Carol Bergman

I was in the shower at the gym when I thought of a new first line of a novel I am planning to revise. I had originally written the novel about five years ago and sent it out to readers, including my agent. It wasn’t working and there was nothing else I seemed to be able to do at the time to make it work. I put it into the filing cabinet to rest, somewhat uncomfortably, next to two other failed novels. I was discouraged and exhausted. Novels are commitments—a year or more—and I hadn’t been writing much else. Then one of my well-meaning writer friends had the audacity to suggest that I might not be a novelist after all. Why do most writers assume that they can write a novel or should write a novel? she asked. Isn’t three failed novels enough? Hadn’t I better stick to the novella form—which was my strength—articles, and long form nonfiction? Those were her rhetorical questions. She had never written a novel or even attempted a novel.

The difference between writers who get published and those who don’t is obvious: they persevere. The work has to stand on its merits, of course, and it doesn’t hurt to have a connection or two in the business, alas, but perseverance and the psychic fortitude to begin again—like London after the blitz I’ve always thought—is key. Up out of the rubble, it’s a new day.  Read More 

At the beginning of term, I had told my students not to expect replies to emails late on Sunday nights when they are often working on their assignments and I am watching Homeland. Throughout the first season of this compelling drama, my husband and I were riveted. We had friends over to participate, sharing a meal that had to be over long before the 10 p.m. show time. We set the TV to the channel in advance so we wouldn’t miss an instant of the logo or the first scene.

And, then, during the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, we met with some Arab-American friends for a coffee and talked about the show. They were deeply concerned that the educated elite in the United States, including our re-elected President, were so hooked on it. It is, after all, an adaptation of a successful Israeli series. Transposing the venue from Israel to the United States has changed the show in many ways, but the shadow of the Israeli scripts is still there and they have a clear and troublesome political agenda. And, now, the escalation of violence in Gaza, a great and continuing tragedy for everyone.

As writers, what are we to think of a show that is so well written and so engaging, yet so offensive to our Arab-American citizens? What is our responsibility? Does anything we say or think about the show matter? If we agree with the assertion that there is something morally wrong with the portrait of Arabs in the show, shall we boycott? Write letters to the producers? To the White House?

As writers, we are the custodians of language. Language matters. How do we speak about “the other,” whoever that other may be? How do we define ourselves in relation to that other? When do we become the other ourselves?  Read More 

After long silence, I begin again.
—William Cowper to William Unwin, 3 July 1786

A student this term is reading history—Erik Larson, David McCullough—and is struck by the eloquence of the primary source material that has informed their work—letters and diaries. But, alas, her admiration segues into a lament as, feeling intimidated rather than inspired, she reflects, dear reader, on her own attenuated correspondence.

What has changed since Abigail and Henry Adams wrote to one another during their long periods of separation?

It’s an interesting question and a big one. The answer, in part, is embedded in the question: In the digital age, when do we ever suffer long periods of separation from anyone? We may be physically separated, of course, but we remain—always and constantly—virtually connected. And rather than settling by the fireplace late at night to record our thoughts in a journal or to write a letter to a dear friend in ceremonial reply to one that has been received—the ceremony being a promise of reply—we flag an email and reply quickly when we have time.

So that’s one answer—a predictable one—given the imperatives of our digital age. More importantly for a writer, however, is the ease with which we have given up long form formal letter writing and the challenge of retrieving the practice of it. But first, questions: Is it necessary? Is it possible? And, if it is necessary, is it possible?

When I left England some years ago to live in the U.S. again, I promised more than one person that I would correspond regularly, that each letter would be answered in kind. We could talk on the phone but, as writers, a continuing dialogue in writing seemed important. And I was active: I wrote a lot, I went to the post office a lot. Until email. Once that was installed it didn’t take long for the ink to dry out in my italic-nibbed pens.

And I miss the languor of those days. Even as I write rapidly on this computer, I long for them. An opportunity to discourse in words with friends, to catch up on their lives and my own in a slow way, and then to save the correspondence, to return to it, or to bequeath it to an historian as many writers have done. Indeed, high profile contemporary writers donate their papers to libraries or sell their letters and journals to libraries. The fact that they have written these letters and diaries, and saved them, is of great importance. And I know one or two who still cherish their fountain pens, and use them. I wonder what I’ve done with mine?


