Lewis DeSimone: An Interview

by

Daniel M. Jaffe

Lewis DeSimone’s debut novel, Chemistry (Southern Tier Editions; $19.95), while a thoroughly enjoyable love story, is so much more. What is it about a certain someone that attracts us? His special qualities? Our vulnerabilities? Both? To what extent should we follow our hearts? Should we ever question whether a man who seems too good to be true actually is? “Chemistry,” says Neal, the narrator, “is about reactions, two elements coming together and creating something new . . . Two elements come together, and neither is the same again.” How do romantic partners change one another? And what do you do when you realize that the man of your dreams suffers from serious mental illness? If you stay with him, how do you protect yourself?

“So many people lose themselves in love,” said Lewis during a discussion of the novel’s origins. “It’s remarkably easy. We fall in love and suddenly that other person means everything; he becomes the focus of all our energy. It’s part of the myth of romance. The underside of romance is that we sometimes lose sight of our own identity—we get carried away by the relationship and forget to take care of ourselves as individuals. I know that’s happened to me more than once, and I’ve observed it happening to a lot of people.

“For me, the theme of mental illness became a fascinating way to explore that idea. It allowed me to deal with the question of identity in both a metaphoric and a literal sense, In Chemistry, we see Neal losing his sense of himself in the relationship, while at the same time Zach is losing himself in a more literal way with his identity being eroded by his illness.”

The novel “started as a short story I wrote for a workshop when I was in graduate school at the University of California, Davis. I should have known from the beginning that it would develop into something bigger—the entire arc of the existing novel was already there, condensed into about 30 pages. At that time it came to me in a hodgepodge—scenes jumping back and forth in time, very impressionistic. Looking back on it later, I saw the potential for a much longer piece, something that would allow me to fill in the gaps in the plot and develop the themes. As I began to work on the novel, however, I quickly realized that my disjointed approach would get unwieldy over the course of 300 pages, so I decided to tell the story in chronological order. But I kept the impressionistic sense, because I wanted the story to reflect Neal’s confusion, his desperate desire to make sense of something that on the surface was completely incomprehensible. So rather than explaining things at length, I decided on fairly brief vignettes, kind of a kaleidoscope that gradually comes into focus. Formal chapters would have been too restrictive somehow.”

As with much good fiction, Chemistry is, at times, painful to read. Was it also painful to write? “Yes, of course,” Lewis replied. “I think that writing is rather like method acting. In order to invest the story with real emotion, you have to feel it yourself, often by dredging up similar experiences from your own past. There were many times when I turned away from the keyboard in distress, just not wanting to go into that place of pain, fruitful as it may be for art.

“I remember when that sensation first hit home for me. I was working on another novel in which a central character dies at the end. I’d known he was going to die; it was in the outline of the book from the beginning. But when I actually wrote the scene—the last time he would appear in the book—I started crying, right there in front of the computer. I finished the scene, shut off the computer, and then immediately curled up in bed, sobbing. The pain was so real. I remember thinking that if this is what writing is all about, then maybe I don’t want it. I seriously thought about quitting right then. But when I read over the scene later, I loved it. And when I discovered that my work was able to move other people—to make them cry or laugh (it’s just as important to make people laugh)—I decided it was worth it.”

What sort of research did Lewis do in order accurately to capture issues surrounding his character’s mental illness? “I had some personal experience dealing with people suffering from mental illness, and people who were using psychotropic medications. To get more detail, though, I did do some research—mostly reading, and consulting with a friend who is a practicing psychologist.

“Working that information into the book was very tricky, actually, because the story is told from Neal’s perspective. Since he has no access to Zach’s doctors, I couldn’t be clear on the diagnosis or all aspects of the treatment, and I didn’t really want to be. The book is primarily about Neal’s perception of what’s wrong with Zach—and ultimately, it’s more about Neal, anyway. I liked the mystery.”

Reviewers have commented on the gracefulness of the novel’s prose, and I wondered if that comes naturally to Lewis. “I’ve been very flattered by those reviews,” he answered. “I’m not one of those writers who pore over every sentence, so in that sense I suppose it comes naturally, yes. I do work more carefully on the language in subsequent drafts, once the plot is fairly well developed. In Chemistry, I think the quality of the language has a lot to do with the fact that it’s a first-person narrative; the voice is Neal’s so the way it sounds, the words he uses—all of that is part of his character. That gets back to the ‘method writing’ thing—as long as I’m in Neal’s head, the language flows pretty freely, because it’s constantly invested with his emotion. Third-person narratives are trickier for me, because they presume a greater level of objectivity, and I tend to be a rather emotional writer.”

