Carol Bergman

Every once in a while, I Google myself to find out if a person or institution has stolen my work. And every once in a while, I have to report a theft of my intellectual and creative property to the legal department at the Author’s Guild who are tireless in their pursuit of the perpetrators. Given the inter-stellar reach of the internet, however, such theft is not that common or obvious—at least to me. I might find more violations of copyright if I probed deeper into the depths of Google, but I don’t because, in many respects, I’m happy that Google scans my work. Even some blog entries are scanned. And why shouldn’t I be pleased that my blog has readers? I am pleased; I just don’t want my entries to be stolen.

I am always astounded at how fast a piece of published writing goes up onto Google and also how many other women with my name exist, have died, or have a lubricious past. This morning I found a Ziegfeld Follies girl with my name—how dare she—who danced and posed “all wet” in the 1920s. Here’s the link: http://ohshitbacon.tumblr.com/ “Why are you all wet, baby?” the caption reads.

I know that my students Google Me before they decide to take my class though they rarely confess to their sleuthing. Occasionally they let slip a fact—my age, experience, or aching back for example—which they could not have known unless they’d Googled Me, read my blog, or have a friend who has taken my class. I don’t mind any of this, mostly because I can’t do anything about it, and because, as a University Adjunct Associate Professor listed on the University Website hyper-linked to Google, I am a public person. Not famous, but public. In fact, we all are these days—public persons I mean. To what extent we can maintain our privacy remains the challenging issue in the 21st century electronic world, along with copyright, theft, and our sense of humor when we are exposed as “all wet.”

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It’s been a month since I wrote a blog because I have been very busy at the computer every day working on the revision of my book. I had a routine: three to four hours of work in the morning, exercise, or physical therapy, or the chiropractor mid-day, check my email one more time, then shut down the computer for the day. In that way, I was not tempted to sit again for long periods. Even with this half-time schedule, I finished the book.

Now, it’s done, I am waiting for a reply, and refueling. I don’t know yet what my next big project will be and it doesn’t matter. I’m tidying my files, catching up with friends & family, taking long walks, swimming, continuing to heal my back, going to museums, reading a lot, and getting to know my new students. When the editorial notes come in on my draft, I will have a new project going—probably a short one—and I’ll be rested enough to get back to work on the book.

I have a cousin, an artist, who disappears when she is immersed in a project. She doesn’t answer the phone or emails, she doesn’t socialize. She hunkers down and works. Then she surfaces again and reconnects with the material world around her. She works in spurts; the rest of the time she is mulching, storing up ideas, collecting images, traveling and spoiling her grandchildren.

Every artist and writer finds his or her own rhythm and sometimes, because of circumstance, this rhythm may change—because it has to. Some writers who live in the country work in their garden or go for a swim every day. Some work six days a week throughout the year, others only in the mornings. It doesn’t matter how we organize our creative lives so long as we persevere.

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I had nightmares two nights ago after nearly finishing “Zeitoun” by Dave Eggers: http://store.mcsweeneys.net/index.cfm/fuseaction/catalog.detail/object_id/73d53fd3-b86f-42e7-b8d4-7dd6e3a71d78/Zeitoun.cfm. My extremely elderly mother was reading it for her book club the last time I went up to see her. Because she was so upset, I downloaded the book onto my Kindle at her kitchen table and told her I would read it right away. If I’d ordered it from the McSweeney store, the Zeitoun Foundation would have received more of the proceeds. No matter, at least part of the payment to Amazon will go to the Zeitoun Foundation and be distributed to reputable NGO’s working to rebuild New Orleans.

"Zeitoun" is a masterful work of collaborative nonfiction writing, the subjects and the reporter working together to create an accurate narrative. The narrator/reporter, Dave Eggers, is entirely invisible and the prose is under-stated. It is reminiscent of John Hersey’s “Hiroshima” and just as compelling. “Hiroshima” was published in The New Yorker magazine in August 1946, a year after World War II ended. The article was based on Hersey’s interviews with atomic bomb survivors. Hersey recorded oral histories from the victims and shaped them into readable prose. He gave the victims a voice. Eggers has done the same with a New Orleans family who survived the Katrina disaster. The story of how Eggers found the family and the three-year process of creating the book can be read here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/mar/07/dave-eggers-zeitoun-hurricane-katrina.

I suggest you read the interview with Eggers—or others available on the internet—after you have finished the book as the dramatic tension does not abate until the last section. The reader lives the story with the Zeitouns in real-time as the events unfold again in the telling.

Over the years, Dave Eggers has become a writer of conscience whose work has a socially useful purpose. Such writing can often become simplistic, over-written, stereotyped, or polemical. But the masters of the form--Hersey, Eggers, Norman Mailer, Dillard and many others, avoid these pitfalls with a carefully constructed narrative persona, a reporter who remains in the background yet, ironically, is felt keenly by the reader as an empathic presence.

I remember talking once to Jonathan Kwitny, a Wall Street Journal reporter who wrote a book I was reviewing called "Endless Enemies: Americas Worldwide War Against Its Own Best Interests." Kwitny had served in the Peace Corps in Africa and he returned there as a mature reporter. I asked him why the horrific stories he was telling felt so understated and his reply was—and I paraphrase here—that he wanted to give the reader a chance to breathe and to feel his own emotions. Dave Eggers has done the same.  Read More 

Sometimes, when I have a piece published—fiction or nonfiction or poetry—my first instinct is to send everyone I know a link and to sit back and hope they’ll reply instantaneously and acknowledge the brilliance of the prose (or poetry), to acknowledge that I am a wonderful writer (and person), and that there is no other writer they would rather read in the midst of their busy lives, or that what I have written resonated so deeply with their own experience that they are immensely grateful I have written it. I am still surprised when friends and family comment on what I have published in a negative way. Often, they will ask if I mind if they say something—a rhetorical question—though what this something is may be hurtful, insensitive or intrusive. Or they will praise the piece beyond its worth insincerely and then offer an interpretation of the deep subconscious meaning of the story based on what they know of my struggles and biography. This, I find, many people do with relish. Indeed, I do it myself with authors I read and don’t know because I love to read biographies of writers. But I don’t do it with writer friends I know. I leave that analysis to the pundits of future generations.

Recently, when I had a mildly autobiographical short story published in a worthy online magazine, I sent it round to friends and family and sat back and waited for the adoration and adulation I deserve. A few people said they enjoyed the story and that it was well written. Of course, I already knew that; it had been accepted for publication. One or two mentioned a typo or two or a more serious punctuation snafu. These comments were nitpicky and unhelpful. No writer requires correction after a piece has been published. What are people trying to say to me with these nitpicky comments? I am not sure but I think, in some way, I have made them uneasy and the nitpicky comments are a cover. If they have more courage, they will make comments about the underlying unconscious treasure trove from which the story was surely born. Even the literary nonfiction and journalism I write invites such comments. All this, after publication. I never show friends and family a draft in development. Their unfettered editorial voices might stop me cold.

I am always a bit stunned when a student begins a sentence with, “I read this draft to my boyfriend on the phone last night,” or “I showed it to my mother.” Albeit, there are many writing couples who share their work and are able to critique one another’s work—Nicole Krauss and Jonathan Safran Foer come to mind—but that kind of relationship is rare.

It’s not that the people close to us, people in our lives, can’t be supportive, encouraging and nurturing of our efforts. It’s that they are too close, they are usually not writers, and they cannot help us develop the potential in our work. Or they may be writers but cannot see the work—your work—as separate from your biography. That is why every writer requires readers and, later, editors. And these readers have to be other writers or readers who are not familiar with our biography. The work has to stand on its own so that we can study it and revise it well on our own.

So, when a piece is done and I’ve sent it round, what do I want from my close circle of family friends? What is fair to expect? Truly, I don’t know. Yet, I keep sending my published work to family and friends most of the time. And then sometimes I don’t, for all the reasons iterated above.

I am reminded of an anecdote about Georgia O’Keeffe. Tired of the barrage of analysis about her paintings of flowers—they were often compared to vaginas—she shifted to skulls.  Read More 

Four months ago, I went on an off-trail hike with my daughter, some friends, and three frisky dogs. My back was hurting before I left but it was gorgeous day—sun shining, leaves turning—and I didn’t want to miss it. We explored fifty-eight acres of untouched wilderness, clambering over glacial rocks, felled trees, and shallow streams. The endorphins kicked in as soon as we descended into the shadows of the old growth forest and I felt no pain. I didn’t know I had injured myself until the next morning and have been recovering ever since. I haven’t stopped exercising—gently—or writing, but I have been slowed down and have only just finished the revision of my new book—a few weeks behind schedule but in plenty of time for the start of the new term. My new students will hear of my writer’s travails, including my inability to sit for long stretches. I’ll be carrying a special chiropractic pillow, standing up as I teach, and bending over during the break.

My chiropractor tells me that our species is not meant to sit for long stretches; our spines prefer the more feral posture of all fours. I tried this as I cleaned my bathroom the other day. It works. But writing is a different challenge. I remember reading about Ernest Hemingway’s stand-up desk—there is a company that has named a desk after him—and also Philip Roth. His latest book, “Nemesis,” is novella length. He either made a decision to keep his projects short or is in between larger books. The book is beautiful, by the way.

I had a friend in a writer’s group years ago who developed RSI (repetitive strain) and couldn’t work at the computer very much. She began to write very short stories. In the past, her prose had been sprawling and self-indulgent but the necessity of writing longhand changed her use of language. It became intense, and riveting. She had never written anything better and began to get published regularly. At the time, I took her experiences as a lesson to reduce my ambitions to manageable, realistic levels. I began to edit and revise in long-hand and I began experimenting with poetry, which distills language, thought, and experience. In other words, I slowed down.  Read More 

This is a New York Christmas story, of which there are many. We only have to walk onto the street from our cozy apartments to find them. Sometimes they find us. Few families I know have not been touched by the recession this year, including my own. Hardships everywhere, downsizing, lay-offs. Writers keep writing through it all. And gathering stories.

So I suppose, given our hard, strange times, that I wasn't surprised when a slightly demented disabled man in a wheelchair sitting next to me on the Broadway bus looked normal to me. In fact, the expression on his face--compared to the other sullen passengers-- was open and jolly, Santa Claus jolly. He was dressed in ragged clothes, his face was dirty, and he was missing most of his front teeth. I was sitting next to him--no surprise that this seat was empty at rush hour--and heard all his mumblings and rumblings. And then a fancy woman appeared. Fancy was his word; he was a natural story teller I soon learned. And he turned to me and said, "She looks very independent." She was standing over him balancing a heavy bag from a fancy store and she was wearing a white and gray fur coat and fussing with her Blackberry. And this man in a wheelchair was utterly invisible to her. Nonetheless, he carried on. Somehow, he'd gotten her number. How many New Yorkers in furs do we see on the bus? Not many. A fur signals taxi, a buffer from the the hoi polloi. But this woman was on the bus, busy with her packages, her phone, her fur, in her own world. "I suppose you've been doing some Christmas shopping," the man said. No answer. "And that you've been shopping mostly for yourself."

Well, well. That raised a few heads. The man's voice was baritone, sonorous as it hissed through the gaps in his teeth.

"What about you?" I asked. "How are you doing?"

"Surviving. Every day I survive is Christmas."

"How are you coping in this cold weather?" I asked.

"Well, you know I am from Miami and when I was growing up I only saw snow once. Just little flakes that came down and we all ran outside and then they were gone. Snowflakes. I love them."

Then he chuckled, blessed me, and wished me a Happy Holiday as I got up to get off the bus.

I thought about him on the way to the east side to listen to serene Gregorian chants in the Medieval Hall at the Metropolitan Museum. Men in black, posing as monks, all with angelic voices. And I realized I'd met an angel on the bus or, perhaps, Santa Claus.


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Am I imagining things or are novels getting longer and longer? I asked my agent this question because I don’t think the book I am working on will be more than 50-60,000 words. Are publishers insisting on very big books? She said, no, not that she was aware, even though I have recently read: the first two Stieg Larsson’s, Verghese’s “Cutting for Stone,” all three novels by the talented Irish mystery writer, Tana French, and Jonathan Franzen’s “Freedom.” All of the above are TOMES, more than 80,000 words. Four are genre fiction, the Verghese and the Franzen are literary.

My favorite length to write is the novella and I am looking forward to writing the fifth in a new collection when I’m done with the bigger book I am currently revising. So I was stunned when I realized that I’d nearly finished Philip Roth’s new book, “Nemesis,” that I was zipping right along on my Kindle into the high percentiles. I went into the new NYU bookstore on Waverly Place—gorgeous—and took a look at the book: 280 large print pages. It’s a novella. So what is going on? Well, he’s Philip Roth and can write any length book he wants, I would think, and that book will be published. This one is good, luminous, carefully crafted, and though it’s a novella, it’s still a book.

I often think that long books are too long, that they go on and on, that they are self-indulgent, and that they could use heavy editing.

When I asked some reader friends—as opposed to reader/writer friends—if they like to read TOMES—they said they do. Once into a story they want it to go on and on, if it is good that is. And I suppose the marketing folks at publishing houses know this. Back in the 19th century long books were serialized in magazines, a sensible way to present a book to the reading public. No one expected the reader to digest the book in one gulp and sales were boosted by the anticipation of the next installment. I suppose the Stieg Larsson phenomena is similar, except that each installment is a TOME. Not to mention that the TOME is very heavy—hard to carry, hard to read in bed. But then again, I have my Kindle.  Read More 

I am in the midst of revising a book I published before it was ready. I wanted my extremely old mother to see it and I rushed its completion. No matter. Those who read it in print gave me all the feedback I need to return to the project. Then I met an editor from a prominent publishing house over the summer who gave me even more encouragement to make the book longer and darker. I arrived at the halfway point yesterday—30,000 words—and I’m taking a couple of days off before continuing. I’ll visit a couple of museums, do a lot of reading, relax, and not think about the book for a few days. Or think about it in my dreams. My goal is to finish another draft by the end of the year. I may make it, I may not make it. I hope my back holds out because sitting for hours is not good for my back. I get up a lot, stretch a lot, wash the dishes, go for walks, swim, stand up, and eat my lunch standing up. When I teach, I usually stand up. Too much sitting during the day. I think I saw a picture of Philip Roth writing at his writing table. The table was like a speaker’s podium and he was writing standing up. What a great idea.

So, how is the revision going? I’m adding layers of plot, texture, and detail. I’ve introduced a new narrator which has shifted the story in unexpected ways. That’s exciting but it is also challenging. And that’s what revision is: a re-visioning. We have to be open to the unexpected and tolerant of the changes they imply, as flexible as bamboo. This is not always easy. As in life, we hang on to things that aren’t working; it’s hard to let go. As words spill out of us, they embed in our neural pathways, like a melody, and it’s difficult to dislodge them. But we have to.

Sometimes it’s helpful to break writing and life routines to get the re-visioning into gear. Or to read passages aloud to writer friends, or to go for a run. Or to take a break and just relax, garden. I think that Margaret Atwood taught a class once at Columbia called, “What Writers Do When They Are Not Writing.” Writers have written books about what they do when they are not physically writing. The truth is, we are always writing and we are always writers even when we have to strip down or discard something we have worked on for weeks, months, or years, and begin again.  Read More 

One of my workshop students enjoyed the assigned readings last week but found them intimidating. Another student said she didn’t listen to my suggestion before writing; she read the readings after doing her own writing. It was only the second class so my guess is that these two brave students—one man, one woman—who expressed a fear of not being able to write as well as seasoned, practiced writers, were not alone; they were only braver. So I thank them for raising an issue to discuss in class and here, raising it openly, thus exposing their own vulnerable selves to a group of peers who are still strangers.

As it happens, today is the birthday of the longest-serving First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt, born in New York City (1884) who said, as anti-communist witch-hunting began to sweep the U.S. after her husband died, that few Americans were brave or bold enough to speak out and stand up for freedom. She complained that the "American public is capable of doing its own censoring.” I feel the same way about my students sometimes. Why do we always put the brakes on and retreat? What do we fear exactly when we read a worked, admirable piece of prose? That we can’t do it? That we’ll never be able to do it? That someone will stop us from doing it? We live in a Great Democracy and it is our mandate to write and read with gusto and appreciation.

That said, writing is hard work. Without models of aspiration and accomplishment, how are we to learn what we must do to make a piece of writing work? There is no such thing as undue influence. True, we may try to imitate a fine sentence or paragraph, but that is only practice. Soon enough, we will fall into our own cadences, our own subject, and our own voice.

Sometimes students ask me to suggest books “about” writing. I never do. My suggested reading lists—fiction and nonfiction—are by writers who write—freely and bravely—about what burns inside them. They are offered as inspiration, not intimidation.  Read More 

I’ve been listening to The Beatles these past few weeks as I’ve been working out and paying closer attention to the lyrics than I ever have before. I always admired them and now I know why: they are well honed stories. I pulled the lyrics of “Paperback Writer” off the internet but won’t break copyright and reproduce them here. I’ll paraphrase, as needed. So ubiquitous are all The Beatles songs that I hear people referring to them in the oddest places: the swimming pool, for example. I was humming "Hey Jude," as I was turning into my 40th lap when I stopped to say hello to a fellow swimmer who was lapping me and wanted to pass. Before we both knew it he had uttered a line from the movie "Help," and I sang a line or two from "Paperback Writer." Truly, this really happened. As he swam off he sang, "Here Comes the Sun," which, in fact, was also true as the sun was rising to the east of the glass-enclosed pool.

I looked up the back story of “Paperback Writer” which was released in 1966. Apparently, those genius four guys were challenged to write a song that was not a love story so the one-note melody seemed appropriate. After all, isn't life without love a one-note melody? Then one of The Beatles walked into a room and saw someone else reading a paperback book. Thus was the song born. But what does it say, if anything? And is it more than melody and beat?

I find it interesting that as nonsensical as we try to be, once words are strung together, they have meaning. This song is silly but it also says a lot about the challenges of being a writer and it has historical context and a setting. The Beatles were from Liverpool and they emerged from the culture at a certain time in its history. They were irreverent, they asked hard questions, and they were fun and wonky all at the same time. The writer in their story will do anything with his novel to make it work. He needs a job! He’s so desperate that he’ll sell all the rights.

I’m not a Beatles historian but I do believe they were very smart about their intellectual property and held on to it. And they weren’t afraid to take risks, to be different, to say what they wanted to say about life and about themselves.  Read More