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I went to see “Lincoln,” last night—screenplay by Steven Spielberg, script by Tony Kushner, Lincoln played by Daniel Day Lewis, Mary Todd by Sally Field—an all-star line-up to which we’d have to include imminent Oscar nominations for make-up artist and cinematography, costume designer, and much more. As it is Spielberg, there is more than one tear rending moment, none gratuitous, and no distortions of text as in the musical finale of “The Color Purple.” It is Kushner’s script that shines, an adaptation of Doris Kearns Goodwin’s, “Team of Rivals,” one of our re-elected President’s favorites. I have not read that book yet but I ordered it for my Kindle as soon as I got home and began a biography of Mary Todd Lincoln which has been on my to-be-read Kindle stack for a while. Mary Todd's reputation has been restored, the accusations of insanity mostly expunged. She was, we now learn, an intelligent Victorian First Lady constricted by the expectations of her time: she didn’t have a submissive personality, she wept grandly after the loss of three children, she sat in the balcony watching the proceedings on the floor of the House of Representatives where, of course, there were no women politicians present, she had strong opinions which she expressed vociferously. Strange to think that it wasn’t so long ago that women journalists were relegated to that selfsame balcony. See Nan Robertson’s book about those girl journalists. It’s an eye opener:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Girls-Balcony-Women-Times/dp/039458452X

It is at times like these—inspired by a well-made script and a well-made movie—that I miss a now defunct website called readerville.com, a gathering of readers and writers. One of the threads was about immersion reading. Certainly Spielberg and Kushner must have read all there is to read about Lincoln as they developed this project. The film has so much exposition, in fact, that one could call it scholarly. Yet the dramatic tension in every scene, relieved by Lincoln’s stories and the softness of his personality as rendered by a fine actor, keep the story moving to its denouement—the passage of the 13th Amendment and Lincoln’s assassination. Though we know the ending before the first frame has passed, it doesn’t matter.  Read More 

The aftermath of this horrendous, catastrophic storm reminds me of the days post 9-11. First there is the euphoria of mere survival—especially if we were fortunate enough to account for all our loved ones—then a stunned dream-state in which we tried to figure out what to do to help. I remember becoming active—volunteering with the Red Cross, walking miles and miles to various memorials, writing poems and reading them at memorials. Long before we were able to digest what had happened, the media informed us that we were living an historic event.

And now this storm. We are still living that history and will be for many months. Strange, that my NYU students are working on a “Witness to History” assignment this very week. That will be an extended effort, I am sure, as the term proceeds. But when will we see each other and where? The lower part of Manhattan, including the Washington Square area, has been amputated by a power outage and flooded subway tunnels leading in and out of the city. Some of my students live in Brooklyn and New Jersey. So, too, the NYU administration. When will they get back to work? When we will all get paid? What is their responsibility? What is our responsibility? The government’s responsibility—federal and local? The implications are filling my full to overflowing journal.

Nothing to do this morning but take a walk up to Sakura Park and assess the damage. I usually work there on Wednesdays with Hakim, an employee of the Riverside Park Fund, but he’s stuck out in Brooklyn.  Read More 

We are waiting for the behemoth storm to arrive, gaining strength and depth as it hovers off-shore nearly 400 miles. It’s noon New York time as I write, and down in the Caribbean the clean-up has begun in Haiti, Cuba and other islands. These are barely mentioned in the ethnocentric USA press. It’s hard to imagine a more dire place than Haiti and, by comparison, the privilege of living on the Upper West Side as a storm approaches. When will we ever go hungry? Still, I think of one or two items I am sure I need— yogurt, a cucumber—and, as the storm has stalled, I quickly get into my workout clothes and take a long, brisk walk up Broadway. The air is fresh, no pollutants. A light rain, a few gusts of wind. Up on 115th Street near the entrance to Columbia, a couple of overseas students are laughing at all the preparations and the intensity of New Yorkers. There are sandbags at the entrance to the Barnes & Noble. Whatever for? “This storm is not to be taken lightly,” I say. “The Hudson is just over there.” I point my finger in a westerly direction which makes them laugh even harder. Perhaps they are amused by my tousled hair and foggy glasses.

Crowds congealing on busy street corners, a grocery store open. The manager has trucked around Queens collecting his workers. But how will they get home if the bridges are closed? Maybe they will have to sleep in the store, one suggests. During 9/11, New Yorkers opened their apartments to stranded workers. I have heard no such offers today. Hard times harden the soul and the altruistic post 9/11 spirit seems to have dissipated, the shops brazen in their exploitation. Are the prices higher here today or is it my imagination? And why is everyone grabbing and pushing?

Children are fractious as they wait on line with their worried parents. A boy to his father: “Dad, will the wind be strong enough to topple the buildings?” And the father’s reply: “What do you think?”  Read More 

I arrived at the Jewish Community Center early this morning to find a note tacked to the outer door: “The JCC mourns the tragic loss of members of the Krim family. Our prayers are with them at this difficult time.” Though the language of loss is inadequate, these words were softer than the painful video loops and prying reporters on local broadcast news, all eager to get their stories and beat the competition. Who will gather the most salacious details?

I flashed my card to the security guard and walked through the cavernous lobby, not a stroller in sight, no nannies, no children running around, no parents. Mrs. Krim had been at the JCC pool with her three-year-old daughter when her two other children--a baby boy and her eldest daughter-- were killed.

