How Science Fuels the Imagination in Of Paint and Pancakes and Nephilim
Marc Arginteanu discusses how his neurosurgical career informs his novels, blending medical realism with fiction. He explores biotechnology, power, and human resilience in Nephilim and Of Paint and Pancakes, offering insights for aspiring writers.
Marc Arginteanu is a rare literary talent—one whose expertise in neurosurgery fuels his fiction with depth, authenticity, and an unflinching look at the human condition. As a distinguished neurosurgeon and professor, his career has revolved around the intricate workings of the brain, making life-altering decisions in the operating room. Yet, beyond the precision of the scalpel, he wields another powerful instrument: the written word.
Arginteanu’s storytelling traverses both science fiction and medical drama, each narrative infused with a profound understanding of the mind, its fragility, and its resilience. In Of Paint and Pancakes, he crafts an emotionally charged exploration of love, loss, and recovery through the eyes of a neurosurgeon, reflecting his own experiences at the bedside of patients facing the unimaginable. Meanwhile, his metaphysical sci-fi novel Nephilim pushes the boundaries of biotechnology and power, delving into the ethical dilemmas of human augmentation with the same intellectual curiosity that has defined his medical career.
His ability to bridge scientific realism with gripping fiction sets him apart. Whether he is weaving intricate medical details into a poignant drama or constructing a futuristic world where technology reshapes humanity, Arginteanu’s work never loses sight of what matters most—the human experience at its core. His books are not merely stories; they are thought experiments, emotional journeys, and philosophical inquiries, all delivered with the precision of a surgeon and the heart of a storyteller.
In this exclusive interview, Marc Arginteanu shares the inspirations behind his novels, the interplay between his medical career and creative writing, and his insights into blending scientific expertise with compelling storytelling. It is a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a man who has dedicated his life to understanding both the biological and narrative structures that shape who we are.
Marc Arginteanu is a masterful storyteller, blending medical precision with emotional depth, crafting narratives that challenge, inspire, and captivate readers worldwide.
How does your experience as a neurosurgeon influence the medical scenarios and character development in your novel of Paint and Pancakes?
Having spent years in the neurosurgical operating room and at patients’ bedsides, I’ve seen firsthand the raw, human side of medicine—the triumphs, the failures, and the messy in-between. That reality fuels the medical backbone of the story. For instance, the brain injury Erin suffers isn’t just a plot device; it’s drawn from cases I’ve encountered—complex, unpredictable, and emotionally charged. I wanted the injury and its aftermath to feel authentic, from the surgical precision Mike employs to save her, to the grueling psychological recovery that follows. Those details come from my own hands-on knowledge of how the brain behaves under trauma and what it takes to pull someone back from the edge.
As for character development, my work as a neurosurgeon has taught me how people reveal themselves under pressure. Patients and their families show incredible resilience, fear, hope, and sometimes despair—all of which I’ve woven into the characters. Mike, the neurosurgeon, carries the weight of patients he couldn’t save, a burden I know well from my own career. It’s not just about technical skill; it’s the emotional toll that shapes who he is. Jane, too, reflects the kind of strength I’ve seen in people facing life-altering diagnoses—she’s full of life yet suddenly confronted with her own mortality. My time in the field has shown me how illness can strip away pretense and expose what really matters, and that’s what I wanted to explore with her journey.
Even the smaller moments—like how Mike assesses Jane’s tumor location near Broca’s area and the motor strip—come from my daily reality. I’ve stood over scans like that, weighing impossible choices. That insider perspective lets me build characters who don’t just react to medical scenarios but are shaped by them in ways that feel true to life. It’s about blending the science I know with the human stories I’ve lived alongside, creating a narrative that’s as much about the heart as it is about the brain.
In Nephilim, you explore themes of power and technology. What inspired you to delve into these subjects within a science fiction context?
In the operating room, I’ve seen how technology—tools like intraoperative MRI or neuronavigation—can hold the balance between life and death. It’s a kind of power that’s both exhilarating and terrifying, because it’s never fully in your control. That duality got me thinking: what happens when you scale that up to a scenario where biotech doesn’t just heal but reshapes who we are?
Nephilim—those ancient, quasi-mythical beings from Genesis—hit me as a way to bridge science and fiction. I started wondering: what if their “power” wasn’t divine but technological, something so advanced it appeared miraculous to primitive eyes? That let me dive into how humans grapple with forces bigger than themselves, especially when those forces come from their own hands. Things like neural implants or gene editing already blur the line between natural and engineered. I wanted to push that further in Nephilim, imagining a world where tech amplifies power to undreamt of levels but also risks stripping away what makes us human.
Power’s a tricky thing, too. I’ve seen it in medicine—doctors who wield authority over life-and-death decisions, patients who feel powerless in the face of disease. That dynamic fascinates me: who gets power, who loses it, and what do they do with it? In Nephilim, I could crank that tension up, pitting characters against shadowy forces that echo real-world struggles—think religious cult indoctrination or governments weaponizing innovation. The sci-fi context let me exaggerate those stakes, but the root of it comes from watching how people navigate control and chaos every day.
So, really, it’s my front-row seat to medicine’s tech revolution—mixed with a healthy dose of “what if?”—that drove me to tackle these themes. Nephilim became a way to explore the thrill and peril of absolute power, something I feel the weight of every time I pick up a scalpel.
What advice would you offer to aspiring authors aiming to blend scientific expertise with creative writing in their works?
Start by embracing the tension between the two—it’s your greatest asset. Science gives you a foundation of precision and wonder, while creativity lets you explore the messy, human side of that knowledge. Don’t be afraid to let them clash and spark; that’s where the magic happens.
First, lean into your expertise, but don’t let it overwhelm the story. I’ve seen how neurosurgery can feel dry or intimidating on the page, so focus on the human stakes—the patient’s fear, the doctor’s doubt, the family’s hope. In Of Paint and Pancakes, I used my surgical knowledge to ground Erin’s brain injury, but the real heart of it was how it reshaped her relationships and dreams. Use science as a tool, not a textbook—make it serve the characters and plot, not the other way around.
Second, don’t shy away from simplifying complex ideas, but do it with authenticity. Readers don’t need every technical detail, but they’ll smell a fake from a mile away. Draw on your real-world experience to make it believable—whether it’s the odor of a hospital, the weight of a decision in the OR, or the quiet dread of a bad scan. For Nephilim, I tapped into my understanding of biotech to imagine a future of advanced neural tech, but I kept the focus on how it felt to live with that power, not just how it worked.
Third, read widely across genres—sci-fi, medical dramas, literary fiction—to see how others weave science into narrative. Writers like Michael Crichton or Ian McEwan do it brilliantly, balancing rigor with emotion. And don’t forget to study the classics; even old myths can inspire sci-fi, like the Nephilim themselves did for me.
Finally, write what obsesses you. My own drive comes from the awe and terror of medicine—how it can save or destroy in the same breath. If you’re passionate about your science, that passion will carry the story. Be patient with yourself, too. It took years of practicing neurosurgery and scribbling ideas to find my voice in writing. Trust the process and let your dual worlds—science and art—teach each other. You’ve got a unique perspective; use it to tell stories only you can.
