Carol Bergman

I write this blog today with hesitation. We are living in the 21st century. Does the gender gap among writers, readers and publishers still exist? The inspiration for my thoughts is the publication of Richard Ford’s new novel, “Canada.” He is one of a triumvirate of fine white male writers which includes Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff. Sadly, Raymond Carver is no longer with us, but Tobias Wolff and Richard Ford are still writing with gusto. I cannot think of a congerie of white female writers who have written with as much depth or constancy. Why not? The answer to this question will be found among the ruminations of sociologists, psychologists, historians and anthropologists, and not this year.

My concern today is with literature and its legacy. Which books will last, become classics? Of the African-American authors—Toni Morrison and Alice Walker for example—we can be sure of a lasting legacy, but name me, please, a white female writer whose book will be remembered in fifty years. Why F.Scott and not Zelda? “The Great Gatsby” is a masterpiece, as are some of the short stories, but Zelda’s “Save Me The Waltz,” is by far a greater work than any novel by her husband, other than Gatsby. Some think that Zelda went mad from both alcohol and Scott’s denigration of her talent. She ended her life in an asylum.

I am a big Richard Ford fan and downloaded “Canada,” onto my Kindle before it had been reviewed. I knew it would be good; he has never disappointed. And I began reading a collection of his short stories, “Multitude of Sins,” as a warm-up. The stories I have read so far are about adultery, and Ford captures both the male and female point of view with precision and compassion. And though at one time I had thought that Ford had anti-Semitic aspirations—if that is possible—putting words and ideas into his characters mouths that were hard to read, I now understand that these are exactly the thoughts and words his characters might have; the author is not the character. Politically incorrect? No. Honest. If this is how characters speak and feel, than this is how they speak and feel. So I trust that Ford will deliver with “Canada,” and be well remembered as a “great” American novelist after his lifetime.

Then I got to thinking about having become, unexpectedly, a thriller writer with the publication of “Say Nothing.” How many female political thriller writers are there? Murder mystery writers, yes. But political thriller writers? Would it have been easier for my agent to sell the book to a mainstream publisher if I had been male? As I am not male, and did not use a male nom de plume, there is no way to know this, of course, but I did have an experience a few years ago which makes me wonder. Frustrated at being unable to sell an essay, I changed my byline to C. Bergman. Nearly instantaneously, I received hearty, admiring, long replies from editors, male and female. The essay was published with that truncated non-gender specific byline. Maybe I should try it again.  Read More 

The revision of my first thriller is finished and available exclusively as a Kindle ebook: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008KS9PTQ. It has been a challenging process. Apparently, I was not writing a murder mystery as I had thought, but a political thriller. Once my agent and I understood that I was criss-crossing genres, accepting the publishers’ confusion about where to place the book also became understandable. And though I do feel that the book has finally arrived, I’m not waiting another year for a round of submissions. A Kindle publication is fine and, in due course, I’ll also make a POD hard copy available. Next up, an attempt to transpose the story to a screen treatment. I’ve written two screen treatments before—with my husband—but he’s busy so I’ll try this one on my own. In the meantime, here’s an excerpt from the press release for “Say Nothing” :

"Two unsolved murders, a killer or killers still at large, and David Rizzo was still missing. And though the murders were grotesque and baffling, local interest peaked and then fell away with the first melt of spring… By the time the cherry blossoms blossomed and fell, and the Wallkill River surged into the flood plain, David Rizzo’s disappearance and the two unsolved murders had vanished from the local papers and from casual conversation. Any fear of a killer residing nearby dissipated in the balmy, scented air… "

In this revised edition of SAY NOTHING, rookie Private Investigator Alison Jenkins, recently returned from a tour of duty in Iraq, teams up with her mentor , PI Margaret Singer, to solve the disappearance of a decorated Iraq veteran, David Rizzo. Not far into the investigation, the detectives realize that the young man’s disappearance is only one of several related crimes committed in their jurisdiction and that the FBI has taken a controlling interest in the case and invoked the Patriot Act. When David’s girlfriend and a young Iranian girl are found murdered, the case becomes even more complex and challenging. At each turn in the investigation, the sense of danger intensifies. Though it seems impossible for any crimes to be solved with the government insisting they back off, the detectives are determined to find the killers. What ensues is larger and more complex than they, and particularly Alison, had ever imagined. A political thriller, a murder mystery, and a meditation on the futility of war, SAY NOTHING will twist its way into your psyche and not let go.  Read More 

I went to a screening last night of Alison Klayman’s documentary about Ai Weiwei, the defiant Chinese artist who disappeared into police custody for 81 days in 2011, and survived torture to continue his work and his political/artistic activity, traveling abroad for exhibitions and creating art within China in his large studio in Beijing. (His studio in Shanghai has been demolished by the government.)

As I write, Weiwei has been slapped with a $15 million tax bill and is suing the Chinese government. In other words, he has not been silenced. When his blog was shut down, he started using Twitter. He twitters constantly, using images and words. He has thousands of followers inside China and around the world. The twitters are a thread of distilled wisdoms and observations, and, eventually, they will become history. Here is his Twitter address: https://twitter.com/aiwwenglish/. The Twitter site may also be shut down—it looks a bit strange today as I write—and Weiwei may have moved to Tumblr.

The documentary called “Never Sorry,” soon to be released in the U.S., is riveting from beginning to end, as is Ai Weiwei himself, a free spirit, who reminds me of Michael Moore. He even looks like Michael Moore with his big belly, impish smile, quick wry wit, and courage. I thought it was interesting that Weiwei had lived in the U.S. from 1983-1993. During that formative decade, he had studied art and embraced both intellectual and artistic freedom. Once in your heart, he has said, freedom is there forever.

When asked by Ms. Klayman, who lived in China as a journalist from 2006-2010 and speaks Mandarin, where he finds his courage, Weiwei explains that he is actually very afraid because he knows full well the possible consequences of his actions and his art, which are inseparable for him. Therefore, he continues, he must be courageous, otherwise he will be overwhelmed with fear. And though we live in a free society, Michael Moore has also had to endure threats to his life—not incarceration or torture, but death threats all the same.

Because I am a writer with a “troublesome conscience,”—a phrase I picked up this morning while reading a bio of Theodore Roosevelt (it described TR’s father), I’ve been very concerned about the harassed and incarcerated artists, writers and dissidents in China and wonder when, if ever, the despotic regime will change their ways, or if they ever will, or what we can do here in the west—other than sign petitions and send letters—to support the persecuted artists, writers and dissidents. Is it better to boycott or to engage? Do we study the example of apartheid, or the Soviet Empire, or Iran? Can anything we do, or don’t do, change the outcome?

My book, "Another Day in Paradise; International Humanitarian Workers Tell Their Stories," with a foreword by humanitarian activist, John le Carré, is soon to be reprinted in China for the second time using a simplified alphabet. During negotiations for its first Chinese edition, I was concerned about the translation: Would the text be censored in any way? I was assured it would not. That was more than five years ago. My concern has not abated for this second Chinese edition as the book, by definition, is subversive. The stories therein are, in part, about the problems relief workers have on the ground in war zones and despotic regimes. And China is a despotic regime. So what, if anything, do they make of the book, and will it reach an audience in China?

On the way home last night, I traveled with a friend who works for a humanitarian organization, and we chatted about the film and how inspiring it was. When we got to the train station, there’d been a power outage, so we had to take a bus. Two young Chinese students, in New York for a three week management course at Columbia University, were waiting at the stop, and we began chatting. One spoke English well, the other didn’t. One had heard of Ai Weiwei, the other did not know who he was. The young woman who knew of him said that he was very different, not like the usual artist in China. Was she pleased? I wasn't sure.  Read More 

I’ve been searching the internet—unsuccessfully—for an interview with Louise Erdrich who revised her first novel, “Love Medicine,” ten years after it’s publication in 1983 and then re-edited it yet again in 2009. Erdrich was not finished with this book and perhaps never will be. Why not?

I can only hypothesize based on my own experience and that of other writers who have talked about the impulse to revise published work and re-release it in the hope that an original audience, and perhaps a new audience, will appreciate improvements in the new/updated/changed essay, nonfiction book, short story, novel, or poem. (I read somewhere that Seamus Heaney has revised his poems after publication.)

Erdrich’s stories and characters are cycled throughout her books and as she moves forward and backward in time, she probably discovers more about them. The temptation to add newly discovered imaginative detail must be overwhelming for her otherwise why go back to the book twice since its first publication? But she also may return to “Love Medicine” at regular intervals to improve the language and storytelling devices. The new edition then becomes a touchstone for her growth as a writer.

I have been evolving “Say Nothing,” my first attempt at a murder mystery/thriller, in a similar way. Based on a real story—the disappearance of a young man—I had thought that what I had written was a murder mystery even though I knew it wasn’t typical or formulaic. As I began taking notes and drafting the story, I wasn’t sure if it would be fiction or journalism. The story had touched me, particularly the suffering of the parents. I had met them upstate and, as the summer progressed and their son still had not been found, I knew I wanted to write something and set about researching similar disappearances. However, I didn’t want to intrude on the distraught family, so began to fictionalize and expand the story to include the war in Iraq and the plight of returning veterans. I self-published an early version of the book so that my mother—then in her late 90’s—could see it in print.

It was my agent who informed me—once she started marketing a revision to mainstream houses –that “Say Nothing” is more like a thriller. Comments came back and I embarked on making the plot, dialogue and setting even more textured. At the suggestion of one editor, I read Tana French and was impressed by her unconventional approach. Obviously, I wasn’t experienced enough in the proto-genre writing I had attempted to pull it off. Twenty-odd agented submissions and nearly one year later the main commentary has been: This is a well written book, but is it a thriller or a murder mystery? Where on the shelf would it go?

My agent, who only works on commission, is done trying to sell “Say Nothing” to a mainstream publisher. So now it is up to me again to find an audience for this revised book.

Up it goes onto Kindle Direct with its new protagonist, many enhancements, and the confidence of its author that she has written a more than decent and interesting book. Has it arrived? Is it finished? Only time will tell.

Check out the amazon database in a couple of weeks and the new—2012 version— of “Say Nothing” will be there.  Read More 

I recently read an article by Julian Bell in the New York Review of Books about Damien Hirst, the enfant terrible of the British art establishment compared, at times, to the American artist, Jeff Koons. Both men share the gift of self-promotion—both have become very rich—though artistically Hirst is more interesting to me because of his particular brooding audacity, what critics in the UK call “sheer cheek.” Like all successful artists, he is repeating himself, but his innovations remain startling: the carcass of a cow’s head dripping blood in a vitrine, a decomposing shark. Are these installations only meant to shock? Or stop the viewer in her tracks? What am I meant to think about? What am I meant to see? What is of interest here?

One could and should ask the same question of contemporary fiction, if indeed we dare. Or narrative nonfiction for that matter. How many writers explore new forms beyond the expected or iconic? Not many. Yet there are two Asian-American writers I’d like to mention here whose innovations in form may not be as disquieting as Hirst’s, but are just as compelling. Neither are self-promoting; they have arrived on their talent.

First Katherine Boo who received the Pulitzer for “Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity,” a piece of enterprising immersion journalism told with respectful rectitude. And second, Julia Otsuka. In her first book, “When The Emperor Was Divine,” Ms. Otsuka finds a way into the story of the WWII internment of Japanese-Americans through the eyes of a child. The book is so poignant that is difficult to read in one sitting. And in her most recent book, “The Buddha in the Attic,” the point of view is even more unusual as there is no central character; the protagonist is the entire community and its troubled history on the American continent. Based on extensive research, it is almost a book of lists and is closer to documentary nonfiction than fiction.

