From Mirror Stage to Creative Identity

An interview by Katherine G. Bergman and Daniel Carden Nemo

Imaginary Order is Shifra Steinberg’s debut novel. Told through the eyes of a child, the narrative follows mother and daughter on their journey together, first to Switzerland, then Italy through to Amsterdam, in an attempt to outrun their suffering—which, in the end, becomes the cause of their pain. Steinberg’s writing is imaginative, tangible, and heart-wrenching. Her descriptions of the mother’s decline are visceral, and the characters throughout stuck with me for many days after putting the book down. This is a book for anyone interested in character-driven novels. It tackles the psychological implications of travel on a child’s socialization, the importance of stability in upbringing, and how to deal with death, even when the person in question is still very much alive.
- Katherine G. Bergman

Katherine G. Bergman: Imaginary Order is written from Nani’s perspective, in the first person, yet centers predominantly around her mother. Even the prologue, which takes place well before Nani’s birth, is written from Nani’s point of view. What triggered that decision?

Shifra Steinberg: We become the people we surround ourselves with. What’s that quote again? “We are the average of the five people we spend the most time with?” It’s an age-old saying, but I assume it survived the test of time because there’s some truth to it. The title Imaginary Order comes from a subsection of The Mirror Stage, a theory created by Jacques Lacan, a 19th-century psychologist. In short, it is the phase wherein an infant comes to know their own image and form their ego. It’s the initial severing of mother and child and gives way to pre-verbal, narcissistic fantasies. Nani and her mother live in a symbiotic, womb-like state throughout the first half of the novel. In order to differentiate one from the other, I felt compelled to write in the first person. And how can you write the story of a mother’s impact on a daughter’s life without delving into the psyche of the victim?

KGB: Interesting. What made you start writing Imaginary Order?

SS: I started writing Imaginary Order during an especially difficult period in my life. I was dealing with the aftermath of a traumatic event, and my already anxious predisposition triple-folded. I could not sleep, my heart felt like it would either rip out of my chest or exit through my throat. I was a freshman at Rhode Island School of Design as all this unfolded. After my first year, I decided I no longer trusted myself. I started Imaginary Order during my subsequent gap year, more as an outlet and something to orient my daily life around than because I felt any real passion for the project. My intention was never to get it published. I was just lucky enough to find a mentor-like figure in the form of an English teacher who nudged me along.

KGB: I’m sorry that you went through such a difficult time. It makes me wonder, though the novel is a work of fiction, for those who don’t know any better, it could also be considered creative non-fiction. Was it important for you to stay as close to reality as possible?

SS: Definitely. Though there are several instances of the uncanny sprinkled throughout the novel, I treated the book as therapy. I knew I would get the most benefit out of writing if I stayed close to the truth—at least, my truth. Throughout the writing process, I came to realize the importance of learning how to mold a lie, or rather, a half-truth. To use a made-up world, with its own made-up rules, and still expose some innate human truth. We evolved to be storytelling creatures. Stories are vital to the history of mankind. But the first stories were always told symbolically, they were adult fairytales taken to showcase reality. Like Neil Gaiman said, “fairy tales are more than true.” Imaginary Order, too, in a way, is more than true. It portrays characters who do not exist, experiencing things that never happened, in places that only hint at the authentic. So, yes, it was important for me to stay close to reality, not so much for the work itself, but for my own mental sanity during that time.

KGB: Interesting. On another note, you are currently completing an MFA at Columbia, correct? With your busy schedule, how do you find time to work on your personal projects?

SS: My personal projects tend to overlap with my school work. Most of our assignments are oriented around creative writing. I try to manipulate my prompts in such a way that I can reuse them somewhere down the line. I’m currently working on a short story collection, so whenever I have to submit fifteen pages for my workshop class, I tend to write something that will benefit that end goal. Besides that, no, I don’t have a lot of time to work on my other personal projects, but that’s a small price to pay for all the benefits Columbia brings. I’m only in my second semester and I’ve already met some of the smartest, most talented people I know.

KGB: In the realm of talented companions, who have been the most inspiring figures in your life?

