Just Views: In your opinion, what are the best and worst aspects of being a writer?

Sam: The worst aspect is the solitude. Not "solitude" in the sense of "loneliness" but the inability to get feedback in real time. Delayed feedback is nerve fraying. The best aspect is the alchemy, the successful composition of words and phrases, the magic.

Just Views: Curiosity killed the cat but we'd like to know anyway. Has a reader (or editor) ever told you that a specific research detail was incorrect in any of your books? What was your reaction?

Sam: Sure they did. Most of the time I was able to produce countervailing research. At other times, convoluted syntax or wrong grammar were to blame. And, believe it or not, I was once actually wrong ..:o))
Luckily, I deal in fuzzy areas. History is a Rashomon, anyhow. Psychology is as inexact a "science" as science can be (actually, it is a branch of literature). Economics is a branch of psychology. It is an easy, relativistic, life out there ...:o))

Just Views: What, if anything, is done before you start the actual writing process?

Sam: I do research. I obsess on the subject, compulsively collect data, read everything, pay attention to obscure details and set out to write an iconoclastic article. There is no substitute to research. It's a jungle out there and data are the only weapons in the author's armoury.

Just Views: To wrap up this interview, please share an experience that may (or may not!) help other writers take the publishing world by storm. (As an example, you can share your book-signing horror story which may not help writers break into the market but it would help them know what not to do at a book-signing.)

Sam: "Malignant Self Love" was featured as the ONLY narcissism-related Recommended Site by the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I took the liberty, without either informing them or consulting with them, of using this fact in my promotional material. My site is no longer there, it was removed. Don't overdo it. And ask before you venture.

5. Revisiting My Self

This is the story of how I came to meet myself and to heal by giving.

Five years ago I was in jail. Israeli prisons are amongst the most brutal and over-crowded in the world.

I shall never forget the stench, the muck, the sounds of metal gates clanging and of my own cuffs, both hand a foot.

I have served three years and some in the Israeli army but this was no preparation for the dungeons. I had to save my sanity the only way I knew how: writing. I had already published a few books of reference and pieces of short fiction, so I thought I could distract myself this way. But I wasn't ready for what followed.

Technically, I wrote at night, standing, notebook poised on an upper bed. I had the moon for illumination or the flickering flame of a cigarette lighter. I scribbled notes furiously in a cardboard bound notebook. I sensed the contours of an emerging tome. Actually, two.

I never wrote like this before: compulsively, with bated breath, painfully. And I never composed two tomes simultaneously, feeding on one other in cannibalistic regularity. Short stories describing my childhood, abuse and the resulting cold-blooded monster that I became. And a scholarly dissertation on the Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) with which I was diagnosed. Paradoxically, the short fiction was detached and amoral - like dissecting a lifeless life, an autopsy of my autobiography. Critics called it "post modern". The ostensibly uninvolved and academic observation of my mental disorder was cast in turbulent and baroque prose. All the while I had memories resurfacing, poignant and frightening flashbacks and a great tsunami of sadness that I could not contain. I knew then that it was more than writing. It was self-therapy.

The short stories were published long after I left Israel never to return. They won acclaim and coveted awards. I rarely open this book, though, it threatens me in its mercilessness and mental nudity. It packs too much betrayal and cruelty and abuse and ruthlessness between its covers. I can't face myself today as I have when all my defenses were shattered by life itself. It is too painful.

I posted my scribbled notes regarding the Narcissistic Personality Disorder on the internet a year after my release from incarceration. I expected nothing. I regarded the web as a kind of glorified storage space. What followed was an avalanche of e-mail messages: begging, imploring, expressing relief, joy, pain, hate and fear - a communal catharsis. Pathological narcissism was not the idiosyncratic and isolated phenomenon I believed it to be. It seemed to have permeated society, poisoned relationships, threatened co-existence. In short: it was an under-diagnosed and under-reported menace.

I was still reluctant to commit my time and resources to an obscure mental health disorder, however close to home. Virtually unwillingly I added sections to the web sites. I added frequently asked questions to cope with the ever increasing deluge requesting help or advice (now there are 82 of them). I then opened and moderated a discussion list, the Narcissistic Abuse Study List (it has 660 members). I posted excerpts from the list on my web site. I authored online tutorials, courses, a primer and glossary. I had "Malignant Self Love - Narcissism Revisited" printed and sold. Before I knew it, I was doing nothing except these things.

It was perhaps then that I made the greatest discovery - that giving is getting. I derived as much healing and peace of mind and happiness from sharing and aiding others, as any of my correspondents did. I multiplied by dividing, possessed by sharing, evolved by regressing into my own mind. People wanted to learn more about me and this was gratifying. They were grateful and this was satisfying. But, above all, it was I who derived strength and sustenance from these interactions. It is a great and on-going lesson. I made lemonade from my lemon and shared it with the thirsty. As time passed, the income from the book enabled me to dedicate more and more of my time to doing this. a virtuous cycle was created: I give and I receive that which I give. There can be nothing more rewarding.