Saturday morning is usually a busy time at the pool, but today it was nearly empty; I had a lane to myself. It was as though the whole neighborhood had been silenced and traumatized.

I swam for the Krims. I swam for the nanny’s teenaged son now bereft of his mother.

Who can account for such things? Not a writer. Not anyone.  Read More 

We’re all in this together, one book answering another,” E.L. Doctorow said in his acceptance speech on Tuesday night at the PEN American Literary Awards, his words echoing in the hall and in this writer’s heart. Doctorow is 81-years-old and frail. Like several other authors that night, he had trouble getting up the stairs to the stage. But his voice is still strong, both in person and on the page. Most striking is his humility: one book answering another, an eloquent and sustaining phrase for every other writer in the audience and beyond, whether wildly successful or still striving every day to write something worthwhile and get published. It’s a striking contrast to the solipsism of Salman Rushdie’s memoir, "Joseph Anton," which I recently finished. Without question, Rushdie’s ordeal was horrendous and his determination to continue living his life and to continue writing, heroic and memorable, but he doesn’t have much to say to other writers, especially young writers. Perhaps that effort would have been a detour away from the armature of the book, I’m not sure; it is an important document. But when he encounters Arundhati Roy at a gathering, he has nothing complimentary to say about her Booker-winning masterpiece, “The God of Small Things.” It was a bristly encounter. Did Roy feel patronized rather than encouraged? I have no idea what that encounter was really about—what Indian sub-continent sub-scripts were written therein, what barbs were being thrown—but I can’t imagine Doctorow not taking the young woman writer in his warm, more experienced writer’s embrace.  Read More 

I grew up with a father who was an ophthalmologist, an uncle who was an optician, and a stepfather who imported eye glass frames. I always wanted to wear more than the empty frames they gave me to play with, but I never needed glasses until I was over forty. I bought the inexpensive drug store variety with enthusiasm because I found all kinds of funky, fashion statement glasses to match my outfits. Now, suddenly, I have developed an astigmatism and need prescription glasses. I am in shock, mostly, because of the price: I need two pairs. Bifocals are not convenient at the computer apparently—neck strain. Still, I am amazed and grateful that my vision can be corrected so easily and dismayed that glasses—unless I can get to a Walmart or Costco—are so expensive.

How could this most basic of human needs—to see—be in the greedy hands of a monopoly—Luxottica, an Italian company? Go to this recent 60 minutes exposé:

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-18560_162-57527151/sticker-shock-why-are-glasses-so-expensive/?tag=strip.)

The earliest pictorial evidence for the use of eyeglasses is Tomaso da Modena's 1352 portrait of the cardinal Hugh de Provence reading in a scriptorium, literally a place for writing, usually religious manuscripts. But that portrait was painted centuries after the advent of spectacles. In fact, they were invented so long ago that historians cannot agree on when they first appeared—perhaps in Ancient Egypt, perhaps China, and only among the royals and priests more than likely. Were women permitted spectacles? Children? And what of the totally blind as opposed to those impaired by aging? They were revered. Consider, for example, the blind seer Tiresias from Greek mythology and Gaffer Gangee from “Lord of the Rings.” It’s an ancient literary trope: blindness as an instrument of awareness and understanding.

What, then, if we decided not to correct our eyes with spectacles? Or if we couldn’t afford to correct our eyes with spectacles?  Read More 

Malala Yousafzai, the first Pakistani child nominated by Unicef for the Peace Award on Universal Children’s Day, has been gunned down by the Taliban. “She is our daughter,” the President of Pakistan said when he heard the news.

As I write, the doctors are trying to stabilize Malala enough to be moved to Dubai for state-of-the art treatment. Let us hope—and pray if we pray—that she makes it. Two other girls were also injured in the attack which, as I understand it, took place in broad daylight on a bus.

Malala began writing when she was very young—eleven years old—about her life as a young girl in the Taliban-controlled Swat region of Pakistan. She is now only fourteen and the author of a blog that is published in Urdu by the BBC: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/7834402.stm. Even in the English translation, the entries are breathtaking—concise, clear, and urgent. Reading them today, I am concerned about the young girls in Afghanistan who have been enjoying school under the American occupation, but will be endangered again once our troops are withdrawn and the Taliban reclaims the government. More than certainly, this will happen.

Living so far away in a land where—despite our own hardships—comfort, universal education, and the freedom to write and speak, are taken for granted for most of us, I am wondering, apart from solidarity and our own blogs, what we can do to help Malala and others like her. Does anything we say or write make a difference?

Oddly, Malala’s name in Urdu means “grief stricken,” and she wanted to change it to her pen name, Gul Makai. I do not believe in portents, but I am grief stricken about Malala—what she has had to endure even before this assassination attempt—and will dedicate my class to her tonight.  Read More