By Mark Rubinstein
The Huffington Post
THE
BLOG
02/16/2016
07:51 am ET | Updated Feb 16,
2017
Peter
Straub
Peter
Straub needs no lengthy introduction. As a novelist and poet, he has received
many literary honors including the Bram Stoker Award,
the World Fantasy Award, and the International
Horror Guild Award. In 1965, he earned a B.A with honors in
English from the University of Wisconsin at Madison; and one year later, an MA
from Columbia University. In 1969, he moved to Dublin, Ireland to work on a
Ph.D and began writing professionally. Peter collaborated with Stephen King on
two novels, The Talisman
and Black House.
Interior Darkness, a
collection of 16 short stories written over the course of years, demonstrates
Peter Straub’s uncanny ability to blur literary genres and pen short stories
ranging widely in length, style and tenor, providing a highly entertaining and
unusual volume.
I understand something traumatic happened to you when you
were seven years old. Tell us about it, and how it affected you and ultimately,
your writing.
I was
crossing a street near my house while I was coming home from school. I
neglected to look to my left; the next thing I saw was the grill of a car
racing toward me. I realized it was way too close and I would never get out of
the way in time. An unearthly terror seized me. It was unlike any sensation I’d
ever had. It was almost an out-of-body experience. Time was altered so that the
car seemed to advance slowly toward me in a series of frames—closer and closer.
Then, I experienced a merciful blank.
I was
severely injured. I think I died for a while out there on the street. After the
accident, came a year of absolute misery, anger, and real unceasing terror. I
was totally unprepared to deal with an event of such emotional magnitude.
I
underwent a long-term recovery in the hospital. I formed a certain stance
toward authority in order to negotiate this awful journey of deprivation and
pain. And, I had to deal with adult hospital personnel who couldn’t understand
my emotional trauma. My bones were set poorly, and I developed an abscess.
Nobody believed there was a problem, but I felt intolerable pain. Finally, my
leg had to be re-broken. Imagine having to tell a seven-year old, ‘We’re sorry,
Peter, it didn’t go well and we’re going to have to break your leg again.’
It was
a long and wretched experience that darkened me forever. It gave me problems
I’d have been much happier not to have had.
I did
not want to be an injured person. I did not want to be different from others. I
did my best to act as though it never happened.
A year
later, when I could walk in an almost-normal fashion, I rejoined my class after
having missed a year of school. I tried to fit right back into the stream of
things and did my best to impersonate a normal child.
In
essence, I don’t think I was a child anymore. Kids my age struck me as
baffling; they were incapable of talking about anything serious.
My
natural inclination toward reading was intensified by the long period of time
when I couldn’t do much else. In fact, reading was a golden escape from pain
and travail. I was mad about books, and frustrated because I couldn’t talk
about them with other eight year olds. I didn’t realize my impersonation of a
normal eight year old was flawed. Report cards said, among other things, ‘Peter
is talking to himself a little less this year.’ (Laughter). Everyone was
telling me to shut up. Actually, I was trying to seal off the space in my mind
that kept me so scared.
I had
no idea how frightened I had become of nearly everything. Death had come for me—out
of the blue. As far as I knew, it could happen again at any time. I was too
young to emotionally handle these traumatic circumstances and their aftermath.
The
fear never dissipated; it merely became submerged. My impersonation of
normality became more accurate, and during adolescence, my anger and disdain
seemed normal.
When I
became an adult, I wanted to make a living writing because I loved books and
narrative. I loved the idea of telling stories, and writing fiction was all I
ever wanted to do.
At that
time, The Exorcist
and Rosemary’s Baby
were hugely popular. I thought I’d give that genre a crack. It felt
right—immediately. I felt at home, yet didn’t really know why. Of course, I
later realized I was dealing with the material of fear. I was channeling it
into my writing. I was all too familiar with fear and understood it so well. I
could describe it and could induce it in readers. As is often the case in life,
paradoxically, the worst thing that ever happened to me turned out to be the
best thing that ever happened to me.
So your own frightening narrative eventually became part
of your oeuvre.
Yes.
The realization only began to crystalize when I was in my forties. Once I got
it, I understood that this horrible event I had been told to forget or minimize
was actually a central part of my life.
That
realization inspired my writing and I think my work went up a notch.
Speaking of your work ‘going up a notch’ your writing is
often lyrical. Some would even call it ‘literary.’ How do you feel about your
books being classified as horror novels?
That’s
a very complex issue for me. It’s occupied more space in my thinking than I
should admit. Even when I was happily writing novels intended to scare people,
I knew they’d be labelled horror, but I wanted to write books that were as good
as they could possibly be. I didn’t want my novels to be limited by the
conventions or expectations of any specific genre. If I didn’t write well, I
would have felt I had done a disservice to my gift.
As my
work evolved and went beyond the definition of a specific genre, I thought it
would be agreeable to have readers say, ‘This isn’t just a mystery, horror, or
crime novel. This is actually a novel. It has those other elements in it, but
it’s a satisfying work of fiction.’
That
was my conscious goal, and as it turned out, readers stayed with me. They were
moved by these books. I was very, very pleased.
You
know, you never really write the book you thought you were going to write.
There’s always a more perfect version of it somewhere in the world. I’m still
pleased with the books I wrote in the 80s and 90s because I think they were
fresh.