SS: I’m always quick to tell people my favorite authors, or artists, and I’ll probably do the same now. But I can’t forget to mention the impact Eminem had on me as a child, and hip hop in general. I had two big posters of Tupac and Ice Cube on my wall. I idolized them; I spent hours trying to memorize their lyrics. Which, granted, is probably not the best thing for a ten-year-old to be doing. I got a real pleasure out of swearing. Eminem got me into poetry and writing beautiful sentences. I try to play with internal rhyming in my prose too, largely because of rap. I also found an abundance of inspiration from philosophy. Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Kierkegaard. Psychology, too—Carl Jung and William James. As for artists, I love the surrealists: Leonora Carrington, Remedios Varo, Max Ernst. The list goes on. I realize most of my inspirations are dead.

KGB: You mentioned earlier that you’re writing short stories. I imagine short-form writing is entirely different from long-form writing. Has your style changed over time? If so, how?

SS: My style has changed dramatically over time. That is why, in a way, I am excited for the Imaginary Order chapter of my life to be over, so I can fully focus on my other projects. As I said earlier, Imaginary Order borders on reality in a way my short stories do not. I am interested in the absurd, the strangeness of life in general. Death is a common theme throughout all of my stories. Like I said, I garner a lot of my inspiration from philosophy. Especially existentialism, and the meaning of life in general. I especially enjoy writing about the elderly. How do they grapple with the knowledge of their inevitable demise, lurking just around the corner? From a young age, I understood that our existence is finite and that there is something profoundly meaningless to it all. We are the ones who create meaning. Whatever our perception deems true, is true. Hence my attempt at humor throughout my short stories. I’m trying to laugh more in my daily life, and make living feel less like a burden, and more like a fun adventure waiting to be had. Cheesy, I know, but true.

KGB: Finally, I would like to talk about the ending of your book. I found the last sentence to be so beautiful, I even wrote it down in my journal: “at times characters cease to be, then you turn back a page and they are alive again.” In what ways will Nani’s story stay alive within you?

SS: Both Nani and her mother, and all the secondary characters, perhaps predominantly the secondary characters, were my companions at a time when I was isolating myself from everyone I knew. In a way, I held onto this project for so long because I did not want to say goodbye to my friends. But I should have taken my own advice: as long as we can still breathe, we never truly say goodbye. Everyone we meet somehow stays alive in us forever, all we have to do is flip through the pages of our mental autobiography and they are back again. Perhaps because I moved around so much as a child, but I have never been especially good at goodbyes. Even inanimate objects became sources of great sorrow if I knew I would never see them again. I still remember when I was thirteen, I forgot my pen, a bland, unimportant pen I should add, at a hotel. Once I remembered later that night, many miles away from the hotel, I could not fall asleep—I thought I would choke on the knot in my throat. I could not fathom the thought of never seeing it again. It was lost to me forever. I’m not quite as intense anymore, but that general sentiment has remained throughout the years.

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Daniel Carden Nemo: In your answer to Katherine’s first question, you touch upon object relations theory, which says that one’s personality is made up of internalized versions of others he or she comes in contact with. Do you feel this holds true for yourself, and how does it influence your writing?

Shifra Steinberg: Insofar as you need a degree of emotional intelligence if you want to craft a meaningful story, this definitely holds true. Since object relations theory focuses on how people form and maintain relationships, especially based on their early experiences, I always enjoy situating my narrators within their more formative years. Childhood is the backbone of personality. I think it was Gabor Mate who said you can trace someone’s entire personhood back to their first five years of life. I’ve always been interested in caregiver-child relationships. Beatrice, Nani’s mother in Imaginary Order, is an absent, neglectful parent, which in turn molds Nani into a woman who struggles with issues of abandonment and attachment. To veer back to your question, I do believe we are all made up of internalized versions of others. We learn by mimicking. We are human sponges soaking in our environment. Additionally, that’s also why secondary characters in literature are so important. Object relations theory can be used to create compelling and complex supporting characters by exploring their relationships with the protagonist. By examining how they form and maintain their relationships, one is able to create nuanced and realistic portrayals of human behavior, thought, and feeling.

