Kirkus Review

NIGHT TERRORS

by Dennis Palumbo

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KIRKUS REVIEW

Pittsburgh clinical psychologist Daniel Rinaldi (Fever Dream, 2011, etc.) finds to his sorrow that even serial killers have fans.

Now that Wesley Currim has confessed to killing wealthy Wheeling coal-mine executive Edward Meachem and led Chief Avery Block and Detective Sgt. Harve Randall to the headless corpse, you’d think the case would be closed. But Wes’ mother, Maggie, swears he’s innocent and provides him with a cast-iron alibi he’s determined to repudiate. Do Block and Randall have the right man in custody? Dr. Rinaldi, who went along with them since Wes had refused to talk unless he was called in, can’t say. And he has no time to yield to Maggie’s pleas and break Wes’ confession because he’s been snatched off the street by FBI agent Neal Alcott and plunged into a different nightmare. Even though John Jessup, convicted of killing four prostitutes, has been beaten to death during a riot in an Ohio prison, the pen pal calling himself “Your Biggest Fan” is determined to avenge him by carrying on in his tradition. In short order, the prison guard who killed Jessup, the judge who sentenced him to four life sentences and the Cleveland ADA who prosecuted him are shot. Not surprisingly, Lyle Barnes, the retired FBI profiler who helped nail Jessup, is having night terrors, and Alcott wants Rinaldi to meet with him and calm him down. For his part, Rinaldi wants to be left alone to consummate his stymied romance with Detective Eleanor Lowrey of the Pittsburgh PD. How likely is that when the entire tri-state region is full of serial killers and killers-in-training?

Some thrillers are beach reads. Palumbo’s are strictly for late at night and for readers who have no pressing engagements early the next day.

You're No John Updike!

Comparing your career with that of some well-known, accomplished writer is a waste of time, not only because it adds to the shameful self-recrimination most struggling writer already endure, but because it misses the point.

The reality is, every writer can't be a Robert Towne, or John Updike or Preston Stuges or Ernest Hemmingway or Jane Austen. For one thing those writer beat you to it. They're them. That job is filled.

More important, they're not writers you're really in competition with. No matter how successful you are, no mater your level of talent, your true competition is yourself.

Think of it this way.  Maybe every writer can't be Proust, but every writer can be a better writer. Comparing yourself to others not only deflates and devalues your own efforts, but actually mitigates against the very thing that has the potential to improve your writing--the private connection to your inner world of experience, that wellspring of authentic feeling and desiref rom which the impulse to write arises.

When I say that your true competition is yourself, I'm referring to your willingness to engage daily with what's going on inside you, your courage to dig deeper, your passion to now what it is you really think and feel and to find creative expression for it.

Maybe you're no John Updike. But when you're writing from a place of excitement and authentic feeling, who needs to be?

Create Now, Critique Later

How to balance perspective with creative passions

When addressing the life of the creative person in Hollywood—a writer, actor, director, etc.—I often stress the wisdom in taking the “long view” regarding one’s career. In other words, to remember that the ups and downs will smooth out over the years, and that a consistent, long-term commitment to artistic growth and the development of craft is what provides the ultimate satisfaction. However, in another recent column, I also suggested that real creativity only occurs in the here-and-now.

I want to explore this seeming paradox, particularly in light of a therapy session I had recently with a screenwriter patient. She was about a third of the way through a new spec screenplay, one which represented a huge leap in terms of scope and content, and she was in the throes of powerful feelings of doubt and confusion. Would all the elements of plot, character and theme come together successfully? Did she have the talent, stamina and craft to keep at it, when the end was so many months away? What if the whole thing collapsed, half-finished, a painful and fruitless waste of months of work?

“If only I could step back from all of it,” she said. “Get some perspective.”

“You will be able to have perspective,” I said. “When the script is finished. You can see the thing as a whole.”

“Yeah, but I want that perspective now.” She gave me a wry smile, but I knew she was only half-kidding.

As we struggled with her conflicts about the script, I kept thinking of something Kierkegaard said: “Life can only be understood backwards; unfortunately, we have to live it forward.” What he meant is that, in hindsight, the choices and events in our life probably form a recognizable pattern, or possess a kind of thematic logic. But embedded as we are in our moment-to-moment daily life, we haven’t the perspective to fully grasp the implications of decisions, behaviors and events we take part in.

I realized that this was the dilemma for my patient. Embedded in the daily struggle to make this scene work, that character come to life—to create the hoped-for mood and tone as the pages of the screenplay flowed together—she was forced to stay in the here-and-now. The more she took creative risks, the more she mined her own feelings and experiences to give meaning and weight to her characters and scenes, the more fully in the world of the script she dwelt. In other words, she couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

The hell of it is, good writing is only about the trees, not the forest. You’re planting your trees, one at a time, day after day—until, after many weeks or months, you get to stand back and look it over as a whole and say, “So this is what the forest looks like. I’ll be damned.”