I’ve
felt for a long time now, really well-written novels, no matter the genre, are
worthy of being called art or literature. Take for example, science fiction, a
genre which has mutated beyond recognition. If the book is well-written, it
becomes a more serious read, one that is not only enjoyable, but is also a
profound way of exploring the relationship between the narrative and life.
My favorite story in Interior Darkness is “Mr. Clubb and Mr. Cuff.” Tell us a bit about it.
It
started when I reread Melville’s Bartleby
the Scrivener. I was stunned by it. It was a work of genius. Part
of what was so stunning was that it was enigmatic. It had depth within depth, a
quality I love that there’s more to understand than what first meets the eye.
Rereading it made me feel I wanted to work with that kind of material and see
what would happen. After reading Melville’s story, Otto Penzler invited me to
contribute to an anthology about revenge. I realized I could write a Bartleby
kind of story having to do with revenge. When I decided to do that, it all fell
into place. The story instantly expressed itself in a style I love: it’s
slightly parodic, but also incorporates affection along with Nineteenth Century
diction; and allowed me to make points about the character without being
explicit.
After
I’d written a couple of pages, I realized I could end the story in the same
voice with which I’d begun it, and have transformative things happen in the
middle of the story. I didn’t realize Mr. Clubb and Mr. Cuff would be like a
vaudeville team. ( Laughter). In a way, the story wrote itself. When Mr. Clubb
and Mr. Cuff had something to say, the words just came out. I just wrote it
down. That’s the way it felt.
How do you decide an idea is best for a short story as
opposed to being the core of a novel?
I
always felt I was emotionally wired to be a novelist. I wanted to write
long-form fiction, spending between six months and three years on a single
piece. I love interior complexity, which works best in novels. After three or
four novels I tried writing a short story.
I took
a year off from writing after Stephen King and I wrote The Talisman. After that
hiatus, I felt I’d grown rusty, like a musician who could only play an octave
on a musical scale. I decided to work on the short story, Blue Rose. I wanted it to
be a lead-up to the novel Koko. I thought it would help me hone my writing
skills by opening up the avenues in my brain that had been dormant. I loved
writing that story.
Unlike
with a novel, I’m quite clear about where I’m going when I begin writing a
short story. There’s less movement; it’s more manageable; and I won’t have to
work on it so long. There’s also a limit to the number and kind of chances I’ll
take as compared to a longer work.
With
short stories, I can do whatever I like. There were times when I wanted to
write short stories but felt I couldn’t afford to take the time. I had to earn
a living and meet the costs of everyday life. I had bills to pay. They were
paid by writing novels.
What question are you asked in interviews more often than
any other?
(Laughter).
The question I’m asked most often is, ‘What is it like to work with Stephen
King?’
Why do you think that one is asked so frequently?
Steve
is a master. As time goes on, he’s become more and more beloved by a vast array
of readers. And, as time goes on, he’s more and more productive! There’s a
demonic deal somewhere in the works there. (Laughter). The man is a miracle.
You’re hosting a dinner party and can invite any five
guests, living or dead, from any walk of life. Who would they be?
Let me
think. I’d like to include Hart Crane and Jack Kerouac. So long as they don’t
get drunk, they’d be wonderfully interesting. I’d also invite the English psychiatrist,
Christopher Bollas. He’d add some rich insights to the conversation. I’d love
to have Marilyn Robinson there. She’s one of the most brilliant writers
currently breathing. I’m just stunned by her talent. For precision and good
manners and to lend some wit to the gathering, I’d invite Marianne Moore, the
poet. She and Kerouac might hate each other, but that could make for some fiery
conversation.
What’s coming next from Peter Straub?
There
may be a third collaboration with Stephen King. We have the germ of a story
firmly in place. All we need is time during which we’re both free. Then there’s
a book I’ve been working on for a long time. It’s tentatively called Hello Jack.
Congratulations on the publication of Interior Darkness, an engrossing collection of stories taking the reader
into an interior world of darkness mixed with comic relief and written with
haunting literary beauty.
Mark Rubinstein’s
latest novel is The Lovers’ Tango.
Follow
Mark Rubinstein on Twitter:
Mark Rubinstein Novelist,
psychiatrist, physician:
After earning a degree in business
administration at NYU, Mark Rubinstein served in the U.S. Army as a field medic
tending to paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne Division. After his discharge he
returned to college, went to medical school and became a physician, then a
psychiatrist. As a forensic psychiatrist, he was an expert witness in many
trials. As an attending psychiatrist at New York Presbyterian Hospital and a
clinical assistant professor of psychiatry at Cornell, he taught psychiatric
residents, psychologists and social workers while practicing psychiatry.
Rubinstein's high-octane thrillers Mad Dog House (2012) and its sequel, Mad Dog
Justice (2014), were both finalists for the ForeWord Book of the Year Award.
His 2nd thriller, Love Gone Mad, was published in September 2013 and his
novella, The Foot Soldier (November 2013) won the Silver award in the 2014
Benjamin Franklin Awards competition, in the Popular Fiction category. His
novella, Return to Sandara, (October 2014), won the gold IPPY Award for
Suspense/Fiction. Before turning to fiction, he co-authored five self-help
books on psychological and medical topics. His latest novel, The Lovers' Tango,
won gold medal in popular fiction at the 2016 Benjamin Franklin Awards. To
learn more, please visit:
