with breast cancer, or a young girl was jealous of her newborn brother.
But once I began writing fiction, I could use imagination.
So, in a sense, I was always telling stories, whether they were psychiatric, medical or pure fiction. (Is there any pure fiction?)
The freedom to make stuff up provides a strange feeling of pleasure. There's little to match the exhiliration when a patient suddenly "gets it" (that ah ha moment) or the incredible sensation you get when a novel's plot twist suddenly falls into place, and the story assumes a life of its own.
It's really an exploration followed by discovery and may mean finding the hidden clues within one's self. Some psychiatrists would say it's the revelation of the unconscious or the getting of wisdom.
When all is said and done, the very process of writing fiction is really a bit of a mystery to me. But the transition to fiction came easily.
0 comments
Psychiatry, Fantasy and Fiction
I'm often asked how I made a transition from psychiatry to writing fiction. As residents in training, we had to present case histories. To me, each case seemed like a mini-biography or short story. Some were stranger than fiction, and it struck me that psychiatry--of all medical specialties-- emphasized the human dimension of living life. Each patient has a compelling story. It's unique, but taps into a shared commonality. Really, we're all different and we're all somewhat the same, aren't we?
Above all, psychiatry appealed to me because it aligned itself with creativity and the arts.
When I co-authored nonfiction medical books, we illustrated issues with case histories. This took some creativity, whether a story was about a man who broke down because he'd had a heart attack, or a woman was struggling with breast cancer, or a young girl was jealous of her newborn brother.
But once I began writing fiction, I could use imagination.
So, in a sense, I was always telling stories, whether they were psychiatric, medical or pure fiction. (Is there any pure fiction?)
The freedom to make stuff up provides a strange feeling of pleasure. There's little to match the exhiliration when a patient suddenly "gets it" (that ah ha moment) or the incredible sensation you get when a novel's plot twist suddenly falls into place, and the story assumes a life of its own.
It's really an exploration followed by discovery and may mean finding the hidden clues within one's self. Some psychiatrists would say it's the revelation of the unconscious or the getting of wisdom.
When all is said and done, the very process of writing fiction is really a bit of a mystery to me. But the transition to fiction came easily.
Above all, psychiatry appealed to me because it aligned itself with creativity and the arts.
When I co-authored nonfiction medical books, we illustrated issues with case histories. This took some creativity, whether a story was about a man who broke down because he'd had a heart attack, or a woman was struggling with breast cancer, or a young girl was jealous of her newborn brother.
But once I began writing fiction, I could use imagination.
So, in a sense, I was always telling stories, whether they were psychiatric, medical or pure fiction. (Is there any pure fiction?)
The freedom to make stuff up provides a strange feeling of pleasure. There's little to match the exhiliration when a patient suddenly "gets it" (that ah ha moment) or the incredible sensation you get when a novel's plot twist suddenly falls into place, and the story assumes a life of its own.
It's really an exploration followed by discovery and may mean finding the hidden clues within one's self. Some psychiatrists would say it's the revelation of the unconscious or the getting of wisdom.
When all is said and done, the very process of writing fiction is really a bit of a mystery to me. But the transition to fiction came easily.
September 2, 2012
Character IS Destiny
People often talk about a novel being plot driven or character driven. I think the best novels--the ones that make you feel sorry the book is coming to an end--are those driven by BOTH the plot and the protagonist's character/personality.
Let's face it, for a read to be really enjoyable, you have to CARE about the main character. Yes, the plot twists and turns can be engrossing, but you have to feel for and identify with the main character.
All human activity can be viewed as having three componants: thinking, feeling, and behavior. A really good novel lets you know what the main character is thinking, what he or she is feeling (both emotionally and bodily), and what he or she does as the plot winds its way through the story--the character's behavior.
In a sense, the person's character (what is thought, felt, and what the protagonist does) drives the novel's momentum. The character helps the plot move one way or the other. A great plot line with a poorly defined main character renders the novel anemic, hollow, and makes the reader yawn.
So, in a very real way, character IS destiny. It gives the story muscle, guts and bone--the hero's character creates the tissue that holds the plot together-- and helps provide a satisying experience. In other words, the novel becomes a good read.
Let's face it, for a read to be really enjoyable, you have to CARE about the main character. Yes, the plot twists and turns can be engrossing, but you have to feel for and identify with the main character.