The plain fact is, the more fully engaged with your creative process, the less perspective you can have. “The eye cannot see itself,” as the Buddhists say. Now here’s why I think that’s a good thing.

As my patient and I investigated her concerns about the script, it became clear that the perspective she desired was in fact a yearning for control. Her screenplay—which, after all, she was writing on spec—represented a real creative and financial risk. Elements of the story were autobiographical, and intensely painful, and were played out against a large and colorful canvas, spanning decades.

The difficulty of the task daunted her, and exposed her to painful feelings of inadequacy. Even more shaming was the notion that attempting to write a film like this revealed the depth of her pride and grandiosity, traits that were particularly frowned upon in her immediate family.

Given such a set of concerns and associations, who wouldn’t want to have control over the writing? To be absolutely certain that the script was working, the writing was going well, that the finished product would be a critical and financial success. In short, that the end result would justify the pains of its creation.

As my patient worked her way toward this understanding, she saw the inherent contradiction in what she yearned for. If she was going to risk writing the screenplay, which meant living daily with her doubts and fears about it, she’d have to give up the idea of “perspective.” Which, in this case, meant control over the outcome.

“But only in the heat of the writing,” I reminded her. “There does come a time when it’s necessary and appropriate to take perspective, and that’s when the first draft is done. Remember, writing may occur in the here-and-now, but editing takes place in the there-and-then.”

“I know,” she said. “Thank God.”

By session’s end, she was ready to go home and risk planting another tree. For the truly committed creative artist, in Hollywood or elsewhere, that’s as good as it gets.

Stephen Campbell's Murders, Mysteries And Mayhem Podcast

Author and Psychotherapist Dennis Palumbo joins Murders, Mysteries and Mayhem host Stephen Campbell in this episode to discuss his new book NIGHT TERRORS, the third book in the Daniel Rinaldi Thriller Series.

Publisher's Weekly calls the book "Riveting," and NYT best selling author John Lescroart says, "Dennis Palumbo is a master of character, psychology and setting; and NIGHT TERRORS showcases those skills to great effect.

The Daniel Rinaldi series features a main character who is a psychologist and trauma expert.  Daniel first appeared in MIRROR IMAGE in 2010, which was followed up in late 2011 by FEVER DREAM.

In addition to writing this series, Dennis is a licensed psychotherapist with a practice specializing in creative issues. He's been a Hollywood screenwriter, published several mystery short stories in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, The Strand and elsewhere.  He blogs regularly for the Huffington Post and writes a column called "Hollywood on the Couch" for the Psychology today website. 



Reposted From The Authors on the Air Global Radio Network LLC and produced by Pam St
 

Famous Pittsburghers, Playwright August Wilson

“YOU CAN’T WRITE PLAYS WITHOUT KNOWING THE CRAFT OF PLAYWRITING. ONCE YOU HAVE YOUR TOOLS, THEN YOU STILL GOTTA CREATE OUT OF THAT THING, THAT IMPULSE.” 

Wilson wrote scathingly about racism, yes, in "Ma Rainey's Black Bottom," and the indelible scars of slavery, in "The Piano Lesson" and "Gem of the Ocean." He also wrote about the Oedipal conflict of fathers and sons ("Fences") and the universal quest for the easy score ("Two Trains Running"). His concerns were as multifaceted as the hard-pressed people he wrote about.

Born Frederick August Kittel in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—in an impoverished neighborhood known as the Hill—the playwright was one of six siblings. Dropping out of high school after a teacher’s racist accusation that he had plagiarized a paper, Wilson soon became a poet under the inspirational aegis of Dylan Thomas and Amiri Baraka. He began writing plays in the 1970s after a brief stint with the Black Horizons Theatre. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom caught the attention of Yale Drama School’s Dean Lloyd Richards in 1982, which led Wilson to the Great White Way. He swiftly kicked its ass: the playwright has been awarded Pulitzer Prizes and Tony Awards for both Fences (1987) and The Piano Lesson (1988).

Pittsburgh and The Movies

From the 1920s to the 1950s, Pittsburgh was a major film exchange.  Owned and operated by the movie studios, the exchanges housed offices, film libraries, and screening rooms.  Paramount, Columbia Pictures, MGM, Universal Pictures and United Artists all had exchanges in the city on the Boulevard of the Allies.  Today, the Paramount Building, with its signature mountain range logo above the entry, at 1727 Boulevard of the Allies, is the only building still intact.  Recently, an initiative to preserve the historic building has been launched by citizens wishing to save some of the city's contributions to the film industry.

According to the Pittsburgh Film Office, more than 109 motion picture and television productions have been filmed in the city starting with Tancred Commandery which was filmed in 1898 in Pittsburg when Pittsburgh was spelled without the "h".  Some blockbusters have been filmed in the area.  Two films shot in Pittsburgh are among the American Film Institute's 100 Years . . . 100 Movies List.  The Deer Hunter, with its all-star cast of Robert DeNiro, Christopher Walken, and Meryl Streep, chronicled three friends from Pittsburgh's Steel Valley and how their service in the Vietnam War affected their lives.  The 1978 film won five Academy Awards including Best Picture and Best Director.

Also garnering five Academy Awards was The Silence of the Lambs.  This 1991 film shot in Pittsburgh won Best Picture, Best Actress, Best Actor, Best Director and Best Screenplay.  The thriller sent a collective chill up the nation's spine as Jodie Foster, portraying FBI agent Clarice Starling, probed the diabolical mind of serial killer Hannibal Lecter, as portrayed by Anthony Hopkins.

Since the 1980s, hundreds of films have been filmed in the area - everything from comedy to drama.  The acclaimed films Hoffa and Dominick and Eugene were filmed in the area and the madcap Houseguest and Kingpin also used the city as their backdrop. Even the caped crusader, Batman, roamed the streets of Pittsburgh during the making of The Dark Knight Rises in 2011.


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How to Survive Rejection

At some point early on in a Hollywood career--whether an actor, writer or director--a person has to come to terms with rejection. I ought to know.  Prior to becoming a licensed psychotherapist, I spent 17 years as a screenwriter. Now, in addition to my private practice, I write novels and columns like this, so I certainly have a very clear view of rejection--I hate it.

Occasionally I'll read about some creative type who's apparently so well-adjusted that he sees having his work rejected as just another event, one bead on a long string of similar beads; in other words, the rejection has no more (nor less) meaning than having his work accepted.

I confess, I can only stand back and admire such creatures. And wonder what planet they come from.

Because frankly, when I toiled in the screenwriting vineyards, I wanted people not only to accept what I wrote, but like it. A lot. Hell, I wanted them to love it. (Even while acknowledging the well-known truism that, at a certain level, they could never love it enough...)

On the other hand, having my work rejected was cause for anguish of near-Biblical proportions--the familiar gnashing of teeth, rending of garments, etc. On one such occasion, a friend of mine looked at me and said, somewhat testily, "For God's sake, don't take it personally."

"How should I take it?" I replied. "Impersonally?"

That, in a nutshell, is the paradox of rejection. It isn't intended as personal, but it's impossible not to experience it that way.

Let me give you an example. Years ago, as part of the writing staff on a popular sitcom, I joined the producers in a casting session, auditioning actresses for a guest shot on the show. After seeing about a dozen young women read, we chose one. Later, on my way out of the building, I happened to overhear a couple of the others walking away, dejected.

"I should have dressed differently," one of them said. "My agent's right, I don't dress sexy enough. Next time, I gotta show ‘em the goods."

"I over-played that last part of the scene," said another. "I went for the laugh. I should've played the real emotions she was feeling."

Of course, I'd heard similar laments from actors and actresses before. "If only I'd done this, or that..." "If only I were thinner, prettier..." "If only, if only..."

What made it even more ironic in this case was the fact that we'd cast this particular actress because it was getting close to lunch-time and we were all hungry. As it turned out, all the actresses had been attractive and competent, so we just picked the next one who wasn't taller than the show's star and made tracks for the studio commissary.

Our agenda--in this case, hunger--could never have been known or predicted or prepared for by the other women auditioning.

The same is true for TV and film writers. In my experience, not only is it a mystery why certain good TV pilots or spec screenplays get rejected; often it's a total mystery why they get accepted. I don't have a writer patient who hasn't been perplexed when something he or she considers a lesser work is bought, while something they feel represents their best work is consistently rejected.

As my anecdote about the audition demonstrates, the agenda of the marketplace--the sometimes incomprehensible, ever-changing, and often-maddening needs of studios, networks, producers and agents--is out of your control. And not about you.

Therefore, their rejection--of your spec script, your audition, your short film--is not some injury personally directed at you. However, as I said before, your experience of the rejection is personal. In fact, it can't be anything else.

So let yourself be angry, frustrated, even grief-stricken--after all, as a somewhat kinder friend of mine once remarked, when a painful thing happens, a period of mourning is appropriate.

But now the good news: Since you can't know (or control) the outcome of any story pitch, audition or spec script, you're free to just do your work. Rather than shaping your creative endeavors to please others, or in some effort to latch on to or anticipate the next trend, your best bet is to do what excites and moves you, to make your creative growth the ultimate goal.

In other words, as I wrote in a previous column, "Keep giving them you, until you is what they want."

Which means, stay true to yourself, and keep giving the marketplace your best until it takes it.

Remember, too, that rejection comes and goes, but so does acceptance. For any artist, over the long haul, it's mastery of your craft, wedded to the sheer love of doing it, that sustains.

And, finally, though the powers-that-be can accept or reject your work, you can do something they can't: create.

The plain fact is, you are the sun, and the industry is the moon. It only shines by reflected light.