Lewis has also published short stories and poetry. Are the themes in his other work similar to those explored in Chemistry? “When I look back at all of my work, in every genre,” he explained, “I find that self-actualization is usually the primary theme. I think it’s actually the great objective of life: for each of us to understand who we are, who we were meant to be. And, of course, it’s a never-ending process.  

“I’m fascinated by characters who consciously grapple with self-discovery, but even more interesting, I think, are those who don’t. I believe that’s the great tragedy of life—so many people just go through the motions, always looking outward, as if the answers lie somewhere else. The great journey is on the inside, but it takes harder work, and it’s more painful, and that scares people away.

“Chemistry is very much a story about uncovering the authentic self. Just as Zach is trying to figure out which part of him is real—the depressed part or the so-called normal part—his lover, Neal, is trying to figure out who he is. For his entire life, Neal has seen himself primarily through other people’s eyes; he’s never really gotten in touch with his own, organic truth. The book charts the most extreme example of that phenomenon as his life becomes consumed by Zach’s. It takes something that severe to coax him toward an understanding of himself. It takes confronting his own mortality for him to realize that he’s been throwing his life away all along. And only by recognizing that does he finally get a glimmer of who he is as an individual.

“The lesson Neal finally learns is self-acceptance: accepting both his fundamental nature and his power to control his own destiny. I strongly believe that intimate relationships are one of the primary vehicles for personal growth, but they can also be a convenient distraction. One of the things I wanted to explore in the novel is the limits of love’s power to transform the individual self.”

What is it that Lewis values in different literary genres? “I don’t write a lot of poetry, but when I do venture into that territory it’s because I long for the freedom to just pour raw emotion onto the page. In poetry, I don’t feel the need to create a character or develop a plot.  For me, it’s just about feeling—usually a meditation on a particular moment in time and the little epiphanies that pop into my head.  

“What I like about short stories is the simplicity of subject matter. In a story, I can focus on one theme, one strand of plot. It’s a question of depth rather than breadth—probing a particular situation and extracting a single nugget of truth.   

“Usually, though, I’m more interested in the big picture. I like the broad canvas that a novel affords. Not too broad, though; I can’t imagine myself writing an epic anytime soon. I just like allowing my plots to develop over time. In a short story, the goal is often for a character to have a rather sudden epiphany—a moment of clarity or a sudden realization. In real life, I find that those moments need to come again and again before they really sink in, before you actually integrate the lessons and make meaningful changes in your life. You can show that repetition compulsion more easily in a novel.

“I think there’s a greater degree of artifice in poetry and short fiction, because they’re so much more concerned with form and preciseness of language, and are more limited in scope. A novel, on the other hand, tends to reflect—or at least give the illusion of reflecting—a more realistic world. Real life doesn’t have the simplicity of a short story: we’re never focusing on only one thing. At any given moment, a dozen thoughts may be in our heads; we live in the past, present and future all at once. Life is messy. And novels, because they explore life on a somewhat grander scale, need to be a little messy, too.”

What is Lewis currently working on? “It depends on what day you ask. I’m revising a novel that I wrote a while ago, which focuses on a circle of friends and their various reactions to the AIDS crisis, as they watch one of their own struggle with his diagnosis. I’m also working on a very different novel that explores the nature of family—how family dynamics are so often all about healing the parents’ wounds at the expense of the children. It’s inspired by the Biblical story of Abraham and Isaac, which has always haunted me—the notion that the child is merely a possession of the parent, to be sacrificed to satisfy the parent’s own needs.  

“That one’s a bit painful, so I’m easily distracted from it. I was in Provincetown recently. Just walking up and down Commercial Street, I found this other story—a romantic comedy—writing itself in my head. So maybe I’ll alternate, just to keep my sanity.”

Readers wishing to learn more about Lewis DeSimone are invited to his web site.


Dan is the author of The Limits of Pleasure, a rather controversial novel nominated by some for awards and by others for public burning (well, almost). A former corporate lawyer, he shed his suits to become a rebel with a cause—creative freedom in life and art. Dan frequently publishes short stories and personal essays in literary journals and newspapers such as The Forward, Green Mountains Review and The Florida Review. He compiled and edited With Signs and Wonders: An International Anthology of Jewish Fabulist Fiction, and translated Here Comes the Messiah!, a Russian-Israeli novel by Dina Rubina. He also teaches fiction writing for UCLA Extension. Dan can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it or through his web site.