All human activity can be viewed as having three componants: thinking, feeling, and behavior. A really good novel lets you know what the main character is thinking, what he or she is feeling (both emotionally and bodily), and what he or she does as the plot winds its way through the story--the character's behavior.
In a sense, the person's character (what is thought, felt, and what the protagonist does) drives the novel's momentum. The character helps the plot move one way or the other. A great plot line with a poorly defined main character renders the novel anemic, hollow, and makes the reader yawn.
So, in a very real way, character IS destiny. It gives the story muscle, guts and bone--the hero's character creates the tissue that holds the plot together-- and helps provide a satisying experience. In other words, the novel becomes a good read.
Character IS Destiny
People often talk about a novel being plot driven or character driven. I think the best novels–the ones that make you feel sorry the book is coming to an end–are those driven by BOTH the plot and the protagonist’s character/personality.
Let’s face it, for a read to be really enjoyable, you have to CARE about the main character. Yes, the plot twists and turns can be engrossing, but you have to feel for and identify with the main character.
All human activity can be viewed as having three compona...
August 29, 2012
Fiction and non-fiction
Over the years, I've co-authored five non-fiction medical books for the lay reader. Now that I'm writing fiction, I've been asked to compare fiction and non-fiction.
I've been lucky in a very real way. When writing non-fiction as a physician, I often had to write case histories of patients (without revealing their identities, of course). These were always fun to do because each person is unique, and in dealing with psychologic issues, each has a unique story to tell. So, there was some inventive license in describing case histories to illustrate various points.
But one thing was certain in non-fiction: its purpose was to convey information about a specific topic (heart disease, breast cancer, psychotherapy, or child-rearing) in an informative, readable and reasonably entertaining way. So, the creative freedom was limited.
Fiction, on the other hand, involves a synthesis of experience with what the author knows of life, along with wholesale flights of imagination.
You just know when reading a novel that the author knows a great deal about certain subjects ( For instance, in Peter Heller's "The Dog Stars," he obviously knows plenty about flying an airplane, fishing, hunting and hiking, among other things). But he engages in wholesale flights of imagination that take the reading to another level of knowledge and beauty.
It's that soaring imagination that propels the novel, and it's much more difficult to capture those chimerical flights of ideas and fantasy on paper than it is to write effectively about a non-fiction topic.
Writing fiction is far more satisfying to me that non-fiction, after all, making stuff up is pure fun. Kids do it all the time.
To paraphrase what Saul Bellow once said, "When I was a child I was called a liar. Now, I'm called a writer."
I've been lucky in a very real way. When writing non-fiction as a physician, I often had to write case histories of patients (without revealing their identities, of course). These were always fun to do because each person is unique, and in dealing with psychologic issues, each has a unique story to tell. So, there was some inventive license in describing case histories to illustrate various points.
But one thing was certain in non-fiction: its purpose was to convey information about a specific topic (heart disease, breast cancer, psychotherapy, or child-rearing) in an informative, readable and reasonably entertaining way. So, the creative freedom was limited.
Fiction, on the other hand, involves a synthesis of experience with what the author knows of life, along with wholesale flights of imagination.
You just know when reading a novel that the author knows a great deal about certain subjects ( For instance, in Peter Heller's "The Dog Stars," he obviously knows plenty about flying an airplane, fishing, hunting and hiking, among other things). But he engages in wholesale flights of imagination that take the reading to another level of knowledge and beauty.
It's that soaring imagination that propels the novel, and it's much more difficult to capture those chimerical flights of ideas and fantasy on paper than it is to write effectively about a non-fiction topic.
Writing fiction is far more satisfying to me that non-fiction, after all, making stuff up is pure fun. Kids do it all the time.
To paraphrase what Saul Bellow once said, "When I was a child I was called a liar. Now, I'm called a writer."
August 28, 2012
The genesis of a novel
Readers often ask how an idea for a novel comes to an author. I’ve been asked how MAD DOG HOUSE (due October 23rd) came into being. It’s a very strange—almost dreamlike—process for me. I’ve found it the same way for the other three novels I’ve written which will be published over the next two years).
It’s as though my mind went through some semi-conscious period where things from the past and present seemed to coalesce and began building on themselves. In all honesty, once the story was on paper, I was unable to reconstruct its genesis. It seemed very strange, almost the way you feel when you wake up some mornings knowing you’ve dreamed, but the dream dissolves before you’re completely resurrected from a sleeping state.
This much I can say: the novel begins with a scene in a classroom in which one boy, the class bully (named “Cootie”), is “finger-snapping” the ear of the boy in front of him (my protagonist). So how did this come into being as the start of a novel?
When I was in the seventh grade, there was a kid in the class nicknamed “Cootie.” He was the class clown, unlike the Cootie in the novel. It was a strange nickname, and all these years later, the moniker stuck with me. Many years later, while at Fort Bragg, North Carolina tending to paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne Division, I worked with another medical corpsman whose laugh sounded like a hyena's howl or an insane dog. We jokingly nicknamed him “Mad Dog.” That too stuck with me, and I often think of him.
So these very disparate elements wove their ways into the first paragraph (actually, the first line) of my novel, MAD DOG HOUSE.
As for the scene depicted on the novel’s first page, I recall something with great vividness. As a high school freshman I sat in front of some wise guy who constantly “finger-snapped” my right ear. At the end of the period, the ear felt like a hot coal. It was, to say the least, annoying. At 13 years old, I weighed a prodigious 105 pounds, and this bullying kid was far bigger. And very intimidating.
I sat there day after day, feeling helpless and humiliated by the enforced passivity of the situation.
One day, after the third or fourth finger-snap, I turned back to him and looked him dead in the eye. I was smoldering with rage, so much so I was virtually fuming. Not thinking, I challenged him to a fight behind the candy store near the school. He looked at me, and for a moment, I thought I detected a hint of fear in his eyes. Then he laughed. But somehow, my own animal instinct kicked in, and I could almost “smell” his fear. He’d never expected so brazen a challenge from such a skinny kid.
When class ended, we walked outside and headed for the candy store. In an empty lot, out of view of the school, we went at it. Long story short: I beat the hell out of him.
So begins the first sentence of MAD DOG HOUSE: “When he was twelve years old Mad Dog ripped of Cootie Weiss’s ear.”
Those three issues morphed into the first three pages of the novel (Mad Dog, Cootie, and being bullied by a kid sitting behind the protagonist). Suffice it to say fist-fighting was a way of life in the neighborhood in which I grew up. I eventually got a degree in business, was in the army, know plenty about acute medical care and guns, became a physician, then a psychiatrist and now practice adult and forensic psychiatry. I’ve always loved and had an interest in restaurants, but wisely, never owned one.
I could never have predicted that these vastly different elements from my life (past and present) would came together, be reconfigured, and would coalesce into part of the plotline of MAD DOG HOUSE.
It was a matter of letting one “what if” play off another, and the process of storytelling took over. One thing morphed into another and the plot began taking unforeseen turns. By the time I got to, let’s say, page 150, I had to go back and change page 35 to make them consistent.
Finally, it all turned out to be MAD DOG HOUSE as it now exists. And I simply cannot reimagine in my mind how I put it all together.
It’s the story of a successful suburban physician and his two friends owning a Manhattan steakhouse, with the protagonist, Roddy Dolan and his best friend, Danny Burns, being silent partners. Things go very awry and very bad things begin to happen.
When I look back on the genesis of the novel, it’s clear to me that on some very basic level, bits and pieces of my own past, my strivings, my knowledge base (in different areas), my fears, wishes and my inner emotional landscape merged into the novel. It all came together and told a story—MAD DOG HOUSE, a crime-thriller that seemed somehow to have leaped from my brain and its imaginings.
It’s all pure fiction, of course.
It’s as though my mind went through some semi-conscious period where things from the past and present seemed to coalesce and began building on themselves. In all honesty, once the story was on paper, I was unable to reconstruct its genesis. It seemed very strange, almost the way you feel when you wake up some mornings knowing you’ve dreamed, but the dream dissolves before you’re completely resurrected from a sleeping state.
This much I can say: the novel begins with a scene in a classroom in which one boy, the class bully (named “Cootie”), is “finger-snapping” the ear of the boy in front of him (my protagonist). So how did this come into being as the start of a novel?
When I was in the seventh grade, there was a kid in the class nicknamed “Cootie.” He was the class clown, unlike the Cootie in the novel. It was a strange nickname, and all these years later, the moniker stuck with me. Many years later, while at Fort Bragg, North Carolina tending to paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne Division, I worked with another medical corpsman whose laugh sounded like a hyena's howl or an insane dog. We jokingly nicknamed him “Mad Dog.” That too stuck with me, and I often think of him.
So these very disparate elements wove their ways into the first paragraph (actually, the first line) of my novel, MAD DOG HOUSE.
As for the scene depicted on the novel’s first page, I recall something with great vividness. As a high school freshman I sat in front of some wise guy who constantly “finger-snapped” my right ear. At the end of the period, the ear felt like a hot coal. It was, to say the least, annoying. At 13 years old, I weighed a prodigious 105 pounds, and this bullying kid was far bigger. And very intimidating.
I sat there day after day, feeling helpless and humiliated by the enforced passivity of the situation.
One day, after the third or fourth finger-snap, I turned back to him and looked him dead in the eye. I was smoldering with rage, so much so I was virtually fuming. Not thinking, I challenged him to a fight behind the candy store near the school. He looked at me, and for a moment, I thought I detected a hint of fear in his eyes. Then he laughed. But somehow, my own animal instinct kicked in, and I could almost “smell” his fear. He’d never expected so brazen a challenge from such a skinny kid.
When class ended, we walked outside and headed for the candy store. In an empty lot, out of view of the school, we went at it. Long story short: I beat the hell out of him.
So begins the first sentence of MAD DOG HOUSE: “When he was twelve years old Mad Dog ripped of Cootie Weiss’s ear.”
Those three issues morphed into the first three pages of the novel (Mad Dog, Cootie, and being bullied by a kid sitting behind the protagonist). Suffice it to say fist-fighting was a way of life in the neighborhood in which I grew up. I eventually got a degree in business, was in the army, know plenty about acute medical care and guns, became a physician, then a psychiatrist and now practice adult and forensic psychiatry. I’ve always loved and had an interest in restaurants, but wisely, never owned one.
I could never have predicted that these vastly different elements from my life (past and present) would came together, be reconfigured, and would coalesce into part of the plotline of MAD DOG HOUSE.
It was a matter of letting one “what if” play off another, and the process of storytelling took over. One thing morphed into another and the plot began taking unforeseen turns. By the time I got to, let’s say, page 150, I had to go back and change page 35 to make them consistent.
Finally, it all turned out to be MAD DOG HOUSE as it now exists. And I simply cannot reimagine in my mind how I put it all together.
It’s the story of a successful suburban physician and his two friends owning a Manhattan steakhouse, with the protagonist, Roddy Dolan and his best friend, Danny Burns, being silent partners. Things go very awry and very bad things begin to happen.
When I look back on the genesis of the novel, it’s clear to me that on some very basic level, bits and pieces of my own past, my strivings, my knowledge base (in different areas), my fears, wishes and my inner emotional landscape merged into the novel. It all came together and told a story—MAD DOG HOUSE, a crime-thriller that seemed somehow to have leaped from my brain and its imaginings.
It’s all pure fiction, of course.
August 27, 2012
The Power of a First Sentence
I'm often struck by how the first sentence of a novel can draw the reader in and set the expectation for what's to come. It can't be underestimated. It's the opening salvo for the reader and is a clue to how the reader will spend the next number of hours.
There are many examples of powerful opening sentences. Here are just a few:
SUBURBAN MADAM DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE
The headline catches Heloise's eye as she waits in the always long line at the Starbucks... "And When She Was Good" by Laura Lippman
The pavement rises up and hits her. Slams into her face, drives the lower rim of her glasses into her cheek. "How It All Began" by Penelope Lively.
As the ground rushes up to meet him, Kevin thinks about missles again. "Next" by James Hynes.
When he was twelve years old Mad Dog ripped off Cootie Weiss's ear. "Mad Dog House" by Mark Rubinstein
There are many examples of powerful opening sentences. Here are just a few:
SUBURBAN MADAM DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE
The headline catches Heloise's eye as she waits in the always long line at the Starbucks... "And When She Was Good" by Laura Lippman
The pavement rises up and hits her. Slams into her face, drives the lower rim of her glasses into her cheek. "How It All Began" by Penelope Lively.
As the ground rushes up to meet him, Kevin thinks about missles again. "Next" by James Hynes.
When he was twelve years old Mad Dog ripped off Cootie Weiss's ear. "Mad Dog House" by Mark Rubinstein
August 25, 2012
"The Caller" by Karin Fossum
Okay, this is a Norwegian mystery...one of the many Scandinavian novels flooding the market since the success of the Millenium trilogy.
The premise is interesting: A 17 year old boy with a deprived homelife sets about playing malicious pranks on people in and around his village. Some of them have dreadful consequences. Kids can be really vicious, for sure.
The novel's problem is simple: there is very little suspense or tension. Much of it is written from the POV of the boy and you know his motivation and his objective. After a while, the only question is whether or not his pranks will escalate to something more serious.
I found the writing to be simplistic and naive, and have trouble understanding Marilyn Stasio's good review in the NY Times. There was little to sustain my interest, and I think this novel proves the old saying that sometimes, less is more.
There is far more tension (at least for me) when the true culprit is unknown or unknowable, which is not the case here. This novel suffers from what is often called these days TMI (too much information). Two stars.
The premise is interesting: A 17 year old boy with a deprived homelife sets about playing malicious pranks on people in and around his village. Some of them have dreadful consequences. Kids can be really vicious, for sure.
The novel's problem is simple: there is very little suspense or tension. Much of it is written from the POV of the boy and you know his motivation and his objective. After a while, the only question is whether or not his pranks will escalate to something more serious.
I found the writing to be simplistic and naive, and have trouble understanding Marilyn Stasio's good review in the NY Times. There was little to sustain my interest, and I think this novel proves the old saying that sometimes, less is more.
There is far more tension (at least for me) when the true culprit is unknown or unknowable, which is not the case here. This novel suffers from what is often called these days TMI (too much information). Two stars.
August 21, 2012
"And When She Was Good" by Laura Lippman
Heloise runs a prostitution ring in suburban Baltimore. She comes from a deprived background with a verbally abusive father and a passive mother. Having escaped her beginnings, she has, by virtue of grit, brains and determination, made herself into a sophisticated woman who has a young son and who lives quite well. Unfortunately, her son's father is in prison and is Heloise's former pimp and ringmaster. He doesn't know Heloise is the mother of his child.
Heloise (formerly known as Helen) leads an intricately mapped double life, not only because she's in the business she's in, but because she visits Val (the father of her son) in prison, and still pays him a substantial percentage of her earnings, because she must. He has connections on the outside, and peril awaits Heloise if she should meander from her incredibly successful business model, some of which she's garnered from her former work for Val, and from businesses like Amazon and eBay.
Heloise is quite clever, is self- educated, (intelligent beyond her formal education) knows the ropes, and can read people very well. When a madame in another county is discovered dead (murdered) things become dangerous for Heloise, and the life she has so painstakingly constructed comes under threat of exposure. Or worse: she's afraid that she may become a target as well. At 37, she must cope with a threat to her life and to the secrets she holds--from Val, from her son (who thinks his father died before he was even born) and secrets she holds from the entire community.
Heloise's situation becomes more tenuous when another prostitute (and former worker for Val) is found dead. Heloise must decide what (if anything) to do, especially when a former employee attempts to blackmail her. The tension mounts and Heloise's dilemma reaches frightening proportions.
The story, told in a hip, contemporary style, moves toward a harrowing conclusion and the reader comes to the conclusion that this is not so much a story about prostitution as it is about a bright, self-sufficient woman who rises above her humble and degrading origins and is a master at finding creative solutions to seemingly insoluble problems. Heloise is a true entrepreneur and at heart, a person with a conscience and a soul. Four and a half stars.
Heloise (formerly known as Helen) leads an intricately mapped double life, not only because she's in the business she's in, but because she visits Val (the father of her son) in prison, and still pays him a substantial percentage of her earnings, because she must. He has connections on the outside, and peril awaits Heloise if she should meander from her incredibly successful business model, some of which she's garnered from her former work for Val, and from businesses like Amazon and eBay.
Heloise is quite clever, is self- educated, (intelligent beyond her formal education) knows the ropes, and can read people very well. When a madame in another county is discovered dead (murdered) things become dangerous for Heloise, and the life she has so painstakingly constructed comes under threat of exposure. Or worse: she's afraid that she may become a target as well. At 37, she must cope with a threat to her life and to the secrets she holds--from Val, from her son (who thinks his father died before he was even born) and secrets she holds from the entire community.
Heloise's situation becomes more tenuous when another prostitute (and former worker for Val) is found dead. Heloise must decide what (if anything) to do, especially when a former employee attempts to blackmail her. The tension mounts and Heloise's dilemma reaches frightening proportions.
The story, told in a hip, contemporary style, moves toward a harrowing conclusion and the reader comes to the conclusion that this is not so much a story about prostitution as it is about a bright, self-sufficient woman who rises above her humble and degrading origins and is a master at finding creative solutions to seemingly insoluble problems. Heloise is a true entrepreneur and at heart, a person with a conscience and a soul. Four and a half stars.
