When I cut back on practicing psychiatry and began writing novels, I noticed certain things began changing. There were, of course, alterations in my daily routines: waking up early; getting to the computer; spending more time writing and reading, along with other modifications.

But other things underwent tangible changes as well.

For instance, in a restaurant, I sensed a heightened awareness of how people behaved. I became more aware of how they talked to each other; listened more to snippets of conversation; noted their vocal tones; watched body postures; how they ordered dishes; whether they ate with gusto or picked at their food; whether they joined in conversation or remained quiet. The restaurant’s ambience became more noticeable—the décor; whether there was music; the crowd’s din; the bar scene; the use of cell phones; the waiter’s demeanor; the aroma of food; its presentation; appearance; taste and texture. I found myself compiling a mental inventory of many things—a cascade of sensory elements not formerly within my conscious awareness.

On a train, I grew more aware of people’s faces; their expressions; the sizes and shapes of their heads, ears, noses, hairstyles, skin tone, wrinkles and clothing. Did they read; text; talk on a cell phone, or do a crossword puzzle? Did they look fatigued, bored or content? I even tried to guess what some people did for a living based on their appearances.

When walking along a river in my town, I stood on a small footbridge above the water. I asked myself how one would describe the look and sound of the roiling water as it neared a bend in the river. How did the sun reflect off the ripples; how did the color change as the angle of light shifted? How would one describe these sensory experiences in words on the page?

Things that had gone largely unnoticed—the ubiquitous white noise of everyday life—rose to a greater level of consciousness, assumed a level of cognizance they hadn’t formerly possessed. They were no longer part of some unobserved background. Watching, feeling (both emotionally and physically) and listening more carefully, the experiences of life seemed enormously heightened, richer. These perceptual capabilities crept into an ever-expanding foreground—sometimes consciously—at other times, beyond my willful awareness.

The implicit demands of writing novels—of using more than simply sight—of putting thoughts, feelings, descriptions, sights, sounds, smells, and sensations directly onto the page, force-fed a heightened perceptual awareness of the world—conferred richness to what had formerly been a quotidian backdrop to life.

So, it seems a novelist must develop enhanced sentience of the world in order to convey its richness to the reader. And hopefully, that keen appreciation of things becomes not only part of the craft, but of one’s life, as well. I know it has for me.

Mark Rubinstein

Author of Mad Dog House, Love Gone Mad, A Splendid Death, A Lethal Question and others

 

 

 

 

 

With the release of her twenty-first thriller, The Perfect Stranger, N Y Times bestselling suspense novelist Wendy Corsi Staub will have published more than eighty novels in various genres. Wendy has twice been nominated for the Simon and Schuster Mary Higgins Clark Award; and is the recipient of the Romance Writers of America Rita Award; the RT Book Reviews Award for Career Achievement in Suspense; the RWA/NYC Golden Apple for Lifetime Achievement; and many other honors. Wendy’s titles are regularly selected as features for Mystery Guild, Literary Guild, Doubleday Book Club, and Rhapsody Book Club.

Her new novel, The Perfect Stranger, concerns Landry Wells who is involved with a group of women bloggers, all of whom have something in common—breast cancer. One blogger is dead, the victim of a random crime—or was it? At the funeral, Landry is about to meet her online friends, with whom she’s shared things even her husband and children don’t know. These women know everything about her—and one might be a cold-blooded killer.

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