Like Damien Hirst, Julia Otsuka and Katherine Boo are not risk averse. But whether an American publisher would have published their unusual books if they were raw newcomers and had not already been successful, we will never know.  Read More 

I went to get fingerprinted for a teaching gig in upstate New York this coming fall. Because Ulster County Community College is part of the state system, Homeland Security takes an interest in its employees. A great interest. I reluctantly filled out several forms and made an appointment for finger printing. I want to teach, after all, and if Homeland Security finds me interesting, so be it. I had long ago—after 9/11—decided not to worry about surveillance or loss of privacy. I take it as a fait accompli and remind myself that, fundamentally, we live in a free society and it is my mandate to remain free in mind and spirit. Let’s say, for example, that this blog is being scanned. That won’t stop me from writing what I want to write. That said, unlike artists and writers in China, I am not in danger of being incarcerated or persecuted.

More than a decade ago, I had been called for Grand Jury and was ink- rolled fingerprinted. Years later, the prints arrived in the mail. They were mine again, so to speak. I still have the manila card with those prints in a file somewhere in my memorabilia trunk. I didn’t want to throw them away; they seemed precious.

A writer doesn’t necessarily write with her hands; she can dictate or, if disabled, even hold a pen or pencil with her mouth or feet. Remember the movie “My Left Foot?” with Daniel Day Lewis based on the book by Christy Brown. Born with cerebral palsy, Brown learned to paint and write with his left foot. Or consider “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” a beautiful book by Jean-Dominique Bauby who suffered a stroke in his 40’s. That book was written by “pointing” to letters on a board by blinking. Both stories are more than inspirational to a writer sound in mind and body. Whatever should I be complaining about? Yet, the electronic fingerprinting process at a firm in mid-town Manhattan became an ordeal for me. It somehow threatened my identity as a writer who uses her hands to write. Straight from the machine into the computer, or something like that, never to be returned and stored in my memorabilia trunk.

The tech, Michelle Prado, trained in forensics, worked on my fingers for nearly an hour trying to get a “pass” scan. Four were rejected, one finger more than necessary for a “pass” grade to Homeland Security.

Dear reader, my fingerprints have faded. According to Michelle, this is very common among writers who type away at keyboards every day, people who use chemicals, and/or very old people. Would it make a difference to use the old ink method? Probably not, Michelle said.

She brought in another tech to help out, someone with a light touch, she explained. Had Michelle tried a special oil? No, not yet. So we tried the oil. No luck. Both women were very kind; they didn’t want me to have to come back. Why would it make any difference? I asked. Surely my fingerprints are gone, faded, never to surface again, stolen by use and time. What happens if too many fingers are “rejected” the second time?

“They’ll order a criminal background check,” Michelle said.

I wrote to the Director of the department I’ll be working for to explain what had happened and to suggest that the cash-strapped college save their money on a second round of fingerprinting and run a background check right away. She thanked me for the heads-up and suggested that my experience might make for an interesting plot of a detective novel.  Read More 

I went onto my website yesterday and my Facebook Carol Bergman: Writer page to announce that “Sitting for Klimt,” my first book of novellas, originally published in 2006, is now available as an ebook. I then realized that my website was peppered with the word ebook and that I had spelled it differently each time. I didn’t even realize that I had no idea how to spell ebook, that there are no stylistic guidelines, and that the word—it is now a word, after all—has so recently entered our lexicon that there is no definitive spelling. Not even my Word spell check can decide; it gives me all the choices.

Dear reader, you can see here which spelling I have settled on—for the moment. I suppose it reminds me of email. The origin of this truncated word blend—electronic mail—has already been lost and the word email itself has become the symbolic embodiment of this now pervasive form of communication. And though the advent of electronic books is more recent, we are already calling them by their affectionate nickname. No one says or writes electronic books any more.

I know that this discussion is not very important and that whatever I say or do won’t make any difference. Eventually simple usage will determine the final form of the spelling, or we will accept a variety of spellings. The sudden appearance of new words is minor compared to the significant shifts in the publishing landscape itself. By next year, or next month, what I have written here will be old news.  Read More 

I have not written much since my mother's death on April 21. I covered the World Voices Festival because I had committed to do so, but it was difficult. I kept my journal going. Now I am working on a long essay and writing for several hours every day. A writer makes something of every experience, including death. The essay is about my mother's will and wills in general, what they say to us, how they are written, often in legalese without any feeling. I’ve looked at holographic wills—written by hand—and studied Ben Franklin’s will and others. In other words, I’m into a project again and this feels good, it feels right.