DCN: Seeing how the self is made up of many secret, untold selves, or stories, do you think most narratives spring out of a continuous search for personal identity?

SS: It depends on the genre, though I’d say even the most fantastical novel can spring forth through a continuous search for personal identity. As Jung said, we all inhabit many splintered personalities, each contributing to our overall sense of selfhood. These selves are often shaped and molded by our experiences, relationships, and cultural background, both conscious and unconscious. A common theme in literature is precisely this continuous search for personal identity, how we fit in with the rest of the world and all that. It is part of the universal human experience. Everyone at some point will question who they are, what they stand for, why anything matters, and why we aren’t better off doing nothing at all. These questions turned me into a total nihilist for years. Nothing is quite as debilitating, mentally, as nihilism. It sucks the life out of everything. Imaginary Order was born out of a desperate search for meaning. I wanted something to give my life weight. It was challenging and painful at times, but it inevitably gave me a deeper sense of who I am as a person.

DCN: How and when do the seeds in your literary themes and narratives begin to take root?

SS: Not to sound overly pretentious or patronizing, but inspiration can be found anywhere; we just have to learn where, and more importantly, how to look for it. Life happens right before our eyes and we let it pass us by. As children, time feels like it passes more slowly because we’re experiencing so many new things and our brains are still developing. Then, as we age, we tend to settle into routine patterns of behavior, which can make time feel like it’s rushing by as we struggle to keep up. It scares me, it’s almost May but feels like February. Part of finding the seeds for literary themes comes from slowing down, taking in our surroundings one molecule at a time, so to speak. Become childlike again in our curiosity. Become interested in human-to-human interactions, human-to-animal interactions, human-to-self interactions. I used to shield myself from all this exterior stimulation. I’m a sensitive person and easily overwhelmed. But it is part of the beauty of being human. We have such vivid self-awareness and imagination.

DCN: Was writing Imaginary Order a cathartic experience?

SS: Definitely. I have never been good at verbally expressing myself, it is something I am working on. My thoughts and feelings always felt somewhat safer and more private on the page, without that nagging fear of judgment. The written word also allows for continuous refining and reworking. An opportunity to reflect on my well-being in a safe and structured way. Unlike speech which, to me, feels unstructured and somewhat scary. In a way, writing gave me a sense of control over my strong emotions. I could fictionalize how I felt, become master of my own universe, and in the process gain a deeper insight into my psyche.

DCN: Are the sounds, images, and language in your work inextricably fitted into and plucked out of your unconscious? Is letting them loose a way to stop being enslaved by it?

SS: I got the title, Imaginary Order, from Lacan’s three orders. Fittingly, he also had a thing or two to say about the unconscious mind’s role in writing. He believed that language was intimately connected to the unconscious, and that by exploring the structure and meaning of language, we could gain insight into our own psychology. Lacan believed the unconscious was structured like a language. That, by analyzing the structures and meaning, we could gain access to the hidden aspects of ourselves. Writing allows us to tap into the “real” of our experience, which tends to hide or sit, repressed, in our conscious minds. I believe that through writing, we can access this deeper reality and gain insight into our own psychology.

DCN: This next question bears on Imaginary Order, but not only. Do you believe there is a new understanding that comes out of misfortune, failure, traumatic events in general? Is there a new you that is born out of tragedy?

SS: That depends on how you respond to the misfortune or trauma. For some, a tragic event can be a turning point that leads to personal growth and a newfound sense of purpose. An opportunity to reevaluate your priorities and make significant changes to your life. Of course, those changes can result in a “new you” that is more resilient, compassionate, and determined. On the flip side, trauma can also bring forth all kinds of mental ailments, such as depression and anxiety. Humans are meaning-seeking beings. We want to know why bad things happen to us. Misfortune makes us bitter and lose faith in humanity. That said, there is something to say about reaching rock bottom. When you don’t have the choice to do anything but find a new you in the rubble. One step worse than rock bottom is the region beta paradox, wherein nothing is ever quite bad enough to change.