I took a break last weekend, Mother’s Day weekend, the first one without my own mother, and I went upstate to spend time with my family there. My son-in-law is building a permaculture forest in a pasture surrounded by mountains. My daughter and I drove up there prepared to be put to work. We helped plant strawberries for several hours. I took rests to stretch my back, the dogs lying beside me or romping in one of the three newly dug irrigation pools. The sun was already strong though it was windy and deceptively cool. Mother’s Day brunch the next day was communal, friends and their children, French toast and fruit salad, and warm enough to sit on the porch or meander outside. We left after the brunch to get back to the city and our computers. But I could have stayed on that mountaintop forever.  Read More 

I arrived at the dialogue session without any expectations as—dare I admit it—I have not read any of Jennifer Egan’s books. I think she would have approved of my open spirit as I listened to her answer questions about craft and non-linear musical structure. Unlike Dickens, Irving, and others, she has no idea where she is going when she begins and doesn’t much care about classical form. One story in her new book, “A Visit From the Goon Squad,” is written in power point.

Is she supremely self-confident? A renegade? Having won prizes—the Pulitzer, the National Book Award—Egan’s apparent self-confidence might be understandable if it were not an illusion even to herself. “I have a catastrophic imagination,” she said. That woke me up and also sounded familiar. So, too, her decision to dedicate “A Visit From the Goon Squad,” to her therapist.

Goon Squad came together as a consequence of avoiding another book that was not going well. Suddenly, she said, disconnected stories felt connected, as though a large land mass was sitting under them and keeping them together. So she began to fool around with other stories, evolving characters, and obsessions that might work in a sequence. Often they didn’t and she put them away. “When do you stop working on a story?” she was asked. “When it no longer interests me,” Egan replied.

She relies on her writer’s group—it has been meeting for twenty years—to let her know if a story is alive or not. But even if they say it is, she may not agree, especially if she feels exhausted by revision. That means something has gone wrong.

I found Egan honest and inspiring and came home eager to begin writing some fiction again myself, but I also wondered if the PEN World Voices Festival will ever include writers in a discussion who have not won important prizes—which is most of us—thus liberating the event from the power of celebrity and the market driven universe in which we all work. Read More 

It makes sense that an established prize-winning author might view social media, new platforms, and the complicated challenges of contemporary publishing with indifference if not disdain. Jonathan Franzen, for example, claims that social media leaves nothing to the imagination. So it was a pleasant surprise to hear Margaret Atwood talk about new technologies with wit, irreverence, curiosity and respect. The new technologies are, after all, human artifacts. We have created them and whether we put them to good use (the light side) or abuse them (the dark side) is entirely up to us

In conversation with Amy Grace Loyd, Executive Editor of Byliner, the two women seemed to be friends in casual conversation at a café. Loyd, in fact, is one of Atwood's editors—there were quips about commas—and Byliner is a relatively new online publication, another testament to Atwood's innovative approach to her own career. She has a strong business sense and clearly believes that writers should be able to earn a living.

Atwood admitted that she has 319,000 followers on Twitter, that she tweets about fifteen minutes a day, but is often tempted to return, especially if she is ensconced in a hotel room.

Atwood has had a long, productive career. Her first short story was published in a Canadian literary magazine; she then moved into radio. The CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) had an anthology radio program. The books came later. And, yes, she still owns books, lots of them, and is loathe to give them away. They are piled all over her house. She has to remember where they are so as not to trip on them.

The most telling moment of the evening was during the Q& A at the end. A woman came up to the mike with print-outs of a news article about amazon removing small literary presses from their data base. She was incensed and her question was more like a screed. Atwood interrupted her with politeness and aplomb: "Do you know that in China the character for crisis is the same as the character for opportunity? Why don't these small publishers get together as a collective, design a website, and sell their books?"

Despite this sage advice, the woman continued and Atwood interrupted her again. "What are these publishers and their authors waiting for?"  Read More