DCN: In the pen anecdote you shared with Katherine, you speak of a strange form of attachment, even toward inanimate things, which might in part be explained by a certain psychological configuration, or even panpsychism—the theory that consciousness isn’t exclusively a human property, but one found in all matter—however, do you reckon it might just be the watchtower, if you will, to a deeper way of being, a receptivity to the experience of a more fundamental reality, something occurring deep down as feeling?

SS: Everything in science seems to point to the presence of a deeper reality, one that our human eyes have not evolved to see. It’s something that I intuitively felt to be true, but never had the vocabulary to explain. Thomas Nagel’s famous essay on animal perception really brought this interest to the forefront, and so did Donald Hoffman, Brian Greene, Sean Carol, and all those other big science guys I spend hours watching on YouTube. It seems like our subjective experience of reality cannot be fully captured by scientific or objective descriptions of physical reality. For example, while we can objectively describe the physical properties of light waves responsible for our visual perception of color, we cannot fully capture the subjective experience of seeing a particular color. Neither can human consciousness be reduced to purely physical or objective phenomena. So, yes, I do believe it’s possible that my attachment to inanimate objects isn’t only a result of a psychological configuration or a belief in panpsychism, but also an indication of a deeper way of being and a receptivity to a more fundamental reality. Or, perhaps, I simply felt an attachment to that pen because I’m terrible at goodbyes and hate change.

DCN: You say you’re still trying to learn to strike a balance between anything analyzed to its very essence—that can bring forth an immense sense of revelation and beauty—and just going with the flow and letting things happen. Do you think you may have stumbled upon the very formula of creative life, once it comes off?

SS: In general, many creative individuals struggle with balancing analytical thinking and intuitive, spontaneous creativity. I believe analytical thinking can help refine and clarify ideas, while spontaneous creativity can lead to unexpected breakthroughs and innovations. But like everything, there isn’t a one-size-fits-all formula for creativity or for achieving a fulfilling and productive creative life. Each individual’s creative process will be unique and depend on a variety of factors, including their own personality, experiences, and goals. It’s important to experiment, take risks, and be open to new ideas and approaches in order to find what works best. I tried to find an answer in philosophy, but everyone says something else. Stoic philosophy teaches us that excessive thinking about the past or the future leads to unnecessary worry and anxiety. Descartes famously wrote, “I think, therefore I am,” but then what does overthinking make us? Then other philosophers argue that overthinking can lead to a loss of self-awareness and a sense of disconnection from the world. Nietzsche believed that overthinking leads to nihilism. Heidegger seems to agree. He wrote about the concept of “thrownness,” which refers to the idea that we are all thrown into existence without our choosing, arguing that overanalyzing can lead to a sense of despair, as we become fixated on our lack of control over our lives. Overall, I think they’d all advise against excessive thinking and encourage us to find a balance between reflection and action. As for me, I am still overthinking everything to death.

DCN: Is perpetual curiosity key to a meaningful life?

SS: In my estimation, it is not only the key to a meaningful life, but a happy one. And though happiness shouldn’t necessarily be the goal, it is a nice added bonus. Childlike excitement springs forth from curiosity. The older we get and the more obligations we rake up, the more our lives tend to follow a routine without variance. We walk around as if with blinkers, and whenever we have a moment alone we distract ourselves, scared as we are to spend time with our own thoughts. Our brains filter out about 95% of everything that goes on around us. In a sense it’s funny, we’ve found so many ways with which we can expand our lives, connect us to everybody no matter the distance, yet we inhabit restricted lives, snug within our comfort zones. I do feel a Nietzschian distrust for cultures that prioritize the accumulation of knowledge over the pursuit of values, aesthetics, and so forth, and believe we risk becoming sterile and devoid of vitality. Nietzsche was particularly critical of what he saw as the unthinking pursuit of scientific knowledge, which he believed often reduced complex phenomena to oversimplified and sterile models that failed to capture the full richness of human experience. In a funny way, our curiosity as a society led us to this sterile state of indifference. But on a personal level, yes, I do believe perpetual curiosity is a key attribute to living a meaningful life. It’s what makes us so entirely human. That and our imagination.

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First published in Amsterdam Review